Where Did I come from?

As I watched Douglas Coupland's "Souvenirs of Canada" I felt a great sense of connectedness with Canadian icons like the stubby beer bottle, hockey, and the word "chimo". As I watched, my mind also went back to experiences in middle school and high school, sitting through biology films like "I am Joe's stomach". But as the film ended, and Doug recounts a story of his father in the Canadian wilderness, I am suddenly at a loss. What are my stories? What are my parent's stories?

Having been the product of a multiple divorced upbringing – I like to think of myself as more statistical than most in that particular category – the stories of my parents are fragmented and foreign. To compound these feelings of misplacement, I am a first generation immigrant to Canada from the bustling metropolis of Santiago Chile. So even the stories that I do have are geographically removed to a place that I vaguely remember. The last time I visited Chile was in 1987, and being 17, I must admit that my focus was narrowed to music, food, girls and drink... not necessarily in that order.

So, where did I come from? I don’t think I mean that in a geographical sense. While certain geographies do likely provide us with a certain genetic mix that is likely adapted to a certain locale, I think that our psychological abilities to adapt are more relevant than our genetic ones. Especially if one is living in a society that shares most of the modern amenities such as housing, running tap water, cable television, and a furnace. Maybe the better question to ask is “how did I get to be where I am today?” or better yet, “What are the experiences that have brought me to be who I am today?”

If it is our experiences that shape us, then our adaptations are likely greatly influenced by those experiences. We adapt to not touching steaming things on a stove because we likely experienced the pain of touching something on a hot stove at some point. We all learn from getting burned, or from watching others get burned. But not every lesson is a negative one. Sometimes we also bask in the afterglow of enlightenment as well.

I am as Canadian as hockey, cougar balloon boots, and Lawrence Gowan. But I’m also as Chilean as empanadas, plastic soccer balls, and Colo-Colo. So, where did I come from? I wonder if these are the feelings that other first generation immigrants experience when they reach a certain age, an age in which one starts to look for their roots in order to be a better anchor for the next generation.

I'm sure that the rooting stories are there, and I am quite confident that with a little coaxing I can convince my memory and my relatives to allow me access to tales long since concealed by time.

So I think I’ll start a recalling of my life thus far, perhaps in attempt to answer the question “Where did I come from?” – that seems like the better question after all. I’ll start with my own recollections first, then fill in the gaps from my family.

Next time… Me in the early 70’s.