Illustration by Brintha Koneshachandra

Dear Mom,

The other day, I was making us breakfast and I reached into the fridge to grab the container of yogurt to eat with our puri. Now, you would think, having done essentially this every weekend of my entire life, I would not screech, “Ugh! Mom, where is the yogurt?! Why do you have to put the daar in the yogurt container?!” But here we are.

I shouted at you, irritated, yet knowing that I do the exact same thing. I save every yogurt and take-out container; I even have favourites.

If I ever need a container, I’d know exactly where to look. The dishwasher. “Dishwasher guilt” is nothing new. For a variety of psychological and economic reasons, refugees and immigrants tend to resist using this appliance. The idea of saving water and electricity is an important aspect. I turn the tap off when I am brushing my teeth. I turn the shower off when I am conditioning my hair. By this logic, the dishwasher is simply a nuisance. It is often used as additional storage—a glorified dishrack, the perfect place for mountains of reusable containers. There is even a common joke that not using the dishwasher for its intended purpose is the quintessential sign of one’s immigrant roots.

And as you can guess, Mom, when I moved out, I too did not use the dishwasher.

When I moved out, I didn’t downsize. I wear clothes from over 10 years ago. I love receiving hand-me-downs from my bhabi, even at 34 years old. Sometimes, even my close friend offers up clothing that she is ready to part with. I love thrifting. There is no shame in sharing.

And you, Mother, taught me that. I wore many hand-me-downs. But you made it my own. You put hairspray in my hair, lent me your pretty earrings, and told me I looked great. Your friends, with daughters quite a few years older than me, would give you bags of their unwanted clothes. Sure, I didn’t particularly love wearing clothing three sizes too big for me to school, but I certainly did make the most of it. In Grade 3, did you know my best friend and I wore those giant jackets together at recess and lunch? Her arm through the left, my arm through the right, holding each other in the middle. We would zip it right up and walk around scaring people: “We are the two-headed monster!” It really provided endless fun.

And, when I need to repair a beloved clothing item to prolong its longevity, Nani always has my back. Again, I know just where to look. The deep blue, circular Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookie tin. Yup, this is where you store the “sewing kit.” Nothing goes to waste.

There were never a lot of strict rules in our house, were there? But one was always implied, right? Don’t waste. Thanks, Mom.

Just like the chai you sip (and remove the single teabag to reuse throughout the day), our past is steeped in conservation. Maybe these practices support the stereotype that South Asian people are cheap. What most do not realize is how deeply these habits are ingrained in our history of imperialism, instability, and corruption. It is really no surprise that protecting our resources has been passed down through generations. From being forcibly expelled from your homeland with nothing, to living as a single mother—whether it is about scarcity or logic, this is how we live.

Looking back, our culture and communities have been practicing sustainability for centuries, perhaps respecting and appreciating the abundance of what we had, not the lack of it.

So, I am writing this letter to thank you, Mom, for teaching me about sustainability, long before it was cool.

With love and gratitude,

Saffina Jinnah

Image by hanspetermeyer.com; marked with a CC BY-SA 2.0 license

Dear new Canadian immigrants,

The multicultural Canada you imagined does not exist. There, I said it.

When I came to this country in 2006 at the age of nine, I, like you, had hoped for a better life than what a mismanaged Nigerian government promised. Canada seemed to have a steady flow of electricity, free education, and great health care. Most importantly—and proudly advertised—was a promise of multiculturalism, which I learned in elementary school meant that people of all cultures are considered equal here.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when the mirage of a multicultural paradise faded away, but I do know that its disappearance was the beginning of creating a home here. The realization may have started among the shadows of the portable classrooms parked next to my elementary school building. This was the place students went to speak freely, away from adults, and it was here that I heard racist jokes about African people for the first time.

My Nigerian pride brushed off their words as nothing more than the ignorance of children who knew nothing. But even then, I realized that life in Canada is not like the newcomer brochures made it seem. Fifteen years later, I’m more disillusioned than ever at the promise of multiculturalism as it was advertised.
I know that the Canadian Multiculturalism Act does, in fact, exist. It was one of those things teachers would talk about in social studies class. What they didn’t tell me, and what they won’t tell you, is that this act is a superficial promise. It was introduced by Pierre Trudeau to “break down discriminatory attitudes and cultural jealousies.” In response, the Progressive Conservative opposition leader, Robert Stanfield, said, “the emphasis we have given to multiculturalism in no way constitutes an attack on the basic duality
of our country.”

It’s not often that I agree with a PC leader, but I have to say, Stanfield was right. The Multiculturalism Act in no way challenges how Canada has always operated. From its beginnings, people of different cultures gave Canada its economic foundation.

The genocide of Indigenous people made the land available to European settlers; the forced labour of Chinese immigrants built the railroad, and the enslavement of Black people provided the labour to work the land. See, multiculturalism is tradition—it’s quintessentially Canadian.

So, there it is. Now you know the truth. Multiculturalism does exist here, just not in the way it’s advertised. It may take some time, but the sooner you adjust, the sooner you can start to build a home here. One that honours your dreams for this new life. For me, building a home here went beyond cooking Nigerian food and listening to Wizkid’s discography on repeat. As cheesy as it sounds, my home here was built through friendships. One good thing that Canada’s multiculturalism campaign has done is attract different people from different corners of the earth to one place. Connecting with my fellow Bramptonians has been so valuable. As I face a system that’s built on oppressing people of colour, the support of friends who have been here, done that, helps me find my way through. They are the good part of the multicultural promise. In some ways building a home here means creating the multicultural dream yourself, one friendship at a time. As I navigate the hidden contradictions of Canada’s systems, having people along for the ride makes it much better. Don’t be afraid to reach out—as the stereotype suggests, we are nice people after all.

Wishing you all the best,
Oyindamola Esho

“trophy 1 | julie rybarczyk” by shorts and longs is licensed under CC BY 2.0

To the people who have called me resilient:

I know you think that you were giving me some big compliment. I get it, I do. The first time someone called me resilient, I was young and terrified that no one would ever see how hard I was fighting. Then, the phrase “you are resilient” filled me not only with pride, but also with the overwhelming feeling that someone finally saw me. Each time the word resilient was used to describe me, it validated my experiences and made me feel as though my survival was impressive, rather than pitiful. Each time I was told I was resilient was a new gold star, an incentive, a reminder to keep fighting, keep going, keep toughing it out.

Recently, my mental health was crashing, so I gritted my teeth and found the strength to ask for help. After divulging how low I was feeling, how I was just trying to keep myself alive, I was met with, “Well, remember, you’re resilient. You’ll get through this.”

For years, I have heard it all, over and over again:
“God, I don’t know how you do it, you’ve been through so much.”
“Wow, you’re so strong.”
“You’re so brave.”
“You’ll get through this.”

I know you mean well, but can you not hear the exasperation in my voice when I respond, each time, with, “I know, I always do”?

Like my eighth participation trophy for pee-wee soccer that I didn’t even want to play, these words of yours sit dusty on a shelf, a reminder of something I had to do. It is no longer comforting to me to be told how strong I am. I know. I don’t need you to remind me that I went through a lot of really difficult things at a young age. I know. I’m the one who’s been working all these years to get here. I’ve been building up this muscle of resilience, as your praise twists in my mind and reminds me that as long as I keep going, as long as I stay strong—at the very least, you will be proud of me and impressed with me.

Here’s the thing: I’m exhausted. I hate this game, but I’ve been playing so long that I’ve convinced everyone that I can keep playing all day and night. If I slip up, I’ll get back on my feet like I always do, a little bruised, maybe, but ready to keep going.
When you tell me that I am resilient, who are these words really for? Are they to comfort and support me, or you? Do they make you feel better, because then you don’t have to fully confront the realities of my situation? Let’s be real: my trauma makes you uncomfortable. No one wants to think too deeply about the pain of others, but everyone loves to be in awe of those who are strong enough to overcome—as long as the way they overcome it isn’t too messy.

So, the question is: if I crumble, if my survival-mode looks different than what you are comfortable with, if I can’t keep up the façade that my resilience is like a well-oiled machine any longer … will you still be proud of me? Will you still tell me I am strong, or will I no longer be worthy of your praise and admiration? Will you offer me your hand, help me stand, or will you shy away, disappointed that the show pony can’t keep performing her old tricks?

Resilience is a muscle, really, and all humans have it. I just had to start building mine from a young enough age that, somehow, my resilience has been perceived as somewhat remarkable.

I know I am strong. But the most comforting thing you can tell me right now is that with you, I don’t have to be.

Yours truly and exhaustedly,
Kristy Frenken-Francis