No Place Like America

Sometimes when I hear the Canadian national anthem play, I ignore it. Sometimes, I try to sing it in English, then French, only to realize that my mouth can no longer form the words that I sang every school day for almost a decade.

I like to think that my life began the second my father came home without a green card to my enraged mother in Saint Catherine’s, Canada. My parents were forced to settle into Saint Catherine’s, and then Toronto, where I ended up being born and living most of my life. I had no idea growing up that we would have moved to the States sooner if it weren’t for 9/11. With almost my entire extended family settled in America, my parents were devastated to hear that they would have to wait an unknown number of years before they too could live the American dream. But perhaps my demure younger self would have not been as happy if she had had to walk among New York’s urban skyscrapers on her way to school. She wouldn’t hear about immigrating until years later.

In Toronto, I shared a class for fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh grade that loved ridiculing American culture. Their fascination with the outrageous political divide became the topic of daily conversations and English class; Canadian politics held no competition. Truthfully, this didn’t begin to terrify me until my mother broke the news that we were immigrating in 2018. Hearing headlines of school shootings, kidnappings, and mass protests painted an ugly face on what I thought was a breeding ground for chaos. I had no clue what I had gotten myself into until the summer of 2018 ended, and I entered a middle school with a student body quadruple that of any I’d ever been in. I had never seen children smoking weed, high on Xanax, or swearing at teachers before.

The novelty of living in a foreign country dulled in the middle of eighth grade; I had such an immense amount of pressure from studying for the SHSAT that I didn’t have the time to really look at the wonders of America. Paying a cashier with green paper, jaywalking shamelessly, and omitting ‘u’s in some words didn’t seem as ludicrous as it used to be. Once again, I was just a tired student yearning for the school year to pass faster and the summer to walk slower.

Two months ago, a teacher played the acoustic of the Canadian national anthem for a few brief, exhilarating moments, and I could have sworn that the underside of my heart had been scooped out of my chest as I heard the melody that went with the lines: “With glowing hearts we see thee rise / The True North strong and free.”

After I entered high school, there was a grim pride that haunted my mind for weeks to come as the warmer winter approached and the Northern winds chattered under my hood. Sometimes I would walk along the cigarette-smelling train station in the early mornings and feel like falling onto the tracks. They were polished, smooth, and shiny, unlike the rubble that sat flaccidly around it. They were sometimes gleaming and sometimes not, like the railings to the school’s bridge. The scent that those railings give off when my hands clutched them was metallic like the dirty Canadian coins I stashed away.

Throughout my past two years in America, I’ve seen bits of Toronto in New York that have dug deeper into old wounds I thought I’d left behind after I moved. Similarities have made it difficult to completely get over my grief from immigrating here. Unfortunately, all the differences haven’t helped either and have left me wondering every day what kind of moment I’d be living in if I were still in Canada.

Politics and news aside—because I never bothered catching up on that—America to me is a grittier version of Canada. They’re like a pair of gloves; they’re identical, but one is always a bit softer, more worn down and flexible than the other.

Whenever I walk through Manhattan, I smell weed, some greasy sauce from the open windows of meat shops, and a dry stench of smoke from the snow-like dots made up of cigarette butts on the road. Someone runs by and shoves my shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise, and gives me a dirty look like I’m some scummy kid—I stopped looking at strangers' faces because of that. On occasion, a herd of teens passes by and laughs so loud that I start walking faster into the blaring traffic jam. But the lonely kids with their hands sewn into their pockets and permanent scowls on their faces are the only ones I feel bad for; I hope that I never end up as miserable.

Though Downtown Toronto was filled with far more public smokers than here, I never paid much mind to them. At least they were smiling, chatting on the phone, or staring up at the sky like they were deep in thought. Everyone I passed had grins on their faces that used to annoy me because I could never figure out what they had to be happy about. There were sewer-stained slush on the unsalted streets, pinchy cold wind between buildings, and smelly newspapers all about the taxes that kept rising higher and higher. There were horrible things in the world to think about, but even the rushing businessmen had the time to apologize and wish me a good day before returning to their phones. Happy teens who skated along the rink in Nathan Phillips Square always had too much time on their hands, more so than the dozen of adults streaming out of City Hall weddings.

When I tell my parents about these moments of grief, I’m just a kid who can’t accept change. But when I’m alone in the big city with nothing but some pocket change and my cell phone, I’m stuck in a horrendous maze that sinks deeper the further I tread on. When I don’t feel like walking anymore, I pull out a few bills for the train only to remember that nothing can compare to the toonies and loonies I used to carry in my jacket pocket. That jingle of polar bears and maple leaves is long gone now, but there’s still a coppery smell on my fingertips that won’t wash away.