Canada, like the United States, is primarily composed of people whose recent ancestral roots lie elsewhere. While the U.S.A. is famous for its "melting pot" attitude - everyone is an American first and whatever else afterward, Canada has tended over time to prefer more of a "tossed salad" approach. Not pleased with the thought of stamping out the cultural backgrounds of our inhabitants, from which we can learn so much, we decided to compromise. The results are interesting and varied, and would be impossible to discuss in one short article. In my case, however, I can tell you straight up that Canada's unwritten policies on culture have had somewhat of a detrimental effect, from which I am still trying to recover.

My biological father was never a part of my life. I know, factually, that through him, I am directly descended from Sir William Pitt, a former British Prime Minister and cousin of Queen Victoria. Through this contact I am also, apparently, a descendant of Sir Francis Drake, a 16th century British explorer (and somewhat of a gentle pirate). Indeed, I have seen paintings of the man, and he looked like an older version of me, without quite as much hair. These things are occasionally points of interest and make good research topics, but for the most part, they are nothing more than meaningless trivia.

The man I know as my father comes from a very long line of Scottish settlers, and has an extremely well documented family history which can easily be traced back for several generations. Nobody ever discusses it. I have held family items in my hands which, by all accounts, originated in Scotland, several hundred years ago. Some of them were subsequently sold. Others were lost. Still more were tossed in closets or mistreated by grandchildren to the point of extinction. Not so long ago, tradition and history and family legacies were of the utmost importance to these people, but it is no more.

My mother was adopted, and knows nothing of her parents - not even a nationality, or a name. Suspicions are that they were Welsh, and they were living in Wales at the time of her birth, but certainly there is no concrete information about them at all. My mother's adoptive mother was also adopted, and up until very recently, knew nothing of her original family.

Essentially, as you can see, I have no solid cultural grounding in anywhere or anything. No customs. No history. Not a single shred of the past or hint of tradition, save for the fact that many members of my extended family make a habit of giving thanks for their food.

As a Canadian, this lack of background can be depressing. We have always been taught to honour and cherish our cultural history and family values. I can't just be Canadian. It's impossible. My country demands more than that of me. Apparently it's our official policy that "Canadian" isn't really a legitimate enough nationality to stand alone. So what of me? What of everyone else like me, who has no real culture or history beyond that we were born here, in this sometimes great country? I guess we're left to seek it elsewhere. Our country, in all its self-righteousness, refuses to just melt us down into the pot; we have no place in the salad. I have no place.

Does this really matter that much? Should it? No, and no. I don't lose sleep over my newness, and I don't feel seriously deprived. After all, the future is what really matters, so long as we learn the generic life lessons that anyone's history can likely teach us. Nevertheless, when I am exposed to real culture, I find myself craving it more. I listen to the music of Amorphis and I am reminded of the close ties that Nordic peoples had with my own (likely British) ancestors, and in flashes of emotion and racial memory I desire to be free, to live in a land where it rains all the time, and to feel the chill of a real winter, uninterrupted by the salt on the roads and the slushy shit that forms as a result, by the cars, the houses, or the people. I stroll into the Gate of India restaurant, and immediately the smells and the sights and the music, despite the obvious damping effect of downtown Hamilton, take me off to a place I've never actually visited, and I try my best to immerse myself in their culture, rather than to try and understand the burning in my mouth from my normal frame of reference. I remember sitting in the front-right-hand corner of my old dojo, waiting for my Sensei to signal me, waiting to ceremoniously thank him on behalf of the class for the training we were about to receive. Standing at attention, in fear of the stick he carried with him. Feeling that I was, an hour and a half at a time, under the total control of a system and a group of people who knew better than to follow the customs of Western society. Immersed in goodness, honour, and more loyalty than many people will ever know.

There was once a time when I felt whole, simply as a Canadian. I didn't like beer at the time, but what the hell, nobody had to know, eh? Cynnicism was something I excelled in. I wasn't overly patriotic, but quick to rant about the evils of American culture and how I would never give up and join them, even if it meant my life. But what was it all for? I'd hazard a guess at nothing. Cynnicism, although characteristically Canadian, is not a mature state of being; it is something to grow out of. I hope that I have done so by now, for the most part. Beer is great, but a good number of the good beers out there certainly weren't made by us. Molson Canadian tastes like horse piss. Our Lady Peace, still considered by many to be the flagship of modern Canadian music, sold out, and in so doing, somewhat devalued all music they have ever made, and all that they may make in the future. I don't have a cottage. I don't have grizzly bears living near my house. I don't live in harmony with nature; fuck, I hardly even see any people where I live, let alone animals. So what is left? What is left to define me as a Canadian? Nothing. So I'm left undefined. This country needs some real culture, dammit!