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It's official. I am now a Canadian citizen.
The scheduled date for the in-person citizenship ceremony clashed with the day I arrived in Australia with my sister for a two-week trip to visit family. I received an email for a new date for the ceremony via Zoom. Not the same thing at all.
So, yesterday, there I sat in front of my laptop, wearing my red dress (appropriate, I felt, for the situation) while my husband found a small Canadian flag I could wave and a pin of a maple leaf I attached to my jacket. Through video, I spoke the Oath of Citizenship with 115 fellow immigrants from 39 countries. 39!
The officiator, Judge Hart (I think), spoke movingly about those becoming Canadian citizens after having fled war and conflict in their birth countries, many having to leave behind family and friends, never knowing when they might see each other again. These are brave people. People looking for freedom from persecution, looking to start a new life in a peaceful land.
Judge Hart urged us to learn about our new country, to travel if the opportunity arises, to learn more about the indigenous peoples of Canada — to embrace our communities and make them better than what we found before. There was nothing weird or nationalistic about her message. Hers was a message of acceptance and permission to embrace a new place of belonging.
But now I have a thought.
What do I call myself? I hold both British and Canadian citizenship. Do I call myself a British-Canadian to acknowledge both? My daughter pointed out that made it sound as if I have one British parent and one Canadian parent. Which is only partly true. My mum is British but my dad is now Australian.
How about my birth country? That would be Libya. Which doesn't help either.
Then I think about something my daughter told me a few weeks ago. She thinks I might be a TCK or Third Culture Kid. In case you don't know, and I definitely didn't, a TCK is:
...a term coined by US sociologist Ruth Hill Useem in the 1950s, for children who spend their formative years in places that are not their parents’ homeland.
My dad was born in Kowloon, Hong Kong and spent most of his childhood and young adulthood in other countries: India, Iran, the UK and Libya. My mum, although born in the UK, spent a significant amount of her childhood in Uganda. She was eight years old before she ever saw snow. I was born in Libya, moved to the UK after Gadaafi's coup (I was a mere babe-in-arms), moved to Germany when I was eight and then back to the UK nine months later. I wouldn't say I've spent a lot of my childhood living in a different country, definitely not long enough for it to have made a difference, yet my parents certainly did. They are probably TCKs.
My daughter asked me if I felt that I belonged anywhere. I replied no, even though I have spent most of my adult life living in the UK. I have friends who have lived their whole lives in the same cities. I am as fascinated by this as I am by my parent's upbringing around the world.
But this, becoming a Canadian citizen is different.
I have chosen this.
I know people who have remained permanent residents in Canada for thirty or forty years, renewing their PR status every five years, never quite willing to commit to one country or another.
I'm not sure I have the answer yet. Probably it will come down to my accent. That will never be Canadian.
