We were RICH when times were Poor

My early years were fortunately very dynamic and diverse. We were too busy to acknowledge any culture shock as we settled into an infamous neighborhood. My parents hustled between the convenience store, church and volunteer activities as my brother and I entered elementary school and returned to our apartment to our doting grandparents. I knew things weren't perfect as I often heard my mother sob quietly from frustration of running a small business, language barrier, and the frequent looting at the store.

What my father did differently was he held hands with the neighborhood. He never gave up to create the community he envisioned. In the basement of the low-income apartment, we transformed into a magical village. I have fond memories of those that were entrusted to care for us from this membership. I remember the many sleepovers at David and Claudia's farm and my first taste of fondue or the wonderful smell of peameal bacon with eggs fresh from the chicken coup. I remember James taking us to the Science Center and my girlish infatuation because he looked like Michael Jackson. I also recall how his big sisters received us during their cultural gathering as they watched me carefully to ensure I tried everything on the celebration table at least once.

We understood each other because we were no different. We were all shifted from many places to call Canada home along with the desperate need to belong. We're all a little displaced by the politics of war and the many stakeholders that bear witness to the shifting. The choice we made was never the easier alternative and what we needed the most then was this community of acceptance. We were stronger together - it was magic. I stand corrected - it was hard work.

Thank you dad for my rich, magical memories and tirelessly believing in community- Happy Father's Day!

Song of Memory