What does home mean to you?

“We go to Canada for a new life, and you go back the other way,” says my grandfather with a mixture of sadness and humour.

I have repeated this line countless times over the past few years, and it was the first thing I thought of when I was asked to participate in this year’s Refugee Week Scotland. The theme of this year’s event is "Home: what does it mean to you?" Organizers have been asking bloggers around Scotland to share their thoughts about “home.”

My grandfather had been referring to his and my grandmother’s decision to leave Germany in 1958 and make a go of life in Canada. After the war, life was not the same. For my mother’s parents, it meant using false papers to get across the border into West Germany in 1951, with my then one-year-old mother. Already not able to go home, my grandfather began to dream of a new life for his family. He taught himself English and journeyed to Canada by boat, finding work wherever he could and generally getting things organized for my grandmother to follow six months later with my mother and my aunt.

Years later in 1989 when the wall came down, we sat around the television watching the news. My grandparents cried. Then came the fear that other people who had fled to the west before the wall, would come back and claim their properties. Our family was lucky - no one claimed the house they had called home for decades.

For my paternal grandfather, it was a similar story of having no home to return to. He grew up in a small town in what had been Prussia, but after the war that part of the world belonged to Poland. Already cut lose from the section of the earth he had known, after several years he simply saw no reason to stay. He took a job on a farm in Ontario, and many months later my father, then five years old, followed on a boat to Canada with his mother.

My family recently celebrated 50 years in Canada. So after all of that struggle, all of that working for a new life, why did I pick up and move to Scotland? And why do I stay? I have not been displaced by war, I am not threatened by my government for my beliefs. Other immigrants who have left their countries not by choice but by necessity, look at me quizzically and say “but…Canada is a GOOD country,” implying that once you’ve made it to a free, safe place, why leave?

That’s the difference between being an immigrant and being a refugee. The difference between my being drawn to Scotland and all of its history, gorgeous stones and haunting music, and the story of the Iraqi man I met in Oslo, who had left his country because of the war and who was waiting in agony through each and every long day, hoping that things would improve so that he could go home again without fear of violence.

My mom tells me of how her and her sister’s journey to trying to fit in in their new country, included practicing their pronunciation of “Toronto” in the Canadian way, so that it slurred together like “tor-on-no.”

Last week I met a man from Poland who has lived in Glasgow for five years. His accent is littered with Scottish phrases like “alright - on you go then.” I realized that he and I are doing the same thing: trying to hang pieces of Scotland from our accents, trying to fit in so that when we speak, we won’t be immediately hit with the question we have already had to answer so many times: “Where are you from? How did you get here? Why did you come here?”

We are lucky, this Polish man and I. Our white skin helps us to blend into the crowd, and it is only when we speak that we are recognized as being different. Those with brown skin probably get asked for their stories a lot more than white European immigrants. Or worse - they don’t get asked their stories. They are stared at instead, layers of silent judgement cast over them like a matador’s cape.

I love reminding people of the substantial influence that Scottish immigrants have had around the world. I tell them of how often I moved around British Columbia, and how no matter if the town was small, or if the January snows were piling up, somehow, somewhere, someone would be holding a Burns Supper.

And I love to ask people who have left Scotland for new shores, where they consider their home to be. Some say it will always be Scotland, while others say they are completely at home in their new country. Most just can’t imagine being without either place in their lives. Despite being in Canada for so long, my father’s mother still refers to Germany as “home” and she still gets emotional if she thinks too long about it. But at the same time, she wouldn't want to move back there. “Too many people,” she says.

So where is my home? Like many immigrants, I can’t decide. I think about the ranching country of the Cariboo-Chilcotin, and the smell of the willows and the pines in the spring, and there is a pain in my chest that brings tears to my eyes.

But the same thing happens when I walk to work in the morning, and see the Scottish Saltire flying above the government buildings, and Edinburgh castle jutting out atop a mountain of ancient volcanic rock, bold and black like it was carved from the stone itself.

It happens when I think of my friends and family, especially my grandmother, because I feel guilty for not being there. But then I think of JP and our glorious adventures around this little country, and a flush of love pulses through me that is so strong it feels like it will cause my bones to dissolve.

This is what I have learned: Home is the place that makes your heart lurch like the squeaky stair that betrays your presence to a silent household. That’s home. But it doesn’t have to be just one place. It can be two or even more. And it can be a person, someone with whom the world seems to be set to right. Someone with whom you would face any foe.

Here are the photos I promised to post:

The Cariboo’s beautiful Lac des Roches in the autumn:

And a view in the Highlands around Fort William during the same time of year:
A ferry pulling into the harbour on B.C.’s West Coast:
And a view out to the wide Atlantic in the far north of Scotland:
My father (that’s him in the sailor suit and hat) and his mother on the boat, about to leave for Canada. My grandmother’s sister is in the foreground with her daughter.
And part of our ever-expanding clan in Canada:
Thanks to Refugee Week Scotland for asking me to be involved in this fantastic project. I am so, so grateful to be living in this country. Refugee Week runs from 15-21 June and you can learn all about it here, or by taking a look at their YouTube channel.

Aye, right

The person upstairs is using the rowing machine again. Either that or the wolfman is enjoying a particularly languid session of self love. It’s amazing what superheroes and portly villains can get up to in the land of Gorgie.

I have lived in this flat for just over one year. In four months I will hit the four-year mark living in Scotland. Before the move over here I recall my initial vague attempts to soothe my mother’s worries with statements like “it might just be a year or two.” Essentially these were lies dressed in wanderlust robes. I always knew I would love it here. And while I still pine for many aspects of Canadian life, particularly the landscape, at the moment I cannot imagine making a home anywhere but Edinburgh.

The flourish of my accent has hit a wall. The Scottish tongue is so difficult to master and despite JP's best efforts, I am still limited to correctly pronouncing just a few words (my current favourite is the seemingly simple “aye,” which took me the past year to really get the hang of. Now I say it all the time. I tell myself to stop. I cannae. Aye right).

The only full sentence I can say that sounds remotely natural is related to working in the shop: “Do you want a wee bag?” The correct pronunciation of this question has little to do with the word “wee.” Rather, the whole thing depends on the lilt of the word “bag.” You have to draw the lower part of your jaw down and stretch the tiny word right from the back of your nasal cavity. There was one other sentence actually. Once when one of the girls at work was having lunch I managed a near perfect, astounded, almost screechy “is that all yer havin’? Crisps an’ fizzy juice?” I was most pleased with myself. If only more people would have crisps and fizzy juice for lunch, I could get in some practice.

My other much-loved word remains mingin’ which means filthy or disgusting. For example, that pile of sick that some dobber left in front of the office is pure mingin.’

My new favourite phrase, often hissed by an amused JP as we watch neds stumble past on the street below:

Mon then…

This is something a character like Trainspotting’s Begbie would say, a phrase commonly used by neds when they want to kick someone’s heid in. For instance: Mon then ya fanny. If you find that sentiment in any way offensive please don’t look up the word squadge. But for those who wish to be entertained, pop over to the Glasgow Dolmino pasta sauce videos on YouTube. I especially like the one when he says he’s gan oot to the big field and shag a coo.

One of the words I would like to learn how to say this year includes “murder” - an overused stereotype of a word, but still a bar to aim for in the world of rolling rrr’s and flattened out u’s. The question is, is it possible to learn how to say “there’s been a murder!” without ingesting hours of Taggart? I would also love to be able to naturally throw out key phrases such as “gonnae no dae that” and “how no?”

In 2009 I aim to write more about all things Scottish. I would like to describe the intricacies of the fried supper and find some way of explaining the popularity of Irn Bru, Scotland’s most popular of all the fizzy juices. JP is a Scotsman. Therefore it is part of his genealogical mandate to travel around his great country, dig his fists into the mud and absorb the blood and bones of his ancestors. This year I wish to encourage this obligation and tag along until he begins the traditional frothing rant about freedom.

The best thing is, even if you’re not Scottish, this is the year to pretend. For this is year 250th anniversary of the birth of poet Robert Burns. The Scottish government is giving it yee-haw with the celebrations, with events planned the whole year round. Just days ago, Hogmanay was welcomed in with a massive group rendition of Auld Lang Syne down on Princes Street, and soon it will be Burns Night. This is where you come in. Cut yourself a kilt, hunt yourself a haggis, cook up some neeps and tatties and join in. The big annual Burns Night is on 25 January - the bard’s birthday. All you need to know about taking part in the world’s largest Burns Supper is here: http://www.burnssupper2009.com/

I wish you a good night and I shall leave you with the first paragraph of Anne Donovan’s book, BuddhaDa. Try reading it out loud. An audio book version of her novel, “Being Emily” is also on Itunes, if you care to have a wee listen.

Ma Da’s a nutter. Radio rental. He’d dae anything for a laugh so he wid; went doon the shops wi a perra knickers on his heid, tellt the wifie next door we’d won the lottery and were flittin tae Barbados, but that wis daft stuff compared tae whit he’s went and done noo. He’s turnt intae a Buddhist.

Come to Scotland

Drinking tea. Waiting for the postman. Listening to Duncan Chisholm’s new album, Farrar. Yesterday the world was taken up and lightly tossed, the tree branches bouncing like salad leaves. Gone now is the light that has infused everything since the spring. Today the wind blows, trailing winter’s grey. Last night I lit the candles, just enough of them to caress the darkness. I sat and listened to Lorient Mornings over and over. I adore this song. I love how the notes linger and then fall away like leaves. Goodbye, they say.
I think of Scotland and of how much I would miss if it I left. I think of the expression that comes over my grandparents’ faces when they hear a song they knew in their childhood. That far-away, aching look, eyes skirting the edge of shadows. I feel that way when I hear this music, and I am still here.
Other than when I am with John, I spend my free time alone. I have no circle of intimate friends who know my secrets and share my obsession with slow rhythms and ripe fruit. My family is 5,000 miles away. But I stay. I stay because there is a story here that I can feel. It is so old it no longer needs words to be told. You can pick it up in the sight of the heather or in the way the mist clamours up a mountainside. You can hear it in the gentle sway of these songs. It is haunting, melancholy tale, but imbued with love and faith in people, in their instinct for kindness. Everyday frailty that walks tall on an unmoveable mountain of shared history. The ancestors still dance in the valleys during the turn of the seasons, their hands pushing us forward, always forward, into a new day.
Come to Scotland and I will show you what I mean. Come to Scotland and we will walk the road that winds through Glen Nevis, past the sheep and the shaggy coos, our faces soothed with light rain, our fingers chilled at the tips. Come to Scotland and I’ll teach you how to slow your fork through that first piece of sticky toffee pudding. We can walk the country lanes and let our eyes follow the curve of the stone walls, knowing that the hands that built them studied every rock before placing it down in a jigsaw of perfection. Come to Scotland to see the steep cobbled road that leads down into Dean Village, and we can take the trail all the way along the river to Leith. We can sit among the gravestones and look down at Glasgow Cathedral, or watch the broken lines of Urquhart Castle fade away as we cross Loch Ness. You will feel the silence that exists underneath of everything, the way the land and people are cupped inside a great palm of the past.
Come to Scotland. Come to Scotland.

Weak, yes- but skull remains unsplit

So tired now, after being woken up at 5am by two girls arguing in the stairwell about who had what to drink. My building, which is like most apartment blocks in this area, has stone steps that assist in creating bold echoes. So when someone even talks at a normal level, it sounds booming. I dragged myself out of bed and watched the two girls through the peephole in my door. I can't remember the exact point of their conversation, only the words "double vodka."
But I didn't open the door. And I didn't ask them to be quiet. Because in my mind I saw the prolonged retaliation. They live in the building. I would only be inviting 4am bangs on my door, as well as who-knows-what shoved through my letterbox.
Mine is a consistent reaction among the British to public displays of "anti-social behavior." No one says anything to the kids on the bus who are playing loud and terrible techno music on their phones. Even on the hottest nights I don't leave my window open, because I am only on the first floor and I imagine some clever young jerks deciding to make a game of what they can throw through it. A mother yells at her young son at the bus stop - calls him &%!ing stupid. We are all silent.
My hatred of confrontation fits in well in Britain. The "quiet desperation" that Pink Floyd sings about is the pulse of this nation. We recognize the violence in people, and just do our best to avoid it. We name the groups we despise. We might call them Yobs or Chavs, or, in Scotland, Neds. Ned - non educated delinquent. They come in male and female varieties, but the boys are most easily recognized because they are usually clad in track suits - perhaps with a splash of burberry tartan in the form of a baseball cap - just to finish the look.
For those of an intensely curious nature, try to understand the wee man: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=scNLfr1EP08 but don't listen if you are easily offended.
Would you tell this guy to please tone it down a wee bit?

Rannoch Moor

Sounds like the name
of some scabby old man
the kind you are convinced
never had a mother
Born into acne scars
and bruises
shades of remembering
planted on his body
If he opens the door
he opens it all the way
hinges forgetting to creak
in the violent surge
Tempted by the idea
that it is still possible
to love something
that means to harm you
you accept the invitation
and are never seen again

Stay dry, Replenish your Spirits

I’ve made a wonderful soup with bacon, leeks, pasta and fresh, finely chopped rosemary. All stewing in chicken stock. It is the kind of soup that can thaw people out, relax them. It speaks into the mouth that is eating it, “you see, you’re feeling better already. I knew you would.” Listen to the soup; it knows what’s good for you.

I’ve got the start of a new story but I don’t know where it goes:
She was one of those women whose features had been steadily massaged by years of grief, her eyes and cheeks drooping like pallid dough. When she looked in the mirror she half expected her chin to swell and drop off like batter from a spoon. Her flesh belonged in a lava lamp, searching for buoyancy.
****************************************************************************
We have reached March, and once again I am desperate for spring. The wind has been relentless, the rain just an added attempt to make us all assume that we will never experience comfort again. Today the sky reminded me of a resentful teenager who is keen to witness the agony of others. If I’m to be miserable, then so will you. I threw away another umbrella this afternoon. I left its soggy corpse on top of the rubbish bin outside the Sainsbury’s, it’s spider web joints weakened by the constant battering. Over and over it had been turned inside out, until all it took was one tiny puff and it would flip again, and I would have to begin the dance of trying to turn into the ever changing wind so that my flimsy colourful protector could set itself right again.

I resist taking out the giant golf umbrella, which I borrowed from work and have yet to return. I’ve been keeping it in the corner near the door, but every time I think of using it, I get an immediate image of myself being lifted off the pavement and into the sky. I’m no Mary Poppins; I know I would just be swept high enough to fly over the nearby bridge in time for the train to hurtle past. Splat! Like one of those terrible Garfield dolls for cars, the kind with the suction feet that stick to the window. I never imagine any blood - my body becomes rubbery like a flattened Toon from Roger the Rabbit. The only thing missing is for the driver to lean out the window and bash me over the head with an enormous hammer that springs out of his cufflinks, causing me to peel off and float down to traffic below, swaying like a feather to my doom.

It is also unlikely that I will invest in the newest invention for wet climates: the hands-free nubrella (see above image). You strap it on like you would a backpack, enclosing yourself in a sheer, half bubble of tough plastic. The ads show a cyclist wearing one as he hurtles down the street, and a woman in a power suit on her way to the office. It’s all very George Jetson, and I don’t think it will catch on any time soon. Although I already sense that Kryce will want one. At least we could all count on him to come up with some exciting new designs. I would want to tint mine, so I could see out but no one could see me. That would be cool.

Living in Edinburgh I am not as close to the small signs of spring that were everywhere in Linlithgow. I miss watching the buds swelling on the branches. The city just seems to amplify the unyielding greyness of things. Across the street there is a small park where some small flowers are growing. My mother could probably tell you the Latin name for them, but I only know they are purple and yellow and that when the sun does peek out, their petals take on the sheen of wet satin.

In other news, I’ve been writing. Yesterday I managed to finish a story. It took more than four hours but I was happy that I didn’t let myself quit, which is what I usually do. In just over two weeks I will be starting my “Creative Web site design for Beginners” course. This is something I feel I need to do, to increase my practical skills. It can only serve my creativity, is what I tell myself.

Finally, I wish I could give Mikara a bowl of soup. Just take her away for ten minutes and let her taste it. There is relief built into this soup, a kind of grounding energy that replenishes stores of faith and humour. I miss you, Moe. Thinking of you.
So-

Hopetoun House and Dunrobin Castle

I realize that for many these buildings are symbols of aristocratic arrogance, of all the ways the rich can trample the poor in order to construct idols of themselves in stone. But gosh, they're pretty.

This bedroom in Hopetoun is oozing red. Dracula (in the form of Gary Oldman) could have slept there, dreaming of his dark princess. And Dubrobin Castle, built by the Sutherland family (known to have meanly booted many a crofter off the land during the clearances), is still dreamy and makes me want to set a novel there. Fairy tale facades have been built from blood in this country. And yes, I'm a complete sucker.

After two years I can't seem to stop playing tourist - I can't get enough intricate stonework, or lush carpeting or ridiculous portraits of people who all strangely look similar. Stained glass. Heavy bedroom curtains. Curved, Gothic candle holders. Great mazes scuplted out of hedges. How I adore them. I am afraid it is beyond my will not to.

Jobbie! Aye, ah said jobbie!

Oh, how my struggle with the idiosyncrasies of Scottish terminology sometimes causes me such embarrassment.

I had to deal with the worst customer today. He called up about a DVD order and he was so utterly rude and disrespectful.

When I phoned my assistant manager to explain the situation and warn her to expect either a phone call or email from this bizarre wrathful creature, she was shocked at his behaviour and empathized with my feelings that this man should be covered in bees.

“And I hope his next jobbie’s a hedgehog!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.
I could say nothing. Then, after a brief pause of consideration I turned to my trusty Cockney I learned so many years ago when I worked on the vineyard with Londoner Charlie.
“WOT?”

“I hope his next jobbie’s a hedgehog!”

Panic was starting to set in. She was already laughing hysterically so I knew it was supposed to be funny. My lack of understanding must have been clear because she took a deep breath between gasps of laughter to inform me further.
“I hope his next shite’s a hedgehog!”

Still quite lost. Somehow this man’s bathroom habits had gotten thrown together with the British gardener’s best friend.
There was nowhere else to turn. With me still whimpering incoherently into the phone she emphatically provided the most basic definition for the benefit of her hopeless foreign colleague.

“You know – spikey poos!”

Of course I responded in the only way my mind would allow me after such an idea is made so painfully clear.

“EEEWWwwwww!”

So, having forced this poor woman to succumb to uttering the words “spikey poos,” I thought I had better do some research into the word that had me so lost to begin with: Jobbie.

Here are a few of the definitions and examples I found through our friend, the Internet.

1. (Scottish usage) A poo poo. Variant spelling of joby. Plural is Jobbies.
"Ah feel better noo ahv dun a jobbie. "

2. Shite
"I need a whopping jobbie."

3. A childs word for shite.
"mummy, i need a jobbie"

4. Noun. Word used to describe almost anything when the speaker’s brain is not able to work as fast as the speaker’s mouth.
"You know...the jobbie with the things on it!!!No, no, no, not that, the jobbie, get that other jobbie thing."

5. Scottish word, means to poo or to generally do something.
a)"aye forced oot mah jobbie too quack and noo its down mah leg"b)"will someone help my open this jobbie"

6. Contrary to popular belief, the lexeme of Jobbie doesn't have anything to do with defecating. A jobbie can be a thing or place.
a) "I am trying to jimmy this jobbie open, but this jobbie won't jimmy." (OR, in ordinary English: I'm trying to pry this thing open, but this thing won't be pried.)b) "I'm all alone in this jobbie, No one knows if I'm nice or snobby..." (rhyming couplet)
According to another source, the term jobbie meaning shite is only used in a few parts of Scotland. Where jobbie as a synonym for 'thing' is fairly wide spread.

And so my education continues. On the weekend I learned how to fake my way through the Scottish pronunciation of “doesn’t,” which is just one of the many terms with which I have struggled. If you are a foreigner, then the trick, according to my kind instructor, is to say “Disneyland” but without the “land.”
Example: “That disnae look like Jimmy ta me.”
The other trick I am working on is to pronounce the word “food” but without the oo’s. Much harder than one would think.

Thus endeth the lesson. May all your skies be blue, and may all your jobbies be hedgehog-free.

Burns Night

We have this night attempted in our own gluttonous way to honour the revered Rabbie Burns. I did steam the haggis as instructed by the wee tag that had been attached to it by the fine folks at Marks and Spencers. I boiled the life out of some tatties (spuds) and then Andrew smashed them. Alas when I arrived at the Tesco earlier this evening the neep (turnip) baskets were empty. So we had haggis, butternut squash and tatties instead. With salad, of course.

You powers who make
mankind your care

And dish them out their

meals

Old Scotland wants no

watery food

That splashes in dishes

But if you wish her grateful

prayer

Give her a haggis!

-RB

From Scotland, with love

After many months of practice, I can now say the word "world" with two syllables, R rolling in the middle like a pebble tumbling in a dryer. My excitement over this new ability is illustrated here. This man's name is Adam. When not pretending to kill English people he can be seen in one of his many death metal t-shirts. He has a tattoo of a red lion on his ass. Yes, I've seen it. In fact, I have a photo of that charming image in the form of a keychain/bottle opener. Up yer kilt, indeed.