North Yorker

Something I did not add to my “hangups” post is that I have a minor internal crisis about telling people where I am from. You’d think I would have gotten used to it since i have always been from the same place, though I haven’t lived there in 28 years. The name of the town is almost never familiar to anyone but when I say I am from “a small town” people want to know where it is in case they played hockey there once or have a cousin from there, which they probably won’t because it’s too small. More problematically, there are some identity issues tied up in this conversation because I don’t “seem” like I’m from a small town, whatever that means, and also this town is extremely near Hamilton and was in fact incorporated into the GHA in the 1990s. Sometimes I just say I’m from Hamilton, as I’m sure is the easiest path and not technically a lie, but I’m not, really. I mean, some parts of my soul feel Hamiltonian but many do not. Also, I rarely walked on sidewalks until I was an adult, which is not the essence of Hamilton.

It’s the middle part of this that stings, the not seeming like I’m from where I’m from—because my parents weren’t from there, because we were near another city, though I didn’t spend much time there, other mysterious reasons I don’t completely get. Basically, when people insist I’m not really from where I’m from, I feel stripped of my identity without being offered another one—if I’m not from the place I lived from ages 1-19 (from age 0 to 1, I lived in a different small town, 10 minutes away) I am from no where. My parents are from New York City, where I have spent fewer days than I can count on my fingers and toes. The one time I went to NYC alone, I had to ask a stranger to hail a cab for me, because I didn’t know how. Where I’m actually from, we didn’t have a sewer and we had to boil our water when it rained in my childhood, and my brother and I played hide and seek in the rye field. I’m not from a city.

This is all too existential for casual party chat. Instead, I have started telling people that I am from “south of Hamilton, between the escarpment and the Grand River.” This is true, but it is very hard to understand without a map. That’s on purpose. Most people nod and then, not being prepared with a follow-up question because they cannot visualize a map in their heads, wander off or change the subject instead of QUESTIONING MY ENTIRE WAY OF BEING IN THE WORLD. I came up with the most obscure way to explain where I’m from in order to be left alone without appearing to be a draft dodger or otherwise on the run. Was this an odd thing to do? Maybe, but it worked. This definitely qualifies as a hangup, I believe.

In other place-related angst news, after 21 years as a proud and deeply identified Torontonian, we moved north and I was startled to find, post-move, that our address had changed to a North York one. Sometimes I tell people “well, of course we’re still in the city, but technically the address is North York now…” Sometimes I just say we live in North York and “it’s a nightmare” though I should stop as I don’t really believe that (except when I do). Sometimes I write Toronto under my new street address because I’m not thinking or am just too sad.

But I have lived in North York for 2 years now (I missed writing the anniversary post back in June, annoyingly) and if you accept that North York is part of Toronto, I have lived in Toronto for 23 years, and if you don’t—as Canada Post does not—then I lived in Toronto for 21 years prior to moving here.

I am obviously het up about this in a weird way and we haven’t even started about all my weird feelings about whether I “seem Jewish” or not (WTAF, randos who mention this to me one way or the other)…and you bet they are somehow related. I will spare you the drama, and leave this post on a lighter note, though the dialogue did in fact take place in North York.

A while back I posted about the exciting development that Mark had purchased new sandals but I failed to post the follow-up, possibly because my brain was having a hard time processing it. This is reconstructed from about a month ago but it’s pretty accurate:

Mark and Rebecca walk to the subway:
RR: How are the new sandals working out?
MS: Pretty good.
RR: That’s good.
MS (stops on sidewalk, staring at feet) Hey, these aren’t my new sandals!
RR (also stops): …what?
MS: These are my OLD sandals!
RR: Oh, so they are. I thought you didn’t have those anymore.
MS: Yeah!
RR: I thought you destroyed them.
MS: I thought I did! At the end of last summer. That’s why I bought new ones this spring.
RR: Those look fine though.
MS: They feel fine. (resumes walking) I guess I was wrong, and I can get another summer out of these.
RR: Well, that’s good. It’s weird that you forgot about them.
MS: It’s not so weird. It was 8 months ago.
RR: I guess. I guess it’s weirder that you forgot you owned them for 8 months, bought new ones, then took them out of the rack this morning and put them on and walked for 15 minutes without noticing.
MS: It’s just great that they are back, ok?