Navigating my cultural identity
Growing up is hard. Growing up when you constantly feel like you’re in the middle of an identity crisis makes things much more complicated. My parents were both born in a small Serbian village, Vladimirovac, in what was then known as the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. However, both of them are ethnically Romanian. This is where history gets a little murky.
Vladimirovac lies in Vojvodina, a northern province in Serbia. Throughout history, it has been under Hungarian, Ottoman, Habsburg, and Communist rule. Following the end of World War I in 1918, the province was divided between Romania and what was then known as the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes. At this point a significant part of the Romanian population was displaced and became citizens of the Kingdom, which is why my ethnically Romanian family are Serbian citizens. My parents immigrated to Canada as a result of the Yugoslav Wars in 1996. A year later, I was born in Hamilton, and I spent my childhood in Kitchener.
What does this historical ethnic displacement have to do with my identity crisis? My parents raised me with a keen awareness of my cultural roots and heritage. Romanian is my first language. We visited home every summer, and I partook in cultural traditions such as folk dancing up until middle school. My parents’ goal in this was clearly to preserve our cultural heritage, which they saw as even more vital given their displacement from their homeland and assimilation into a foreign country.
Assimilation was not easy for them. Having immigrated to Canada at such a young age, they were both still in the turbulent times of their 20s as they navigated a whole new world away from their family and everything they had ever known. As a child, I resented their inability to “properly” assimilate into the everyday culture of Canadian life. I remember feeling like an outcast as my classmates would constantly look in my lunch bag, dissecting my “otherly” food as if it were a dead frog sprawled on a surgical tray. My classmates couldn’t understand why my family didn’t go camping up north, or why we didn’t own a cottage. At ten years old, I didn’t know how to tell them that neither my mom nor dad knew how to pitch a tent, or quite frankly that they didn’t have the money for a “cabin” (what kind of cabin has five bedrooms, a pool, and a jacuzzi?) in Muskoka. While all my friends had lives filled with after-school activities, sports, and clubs, I was babysitting my younger brother. Of course, now the ripe age of 21, I realize how frivolous my feelings were; however, as a kid, it seemed that having a cottage was a prerequisite for entry into Canadian society.
My parents made one brave attempt to participate in something typical of Canadian culture: camping. My family and my best friend’s family (it is important to note that they too are immigrants from Bosnia, and thus had few camping skills under their belts), packed up our coolers, tents, and sleeping bags, and headed to Grand Bend. We spent a lovely day at the beach and when the sun started to set, my friend and I couldn’t contain our excitement about actually spending a night outdoors in a tent (we were easily amused by the little things in life). Unbeknownst to our eager little selves, our parents had assumed that it was not only okay, but legal, to just pitch a tent up at the beach and call it a night there. In a split second our typical pine-tree, s’mores dreams of Canadiana were gone. Nonetheless, we chose to stay optimistic, assuming that we would still be sleeping under the stars, and that the sand would make the sleeping bags more comfortable. And so, we pitched our little purple Hannah Montana tent (special shout-out to Walmart) and began preparing for our night.
Unlike regular families who go “camping” and toast s’mores over a fire, our families decided it was appropriate to bring a traditional kettle called a djezva and to start making traditional Turkish coffee, using the fire as a makeshift oven. It is at this moment that our camping trip turned into something else entirely. As our parents were making their coffee, a Beach Patrol Officer arrived. I’m not quite sure they teach you how to handle “Balkan immigrants brewing homemade coffee over a fire at the beach” in any type of training.
After a polite explanation that, no, one cannot just pitch up a tent on a public beach and spend the night, our families decided to try and look for a camping ground that still had room. (of course now they think of going to an actual place reserved for this type of thing). After checking two or three places, we were out of luck. Instead of calling it a night and heading home, our parents decided to order a pizza and spend the night in the next most rational and logical place besides a camping ground, Tim Hortons. This was my family’s first, and last, attempt at camping.
Because I felt like an outsider among my Canadian classmates and friends, I gravitated toward hanging out with the other Romanian kids, where I thought I would feel more welcome. I would soon come to realize that this was not the case, as I was deemed “not Romanian enough” due to my different accent. I remember that, one day, a Romanian classmate asked me what the word for woman was. “Muiera,” I said, only to be ridiculed. “No, it’s femeie,” he said with an arrogant smirk. I remember coming home crying to my parents and asking them why I spoke differently than the other Romanian kids. They explained that we simply spoke a different dialect. I didn’t understand how speaking a different dialect brought my authenticity and identity into question, and I still ransack my brain trying to answer this question today. I wish I could look back at instances like these, where I was essentially ‘quizzed’ on my ethnicity, and say that these were just instances that represented the immaturity of youth; however, that is not the case. Even today, people my age, as well as older adults, make derogatory comments about my dialect—their implication always being that I am somehow less of a Romanian because I don’t have the same accent as those from the capital city, Bucharest. It was hard enough not fitting into Canadian society, but the knife dug a little deeper when those of the same cultural background and language outcast me as well.
This occurred within the Serbian community, too. Here, I faced a language barrier, and I didn’t celebrate the same holidays. I celebrated Christmas on December 25, whereas Serbians celebrate it on January 7. They also celebrate a holiday called a “slava,” which is a day celebrating the Saints. Moreover, the fact that my last name didn’t end in –ić—something characteristic of a Serbian background—set me apart further. “But are you Romanian,orare you Serbian?” are the words that still echo in my ears. My question is: why can’t I be both?
Being caught in the crossfire of three cultures is tiring. Constantly having to explain my identity and heritage, and that a person can actually take part in three different cultures, is even more gruelling. I’ve always felt like three versions of myself existed: the Romanian, the Serbian, and the Canadian. At 21, I am still unable to reconcile the three. I’ve always had great difficulty reflecting on who I am, or rather, who I think I oughtto be. It’s strange to think that something so personal like my own identity has been forged by those around me, telling me who they think I am, or who I should be.
By no means have I figured myself out. What I have learned is that I am allowed to be Romanian, Serbian, and Canadian, at once. I am proud of all three, and each represents a part of who I am.
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