Blame Canada

I remember when I told my parents that I was different, and really, I don't think it was that much of a surprise. The setting was rather dim, if that is how such ambiance can be described. Lighting in Chinese restaurants is notoriously low, which is an appropriate metaphor for how I was feeling at the time. But despite all the misgivings I had regarding what I was about to say, I knew I had to say it. Sure, they might think I was some sort of weirdo, even a shame to our distinct family name – a name that had been guarded and unblemished for decades. Despite all of this, it was high time to come clean; it was time to stop living a lie.

"Mom, Dad," I stammered. "I'm Canadian." My parents looked at me like I had just passed gas while receiving communion. If faces could physically melt from dismay then my parents' were doing just that. "What do you mean?" quivered my father, as if I had been speaking some sort of gibberish. "I mean that I have become a Canadian citizen! You know, that huge ass place up north!" My mother, never one to give in to an awkward moment, felt the necessity to dig in further. "How long has this little charade been going on?" she asked, as if something this serious, this monumental in one's life, could really be summed up in such an inquiry.

"It's not a charade, mother!" I snapped back. "This is real, and I'm serious, dammit! There was brief gasp of horror in my parents' expressions, as if I'd broken the cardinal rule bombshell dropping: Don't do it with sharp knifes around. After a moment, my dad settled the mood. "Look, son, your mother and I love you, and you know we support you in anything you do. But what will the neighborhood think about you prancing around like some, some maple leaf-loving fruit cake?!." "It's not like that!" I roared, but was quick to somber my tone. "Canadians are good people. They lead a very clean lifestyle, and they're a really close community."

"This is going to ruin Christmas!" cried my mom. "We can never tell your grandmother. How do you ever expect the family to take to you, walking around all prim and polite, bringing your little—Canadian friends home to visit?" There was a brief pause between "little" and "Canadian," as if she had to stumble to think of the proper word to describe my new social circle. Finally, I had had enough. My parents were just going to have to accept the fact that I was different. Screw Christmas. Screw grandma.

"I'm sorry if this disappoints you. I can't change who I am. I'm here, I'm Canadian – get over it!" As if on cue, the waitress came by with our fortune cookies, my last words of conviction still hanging over the table in a cloud of confusion and frustration. Reaching for my cookie, I caught a glance of my mother's steely and forlorn look at my father.

You will have difficulty with those closest to you

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," I muttered, and walked out of the restaurant.