Let me start by saying this will not be a writing-related post. You all know what I’ve been up to lately, so let’s turn our attention to a more scintillating topic.
Earlier today, I made this conversation-starter of a post on Threads:
I got a nice mix of replies, with fellow Canadians sharing stories about their hometowns and the places they now inhabit. It got me thinking about what ‘home’ means to me.
If you’ve been following my blog for a bit, you’ll know that last year, I decided to take the leap and start the process of applying for an employment visa in the United States. And let me tell you, I was not prepared for how complicated this process would be. The US has dozens of visas, from employment-based visas (which are further subdivided into visas for skilled vs. unskilled workers—see EB1, EB2, EB3, etc.…), to student visas, fiancé visas, and so on. Many people are familiar with the highly-coveted H1B, and if you’re a Canadian looking to pursue higher wages and a more favourable cost of living south of the border, you’ve no doubt looked into the TN visa. (Let me save you a Google search with this one: the TN visa is only available to citizens of Canada and Mexico who work in one of several pre-determined occupations, typically those requiring a 4-year degree.)
I became pretty heavily invested in this plan for most of 2023. I even went so far as to contact an immigration lawyer in New York, who was kind enough to walk me through the dizzying complexities of the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). Basically, she said, my best bet was to find an American employer who was willing to sponsor me for an employment-based visa, and that this process can take a long, long time.
After several months of muddling through this process, I grew discouraged and decided to take a break. During that hiatus, I started asking myself why I was really doing this, when I was already settled here in Ontario, with my little PSW job, my little apartment, and my quiet, little life that many people would kill for.
There were several reasons. The first was that I’d grown disillusioned with my country’s leadership. (I realize the US is in the midst of its own political clusterfuck, which might make you question my overall decision-making abilities.) As a lifelong Ontarian, I’ve watched my quality of life become progressively worse since Sir Lies-a-lot took office. I’ve given up on ever owning a home, even in places where home ownership is still relatively attainable. With the rise of remote work, the push to populate Northern Ontario is growing—and for a time, I considered it. “Let’s move to Timmins!” I said only half-jokingly. By the way, what’s the night life like in Kapuskasing? (I’m sure the stars are spectacular up there.)
Note that I said half-jokingly. Because the other half of me is completely, totally serious about pulling up stakes and high-tailing it to the promised land.
I’ve been a Peterborough, Ontario resident for 12 years. The locals call it a “small town,” and not in a flattering, neighbours-baking-you-cookies kind of way. The people are all right, for the most part. Del Crary Park hosts a free, live music festival (Musicfest) every summer, and we are strangely obsessed with our lift lock. And water. In fact, we love water so much, we even included symbolic squiggly lines on our official town welcome sign. Ironically, our tap water is an abomination, second only to our city streets.
I have become a little disenchanted over the years, and with that feeling comes the urge to move.
Of course, moving is expensive, stressful, and not necessarily the solution to all your problems. The grass isn’t always greener, as they say. But in a country the size of Canada, I’m nearly certain there’s a place for me to raise my little family, go to my silly little job, and buy my cat nice toys that doesn’t demand a blood sacrifice just to get by every month.
Really, I’m just looking for a place to call home.
Despite how long I’ve lived here, I’ve never considered Peterborough my “home.” I was already plotting my escape as far back as 2016, but Dan and I both had jobs and a nice, two-bedroom, pet-friendly apartment, so leaving didn’t make sense beyond the visceral craving for a new adventure. But as the years wore on, we casually revisited this topic, saying, “Maybe next year.”
Well, it’s 2024, and guess what we’re talking about again?
I love Ontario. I also adore BC. I’ve never had such a profound feeling of being home as when I went to Kelowna as a teenager. Since then, the idea of moving “out west” has been hovering at the back of my mind, that sense of belonging like a beacon during dark times.
But I’m a realist. BC is hideously expensive, and as a PSW, I don’t make the kind of cash that buys you backyard mountains.
I was once such a proud Canadian. I loved this country: its inherent safety, its welcoming attitude, its breathtakingly diverse landscape, its bountiful opportunities for self-actualization. I was a citizen of a country leading by example, showing the world what it means to be true north strong and free.
And now? Now, I see a wasteland of corruption and corporate greed. I see good, hardworking people struggling to get by month after month. I see our elderly being pushed aside and denied the complex care they need to maintain their dignity into the end of their life. I see young kids being force-fed a future in which jobs are scarce and housing is non-existent, unless they’re willing to share a room (not an apartment—a single room) with four other people. As a nation, we used to be hungry for progress—now, we’re emptying the food banks in record numbers. Remember that commercial, “Good things grow in Ontario”? I used to think that applied to people and cities, too. We were a phenomenal place to be, leading the way in the fields of medicine, technology, and other STEM-related disciplines. And where are all the family doctors going now? That’s right: the good ole U S of A, where top-earning professionals have a shot at the American dream. (Remember: you need to have money in order to have mobility in this society.)
We’ve all seen the news coming out of Canada lately, and it’s not pretty. In particular, there is a monumental amount of backlash against immigration, except we’ve become so divided that we can’t even discuss the ramifications of our government’s stance on refugees and foreign workers without crucifying ourselves. I’d argue that most people are pro-immigration—I know I am, as the granddaughter of Italian immigrants. To be anti-immigration is to be anti-Canadian. Of course I believe that anyone should have the ability to move wherever they feel they’d be happiest—everyone should know what it feels like to have a home.
Which brings me back to my Threads post. Canada has become a dirty word, which is a shame because we have so much to offer the world. Yes, I believe that if we installed a more competent government, we might actually be able to redeem ourselves. And maybe if we all started talking about what we love about Canada (like our favourite provinces and territories, for instance), we might build up enough momentum to actually fix the problems that are right in front of our face.
We have mountains. We have oceans. We have lakes. We have some of the most fertile farmland in the Northern Hemisphere. We have cities and small towns and people from all over the world infusing local businesses with the many wondrous flavours of their home country. We’re all trying to make Canada our home.
I always said I wasn’t going to discuss politics on my writing platforms, but fuck it—everything is political. My books are a deep dive into current events wrapped up in the flaky, sweet crust of literary escapism. I can’t throw Ray off a horse without expressing my shock and discontentment with a for-profit healthcare system. I can’t sit Adrianna in front of a judge without acknowledging a justice system that protects abusers, especially those already protected by wealth and social prominence. These are not little fluff stories about love—they’re the votes I cast in ink hoping that one day the world will change for the better.
There is a growing demand for Canadian stories, set in Canadian cities, written by Canadian authors. This country is my home: I should want to write about it, fight for it, and carve out a life somewhere within its borders. But I shouldn’t have to wonder if in a year from now, I will be standing in line outside the food bank or living in my car in a Walmart parking lot. Imagine that: a company that consistently leeches the public dry, profits from the rising cost of goods, and collapses small-town economies simply by opening shop, offering safe haven during a volatile housing market. You can’t make this shit up.