Migration patterns of Canadian youth

I landed in this city unannounced. Nothing was remarkable about my arrival, and no one awaited me---a singular party caught in a mass departure---a wayward bird caught in a hurricane, and just as prepared. Children of small towns are economic migrants, even in Canada.

Reared in a rural coastal village, I threw myself from the nest with wet feathers. Maladjusted and armed only with certificates of insignificance, I bought my ticket out of all I knew well, for the uncertain unknown, for the urban existence of rape and murder, for narcotics and homosexuality. For fear-after-dark and beasts less recognizable than the chubby and misunderstood man up the street. I traded in the rattle of sea stones, the night sky, feral eyes in bushes, and sadly, my family. I traded the loneliness of a socially awkward adolescent in a small hamlet, for awe. And, here I am, still awed.

Surrounded by mechanisms barely understood, I very slowly created a new personal culture, within which I developed new belief systems, new approaches to supply and demand, new ideas about cause and effect. Several years later, I developed comfortable patterns. I learned to function effectively in my new urban environment as an entirely new species.

No longer can people can see sand on my scalp, or in my shoes. I regularly return to my loosely laid roots by the sea. This is my new migration. I am no longer unwittingly blown off-course, but still maladjusted.

When I return to my home by the sea and in the woods, I dust off the silt of the urban landscape. The local species recognize me as a fraud, an impostor. They ask me how I like living in the city, but they are really asking: "What are you and what are you doing here?" Locals have always been suspicious of my intentions. As I have come of age, so have presumptions about my nature. First, I was a "lesbian", now, I am a foreigner. I capitalize on the nature of my hometown. The handicrafts are cheap. I know the good beaches. The seafood is fresh and can be purchased straight from the boat. The people will at least pretend to like you, at first.

I can't explain to them why I return so often. I miss my family. I love tasting the ocean in the air, and smelling the beached, decaying seaweed. And, sometimes I miss the gangly child I used to be, who greets me there with a horse-toothed grin. That, is how I know I am home.

My life in costume

It's been at least 90 days since I've picked up something I've dropped, between the hours of nine and five. In my past life, I was accustomed to picking up my own dropped quarters, pens and such. In my new life, this is no longer necessary. My new life came equipped with gentlemen in suits who quicken their pace to retrieve items for me.

I try not to let it go to my head. I know they are only doing their gentlemanly duty, but still, it is fun to let things drop.

The passage into my new life occurred the day I picked up my security pass for the firm that hired me. It came with the realization that I would need to build a new wardrobe, suitable for a highly visible and serious organization. My freelancer ways were to be shelved. No more late rising or long nights. I would exist in this new life between nine and five in skirt suits and heels. I would hum the inspired Dolly Parton song to myself, alone in my large, windowless office---but, I would never bend over again.

Fish and sore thumbs

Perhaps the only way I feel "in my element" is when I am undeniably out of it. I find social awkwardness amusing. This is clearly a coping tactic. "Sticking out like a sore thumb" and being "a fish out of water", I can flop and throb without reservation, comfortably. It's expected. It's honest.

As long as there is a sufficient and distinct divide between what I am and what I am not, mixing with new groups is a breeze. It's when differences are subtle that things can get complicated.

Some people don't get my As

Why, exactly, are you thinking about my breasts right now?

Clearly you appreciate my slender physique, but why are you compelled to tell me not to "change a thing", while you knowingly, or perhaps sym-pathetically nod at my chest. You think you are a respectful, modern-minded male, but here you are exposing your ignorance, tactlessly baring it for all the world to see---caught with your pants down.

There really is no right thing to say in response to a comment that is so very wrong, except maybe: Your fly is open.

Like-minded

In so many ways, I feel like such a child. My insecurities, though muted or muffled, are the same as they were when I was very young - when I first experienced judgement and criticism. The little Pavlovian paths are difficult to reroute. Every now and again, I meet someone who makes me more self-aware, validates my emotions. Someone who demonstrates twisted behaviours similar to my own. These people are irresistible to me. The kinship I feel, my willingness to expose my emotional guts to them is deeply connected to the fact that I can anticipate their response. I adopt these people immediately. I can recognize you from a distance, and I'll tell you when I do.

Sign the papers, share in my drama and Sunday afternoons.

Call me in the early evening while you have an anxiety attack on a busy city street. Sneak into the bathroom with me at a party, just to have a moment. You, me and the toilet. Confess that you are heartbroken about the girl standing next to us. Make me curry while I sleep, and laugh a tired laugh, saying you cried while you made it. Make me birthday cake. Drink too much and worry none. Laugh at how trashy we look in our little dresses. Give me a long hug, even though you don't usually like to do that. Ask, very politely, if you can kiss my cheek, and then continue to brood. Offer to kick that guy's ass, while in your hot pink tights, if he gives me any more trouble. Explain that you are incapable of being mad at me, but that you're "sad at me" because I failed to respect a passion of yours. Run away with me to the comforts of our friend's bedroom, two duvets, a terrible TV movie and fantasize about coffee with me. Hide under the covers with me, giggling, when she gets home. Become annoyed with me when I consider self-restraint. Assume that they probably deserved it, whatever it was. I can sleep comfortably beside you, in our underwear, make-up smudged around our eyes, with morning breath and bad hair. We're beautiful - even with bleeding, broken hearts, bruises on our calves, and blisters on our feet.

No wonder it took me so long to find you.

There are so many little pieces.