People are like trees. They have roots. They get used to their home soil. And sometimes, they are transplanted. If the soil is good, they do well, continuing to grow and flourish. If the soil they're transplanted into isn't good, they have difficulty adapting and they might not do so well.
Where are my roots?
I was born in Montreal. When I was five months old, we moved to La Paz, Bolivia. My parents are Bolivian, and I think of myself as Bolivian too. Legal papers say I'm Bolivian, others say I'm Canadian. So what am I? Do pieces of paper define who I am?
We moved back to Canada two years ago, when I was 13. Although I was unhappy about the idea of moving to a foreign country, I figured there wasn't much I could do about it.
Living in a different country, experiencing a different culture and not being able to communicate with others, is a horrifying experience. I hated Canada, I wanted to go back to Bolivia, to my normal life, with the friends I already had and the family I was raised with.
My perspective of this new place has since changed. I started to like it here. I made new friends. I had other members of my family to share my experiences with. I was happy.
But then a notion haunted me. I was a hypocrite. I was turning against everything I believed. What happened to going back to Bolivia? Didn't I like it there anymore?
And that's when I started asking myself these questions: Am I Bolivian or Canadian? Could I be both? Is there a middle ground? What happened to the guy who was so proud of his country? Has he changed? Is that good?
So many questions but no answers.
I asked my dad for advice because, as a Bolivian who lived in Berlin for years, he had experienced living in a different culture. I thought he might have the same feelings of guilt and betrayal I had.
But the answer was more complex than the question.
He said he has always loved his home country, that there is nothing like it. After years of living in another country, however, he found he had changed, and so had those he'd left behind. He had grown much faster than his peers. He had seen and learned different things, which changed his perspective about life. Like me, he also admitted he felt like he didn't belong back in Bolivia.
It was good to know that someone else felt the same way. I was afraid of synthesis. Afraid that I would become a person who did not belong in the place he once called home. Afraid that the people I left behind would not understand me. Afraid that one day I'll go back to Bolivia and won't like it anymore. Afraid of my family back there and the reactions they may have when they see a different person.
Understanding my dad makes me less afraid of change. I look up to my dad because he respects me, he lets me make my own choices and when I finally know what I want to do, he respects my decision - even if he disagrees with it. My dad is a product of change and he changed for the better while keeping rituals and traditions that remind me where my roots are.
Change is inevitable but it makes you stronger. The more you change a tree, the more adaptable it becomes over time. My dad is a tree. I have lived in his branches for 15 years. I am the fruit that he bore. And I grow among his roots.
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE:This article and the two pieces that will follow in the next week in The Tri-City News were written by Tri-City young people who are part of the Tri-Cities Arts Door Project. Arts Door is a youth-led, adult-supported, community asset-mapping project with two main objectives: creating a youth-focused on-line map of arts and culture businesses and organizations in the Tri-Cities, and conducting a survey that measures the "cultural competence" of the Tri-Cities Arts and Culture industry. The Tri-Cities Arts Door Youth Leadership Team is made up of 14 youth between 13 and 17 years of age, coming from 10 different countries. The Arts Door project is delivered by SUCCESS in partnership with BC Healthy Communities and is funded by the provincial government's Welcoming and Inclusive Communities initiative.
