I haven’t really given it much thought, my sense of home. I think part of this is because I’ve never really worried about having it taken away. Another part is because I’ve lived a somewhat transitive life, especially during my formative years in adolescence. For instance, I went to four different high schools in four different cities from grade 8 to 12. But I think a key reason I haven’t thought much about my sense of home is because this sense is something that mostly exists in the primitive depths of my subconscious. I think my sense of home is like my sense of possession over a romantic partner, or my sense of threat when seeing a stranger brandish a weapon. These senses, these intuitive reactions, are integral parts of my self both as a person but mostly as a homo sapien. And I’m convinced that no amount of culture, education, or socialization will make these senses go away. They may get buried and become more easily controlled, and some of them I may not even like or want to have. But they are still there no matter what.

But this is course on stories not psychoanalytic theory or evolution psychology. What stories do I tell myself that connect me to this land we call Canada and make it my home? That’s a hard questions. Reflecting on this has led me down two paths. Let me start with the stories I have told myself that foster a sense of unbelonging to my home.

Since I can remember, I’ve always felt like a guest and a sojourner rather than an inhabitant or occupant. The first home I remember was as shabby apartment my mother rented from a smelly and shady manager in New Westminster. Even at a young age, I felt that we were merely staying there, and our stay was out of necessity rather than choice or want. I have felt that for every place I lived since. I am a tenant not an owner.

Living in over four different cities during high school was also out of necessity. It was necessarily determined that I followed my father on his journey. I followed him on his path of self-destruction toward a predetermined endpoint: death. And along the way, we stayed with various family members and in hotels as guests. Sure this was humiliating at times. But these keepers were frozen in time, watching us from the outside, as we travelled along on our existential road trip.

So maybe I don’t have stories that connect me to this land we call Canada. Or maybe I do but they operate in the background and as so obvious I don’t even notice them. Or perhaps they’re there but are unimportant to me. I’m really not sure, all this is new to me.

My second reflective path has taken me through the terrain of identity and Canadian patriotism. What stories do I tell myself that make it so I feel at home here in Canada? What stories do I tell myself that make me feel Canadian? For one thing, these questions only seem to come up either within (artificial) academic settings, or when my tribalistic instincts are being activated. Being a Canadian and having a Canadian home only matters to me when an outgroup member is threatening to take something away, or when creating esteem with an ingroup member. At least that’s how I look at it. Canadian identity is a relational property in that its existence requires an antagonist. Since we don’t face much conflict here within Canada, or between Canada and other nations, Canadians have little Canadian identity. The First Nations, on the other hand, face plenty of conflict, but their identity and cohesiveness has been systematically dismantled by their oppressors.

I am at home here in Canada because this is the place I happen to be born. I feel at home because this is my instinctual reaction to living here. The stories I tell myself about my Canadian home are like wet paper. I am an unsentimental Canadian.