Why I Am Canadian
I grew up in Switzerland, the picture-perfect country where every citizen owns a savings account.
After completing a two-year apprenticeship required to qualify as sales clerk in a stationery store, I thought it might be interesting to work in a shoe store.
The owner laughed at me:
"What do you know about leather and fine shoemaking? Please, you are not properly trained."
I decided to leave the German-speaking area and move halfway across the country, one hundred kilometres West, to the French-speaking area. At the stationery story, my enthusiasm of meeting new people dampened with the first customer.
"Bonjour Madame, est-ce que je peux vous aider?" (Good morning, Madame, can I help you?)
"Oui vous pouvez m’aider. Allez chercher quelqe-un qui parle propre francais."
(Yes, you can help me. You can go and find a person who speaks proper French.)
I was a stranger in my own country.
Two years later, I followed my boyfriend to Canada. My knowledge of English consisted of: "Please," "Thank you" and "I do not understand."
With my little speech written on a piece of paper, I marched along busy Broadway in Vancouver, British Columbia, that first week and entered every store.
"Hello. My name is Verena. I look for vork." ....
published in The Canadian Immigrant www.thecanadianimmigrant.com
