“White girl,” they would say.
“Miss Canada,” they would taunt.
I would lie in bed wishing to go back home:
back to North America,
the land of the mosaic—
back to Canada
Maybe home is everywhere.
Maybe I am not bounded by borders.
Maybe I am not bounded by my ethnicity,
my religion,
my uncontrollable birth rights.
Maybe I am the child of Mother Nature,
a daughter of the wind.
Maybe my home is the universe,
every entity of its massive reach,
every dark corner, unfounded frontier.
Maybe that’s where I belong,
where I fit in,
where home is.
Home.
BY ARIGO DUT