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From Scotland to Canada, and back again
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
February 6, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
My mother’s people came from Scotland in the early 1900s. Her grandfather brought his handgun. He had collected rents for the local laird, a dangerous, unpleasant job. Shaking the dust of the British class system from his feet, he left for Toronto. He married my great-grandmother, had four children and went back to Europe to fight for Canada in the First World War. Thanks to his accent, he was known as “Scotty.” But as far as he was concerned, he was no longer a Scot. He was Canadian.
My mother’s father, known to his workmates as “Red,” was equally adamant that he was not a Scot. He was Canadian. Grandpa married a girl whose people were Scottish, but she too considered herself Canadian. And when Grandpa went to Scotland on his way to fight for Canada in the Second World War, his relations there rudely and inaccurately called him a Yank.
My mother’s father, known to his workmates as “Red,” was equally adamant that he was not a Scot. He was Canadian. Grandpa married a girl whose people were Scottish, but she too considered herself Canadian. And when Grandpa went to Scotland on his way to fight for Canada in the Second World War, his relations there rudely and inaccurately called him a Yank.
After the war, my Canadian grandparents had one child, my mother, who cries when she hears bagpipes, but nevertheless insists that she is not Scottish. She, too, is Canadian. Mum, however, was born before multiculturalism. When Mum began school, the emphasis was still on Canada-proud-daughter-of-the-British-Empire. When I began school, the emphasis had shifted to Canada-we-are-all-immigrants. Now two or three of my classmates were actual immigrants, and a larger number had parents who were themselves immigrants, but some of us were four or five generations past immigration, so projects in which we had to come up with cool ethnic stuff were challenging.
“What ethnic are we?” I asked my mother.
“We’re Canadian,” trumpeted my mother as she made Yorkshire pudding and my grandmother drank cup after cup of tea.
“Well, what kind of food do we eat?”
“Canadian food.”
This appeared to be true, for many of my mother’s recipes were from the “Milk” calendar that came free once a year in the Toronto Star. But that was no help when I had to bring my ethnic food to class.
“Why not bannock?” suggested my unhelpful mother.
In despair, I fell back upon my father’s Irish American roots, joining the teeming masses whose ancestors left Ireland in the 1840s and yet claim to be Irish. I committed soda bread for class. Worse than that, I adopted a fake identity for teachers who believed uncritically our versions of foreign cultures. Many of my schoolmates, upon returning to their “homelands” in high school, had severe shocks. Italy, for example, had changed significantly since their parents left it in the 1950s.
Irish citizens eventually convinced me that I wasn’t Irish. But, despite a lifetime of Sunday roasts, banging pots on New Year’s Eve and stringent household economy, I had had it well rubbed into me that I wasn’t Scottish either. But then I agreed to marry a Scot.
In exchange for me, my fiancé brought my parents a tartan blanket, a Scottish cookbook, a print of his home and a bottle of whisky. The tartan blanket was a good match for all the other tartan blankets around the house. The print of the home went on the piano. The whisky disappeared into some hideout of my father’s. The cookbook was read, with some trepidation, by me.
“These recipes seem awfully familiar,” I said.
There was one called “Stovies” that seemed startlingly homey despite its odd name.
“It’s just scalloped potatoes and ham,” said my mother.
“Stovies is scalloped potatoes and ham?”
I had a revelation. My revelation was that whenever my mother said something was Canadian, it was probably Scottish. And this is not surprising when we consider that Canada abounds in provincial tartans, Highland regiments and Scottish pipers in front of almost every parade. And the arms of Canada, surprise, surprise, feature the English lion on one side of the shield and the chained Scottish unicorn on the other. And although 22.77 per cent of all Canadians who answered the 2006 Census claimed their ethnicity was solely “Canadian,” 15.11 per cent claimed partial Scottish ancestry. Only the percentages of those claiming English and French ancestry were higher.
So it turns out that my mother’s way of being Canadian, a very old and widespread way of being Canadian, is very Scottish after all. And that is of enormous comfort to me, as I sit here in a big old house in Scotland, typing away. I already know how to cook Scottish food, old Scottish values are my values and I instinctively found out which supermarkets in town are the cheapest. Canadians are certainly not “all immigrants,” but I will be one — in Scotland. I shudder to think what my great-grandfather would say. But he might be pleased to know that the local laird left no descendants and I am living in an apartment at the top of his house.
“What ethnic are we?” I asked my mother.
“We’re Canadian,” trumpeted my mother as she made Yorkshire pudding and my grandmother drank cup after cup of tea.
“Well, what kind of food do we eat?”
“Canadian food.”
This appeared to be true, for many of my mother’s recipes were from the “Milk” calendar that came free once a year in the Toronto Star. But that was no help when I had to bring my ethnic food to class.
“Why not bannock?” suggested my unhelpful mother.
In despair, I fell back upon my father’s Irish American roots, joining the teeming masses whose ancestors left Ireland in the 1840s and yet claim to be Irish. I committed soda bread for class. Worse than that, I adopted a fake identity for teachers who believed uncritically our versions of foreign cultures. Many of my schoolmates, upon returning to their “homelands” in high school, had severe shocks. Italy, for example, had changed significantly since their parents left it in the 1950s.
Irish citizens eventually convinced me that I wasn’t Irish. But, despite a lifetime of Sunday roasts, banging pots on New Year’s Eve and stringent household economy, I had had it well rubbed into me that I wasn’t Scottish either. But then I agreed to marry a Scot.
In exchange for me, my fiancé brought my parents a tartan blanket, a Scottish cookbook, a print of his home and a bottle of whisky. The tartan blanket was a good match for all the other tartan blankets around the house. The print of the home went on the piano. The whisky disappeared into some hideout of my father’s. The cookbook was read, with some trepidation, by me.
“These recipes seem awfully familiar,” I said.
There was one called “Stovies” that seemed startlingly homey despite its odd name.
“It’s just scalloped potatoes and ham,” said my mother.
“Stovies is scalloped potatoes and ham?”
I had a revelation. My revelation was that whenever my mother said something was Canadian, it was probably Scottish. And this is not surprising when we consider that Canada abounds in provincial tartans, Highland regiments and Scottish pipers in front of almost every parade. And the arms of Canada, surprise, surprise, feature the English lion on one side of the shield and the chained Scottish unicorn on the other. And although 22.77 per cent of all Canadians who answered the 2006 Census claimed their ethnicity was solely “Canadian,” 15.11 per cent claimed partial Scottish ancestry. Only the percentages of those claiming English and French ancestry were higher.
So it turns out that my mother’s way of being Canadian, a very old and widespread way of being Canadian, is very Scottish after all. And that is of enormous comfort to me, as I sit here in a big old house in Scotland, typing away. I already know how to cook Scottish food, old Scottish values are my values and I instinctively found out which supermarkets in town are the cheapest. Canadians are certainly not “all immigrants,” but I will be one — in Scotland. I shudder to think what my great-grandfather would say. But he might be pleased to know that the local laird left no descendants and I am living in an apartment at the top of his house.
Dorothy Cummings McLean