Oh Canada!

If you think that nuns are gentle and kind holy women then you have never attended a Catholic school. Their hearts are made of carbon fiber, and a black, thick ichor formed by years of oppressive rage runs through their veins. On a good day one of us kids might go home from school with a small goose egg sprouting on the top of our heads, a present from Sister, and her wedding ring of pain, the one she married Christ with. Other days it might be a jab to the ribs with the crucifix of retribution. Or sometimes we were just told that we would be sent to a never ending pit of torment after we died because we had written out of the margins. Ah, the good old days.

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Rumours in the small Hungarian town where my parents lived of an uprising in Budapest quickly turned into a buzz of colossal proportions as more and more people corroborated the stories as true. Some people immediately rushed to the capital to join the battle, while others formed vigilante groups and rounded up local communist leaders and sympathisers. Most gathered their families close and hunkered down to ride out the storm, but many in the country took advantage of the unstable borders to make a run for it. My parents were in the latter group.

It was a ragtag family of new immigrants who showed up in the wilds of northwestern Ontario in the late fifties. They had a small amount of money from the few converted British pounds sterling they had earned during their short stint in a refugee camp in England. Dad decided that when in Rome do as the Romans and made sure the family was as far away from all of the large Hungarian communities as possible. He was determined that his family would be fully integrated Canadians.

The first couple of years were very difficult: the cultural differences had them scratching their heads more than once. They had no friends or family to ease the way, and the total inability to speak the native language was a huge barrier. But with a lot of effort and fortitude they put down roots and began to prosper. The family soon swelled in size and life settled into a routine.

Although the horrors of the war, and later the uprising, had left both my parents staunch atheists they had also learned their lesson from the Nazis and the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party: it was never a good idea to be different. Having grown up Catholic they decided that their children would attend the Catholic school system as well, thus ensuring that their kids would blend in.

Sister Mary-Frances, or as my mother called her, Lucifer’s wife, soon discovered that my oldest brother did not know the national anthem. It did not matter to her that the reason was that he did not speak the language; she was determined to make an example of his inherent wickedness, so she had him stand in front of the class and sing O Canada to everyone all on his own. He was a painfully shy little boy and school soon became a deep source of pain for him. This outraged my mother to the point that she overcame her deeply engrained attitude of deferring to authority figures and went to the school to put an end to his humiliation. And miracle of miracles, although neither party understood the other, the practice stopped.

Although Sister Lucifer was no longer torturing her oldest son, mother decided that this was not a situation any of her other children would be put into; hence a new tradition was born. She was determined that all her children would know how to sing O Canada by the time they were old enough to set foot in school.

Thus began the first new tradition of the family, singing the national anthem. We sang it as a group, we sang it at the supper table, and at breakfast, we would stand up in front of the parents and grandparents and sing like the Von Trapp family singers, had the Von Trapps been unable to carry a tune. I remember lining my frogs up in the sand box and singing O Canada to them a cappella. I remember singing while running to the corner store with my brothers to pick up eggs for mom.

My dad bought a boat which required at least half the family to bail at any time if we did not want to find ourselves at the bottom of the lake. Five kids, two parents, two grandparents, and the family dog would go out fishing on the weekends. You could hear us all singing O Canada as we trawled along the shores, or sat anchored in spot, the bailers keeping time with the singers.

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When it was my turn to start school I was excited yet fearful about my first day. As the “world’s most fidgety child” it was everything I could do to sit in my seat and wait for morning announcements. Finally, when we all stood to sing the national anthem I made sure that the teacher was aware of the fact that I knew the song. It was pretty obvious from her reaction that she understood that. The glances I received from the other teachers during recess indicated that everyone else in the school got it as well.

Then a wondrous phenomenon happened! They played another song, which none of my brothers had bothered to mention at home. I listened in joyous rapture as they played God Save Our Queen over the PA. I was in heaven. Not only was it a new song to learn, but it was the coolest, bestest, easiest song ever invented by man. The frogs didn’t know what hit them when I got home that night.

Image Credit

“Canada Flag #2” by I am I.A.M. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved

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