I’m part English, part Welsh, part Prussian, part French

Diluted by experiences of generations born the ‘right’ colour.

Not even ‘No Irish need apply’ to tarnish their immigrant dream:

Canada, land of opportunity for the stalwart farming types.

Though great-grandpa was an accountant and failed at farming.

.

So who am I to comment on anyone else’s parts?

.   My great-niece: part African

.   My nephew: part First Nations

are just family.  Or 

Those friends from here and there whose colour

Was not as important as their character

Whose home culture was a matter of curiosity

Never animousity.   We were

White kids convulsing over that time at the bar

When the guy climbed into the back of Khalid’s car

convinced he was a taxi driver,

And we never considered that maybe  parts of his heart

Were incized by the stereotype he laughed off.

Because we didn’t waste time worrying about races or colours,

We were full of the wonder of all our parts racing together toward our futures.

.

.

This was created as part of an assignment in my Education of Inclusion course.  This week we’re looking at cultural inclusion and racisim.  One of the videos we watched was about ‘hyphenated Canadians’.  We were expected to comment on this, but I just don’t feel like I can say anything about what it might be like to feel caught between cultural identities, so this poem is my offering on the subject.