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America Made Me White
Growing up in Canada, the child of refugees and Holocaust survivors, I never felt like I was part of the majority. This wasn’t entirely because of things others did or said to me, but rather a general feeling of not fully belonging. The white kids (as we’d call them) were rich — and preppy. They had families of British, Irish, German or Scottish origin, with long roots in Canada. They dressed well and had fancy cars and houses and — as is the Canadian way — had the ability to make you feel less-than or “other” with a smile on their faces.
Though we lived among wealthier people, my parents were firmly (lower) middle class, working hard to climb their way out of dislocation and poverty with sheer force of will. Other members of our family had it much easier — becoming (or marrying) doctors and lawyers. My parents happened to flee communism just as they were nearing college age. The years they should have spent studying for a profession became years of dislocation: refugee camps, long ocean crossings, huge supermarkets, strange new languages. They did what they could to get by and give us the best.
But our class differences stuck out like a sore thumb. Our cars were old and clunky, with mufflers hanging off and holes in the floors. My clothes were bought mostly at Bi-Way, which was a profoundly generic clothing store before the advent of Wal-Mart and Target. Imagine a big sign that…
