Family Histories and Stories That Made Me

To make sense of my own family history, I turned to others, I pieced together little clues strewn here and there like grains of sand. I also read other people’s stories so I could learn my own. Stories that were completely different from mine, yet offered cherished insights. I learned about the traumatic ocean crossing made by the early Canadian immigrants, of Home Children, the places of war and famine that they came from, of would-be immigrants who got turned away, of the racism, of the xenophobia of the labour, of the cities built on the backs of immigrants. Old, worn stories that are still repeated today. Stories that are still untold. The life I live now, one of white privilege, safety, freedom and enjoyment, I owe to the sacrifices made by family members whose names are long forgotten.