Reflection on Acculturation
Read this article and write a half page reflection on:
1. How did the process of acculturation unfold for this new Canadian in the 1950's?
2. What is the main point of his article?
3. Do you agree with his point of view? Why/why not?
In the 1950s, people spat at my family. Now, refugees can count on my support
HEINO MOLLS
Contributed to The Globe and Mail
Published Sunday, Jan. 31, 2016 12:00PM EST
Last updated Friday, Jan. 29, 2016 3:27PM EST
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
During the summer of 1954, my mother, my sister and I were walking down Spadina Avenue in Toronto. We had bought some groceries at Kensington Market and were returning home when a man stepped ahead of where we were walking and spit on the sidewalk right in front of us. We had to stop suddenly to avoid his spittle, and we all caught the menace in his glaring eyes as we walked past him.
I was just 4, but I remember that day because of the man's eyes and how he frightened my mother as she skirted us around him. He must have overheard us talking. Our language was not English, but rather it was the language of the most reviled and hated people of the day. We were speaking German.
The fifties were still a short time after the Second World War ended and many people's lives had been touched by that madness. Everyone had a father or uncle or family friend who had been in the war. Everyone had someone or even just heard about someone, who was killed or had suffered from the trauma and the unbelievable evil the Nazis wrought. To the people of Toronto, Germans were Nazis and therefore all Germans were bad. My mother and my sister and I were bad.
I would never overcome the fact that there would always be people who hated me simply because of where I was born. Our language was coarse, our habits odd and certainly not Canadian. We were "evil by nature." I heard people claim that they could tell a German by the way they looked.
All these things were discussed in front of me many times. Many people talked about atrocities committed against their family members by Germans. Their hatred was absolutely white hot and very dangerous, and I was intimate with it because it was often presented to me. I was frequently the target of tough kids. I wish I could say I bravely stood up to them all, but the truth is I did not. I never got used to it.
When I was 7, I was invited to a birthday party. After everyone was introduced, the adults steered me to another room and asked me if I was a German. I said I was. At that point a woman started shrieking. She grabbed a corn broom and took a swing at me, just missing my head. I ran out the door and she chased me halfway home, cursing at me the whole way.
I was obviously not old enough to be in the war. Nevertheless, I was blamed for it many times. My mother had faced even greater challenges than the rest of us. She'd been sent away from her home in Berlin after a violent event called Kristallnacht (The Night of Broken Glass, when Jewish-owned businesses, stores and synagogues were attacked). She was sent to live in a small German town as there was less trouble there than in the big cities. Now, she had come to a completely different country but people still threatened her - because she was German.
With all that said, and despite all the ill will toward us, we were incredibly given kindness by some people who came forward to help us. People took us into their homes and literally fed us when we had nothing.
Back in the fifties there was no government assistance, no welfare and no medical service without payment. Tommy Douglas had not yet convinced the government to nationalize medical care. If you were down and out in Toronto, the only help you could get was from a church or the kindness of strangers. I thank God for their kindness. I recall an Italian family that gave us dinner, sometimes three times a week. An English family gave us nice warm coats for the winter. I recall a church organizing help for us. I cannot begin to describe my gratitude to these wonderful kind people. We were not even of their religion.
As I grew up in Toronto and the sixties unfolded, the level of hatred toward German people did not ever disappear but it eased. I spoke English without an accent. I played hockey in Scarborough, went to concerts, had a great time growing up and never looked back. Now I am an old man. I am a Canadian.
Today there are thousands of refugees coming to Canada from Syria and other Middle Eastern countries where atrocities and offences against humanity have been committed. The language of these people is guttural and coarse. Their habits are odd, and some say they are evil by the nature of their culture. I have even heard that there are terrorists among them.
Some of my fellow Canadians assure me that they can tell which ones are good and which ones are bad by the way they look. A lot of folks just plain don't want these people here.
They will be welcome at my house for dinner, however, and I will round up some nice, warm coats to donate to them, as well as what money I can give. I am not them, I understand that, but my family used to be like them. I am going to pay back the kindnesses I received in Toronto so many years ago.