A commentary by an emeritus professor of English at the University of British Columbia and a native of Victoria.
Today I’m coming out as a colonial. It’s who I am, and I won’t deny my identity as a colonial any longer.
I’ve always been a colonial — from even before I knew I was one. But today I’m declaring it publicly: a colonial is who I am, and I’m proud of my identity.
I was born in a thrice-colonially named place: Victoria. British. Columbia. When I was just four years old, I sat on the curb on Douglas Street for a parade celebrating the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, and I waved my little Union Jack.
Yes, that’s a flag I’m still proud of, along with that other great flag, the red and white one with the maple leaf on it. (No contradiction there!)
I attended schools named for people and places in (or from) what back then was still often called the Old Country: Doncaster, Lansdowne, (Mount) Douglas. And I was proud to do so.
At home, when I was growing up, my family subscribed to a newspaper called The Victoria Daily 91原创.
Oh, and maybe you’ve guessed this already. As a child I was taught a colonial dialect: English. It’s a heritage that still makes me proud and grateful.
Many, many people whose first language was something else have gone to the trouble of learning English for themselves — so many, in fact, that it’s now spoken and understood all around the world.
You could call it the Common Tongue. (Which is not to diminish the riches of all those other languages that people speak. Diversity’s good, eh?)
But here’s the problem. Some people disapprove of colonials. They judge me for being what I am.
They’re even anti-colonial — or (heaven forbid) colonial phobic. They think that colonials like me should repent of what we are and pretend to be post-colonial or maybe, um, transition to something else (I don’t know what).
We should hate the colonial in ourselves.
Nope. I won’t do that. Proud colonial is what I am. Grateful too. And, being born here, I’m also proud and grateful to be a native!
Lots of other people these days are celebrated — even demand to be celebrated — for something about themselves they claim to have discovered and not just imagined or chosen. They’re proud of it.
Well, that’s just fine.
But as I said, I’ve discovered I’m a colonial, and I’m proud of that. Being just a tiny bit humble, however, I don’t have the nerve to demand that you celebrate my being a colonial. And no, I won’t insist that everybody observe a “colonial month.”
When I was growing up, I was taught at both home and school that toleration is a good thing, and I still think it is. (I also think that active reconciliation among different groups of people is a very good thing, but that’s another op-ed.)
So please, all I ask is that you tolerate me for who I am: a colonial. Or, put more starkly, if you don’t like colonials like me, just get over it.
As we’d say when I was a teenager, like it or lump it.
There. I’m out. I’m a colonial. I’m proud of it. I’m here. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.
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