The Immigrant Experience

The "Immigrant Experience"
That's what he called it
My friend who left this place
More than 5 years ago
Who'd give his left arm
To replant his roots
between the craggy rocks of this land
I never stopped to think
That this is what I am feeling,
That this melancholy I feel
When I look out over St. John's Harbour,
The sweet sadness which sweeps over me
Unexpectedly like a big wave
When you have your back turned to the shore
Can be described in some detached,
Textbook definition of human experience.

Why is it that every time
This immigrant
Fixes his arse
To the seat of plane bound for the mainland
he has to try to rewrite
The friggin' Ode to this place?
As I stare out over the wind-clawed and sea-lashed topography,
My heart swells with a tear-brimming pride,
My soul stirs with an aching awe.
I don't want to be friggin' bound for Toronto
But I ride the wind over the top of my homeland,
And I feel almost ashamed.
Because Newfoundlanders survive the weather
That's what we do
The weather can throw what it likes at us
We are grounded here
Like barnacles firmly fastened
to this rock
But like some thin, wispy westbound cloud,
Driven by a prevailing easterly,
I blow over this place,
Weeping my way to Upper Canada.

I am returning
From hosting my mainlander friend
Who is visiting the island
For the first time this summer
In search
Of her deceased father's Newfoundland heritage.
As I show her my land
She compliments me
On my pride in and knowledge of my culture.
This feels like hollow praise now
For the retreating immigrant.
Shouldn't that pride
Compel me to just plant it here
And make a go of it,
Put that pride and knowledge
To good use,
Stay here and fight to live,
To forge, knit or jig a living
From this land?

Michael Coady © 2005