LISA KAASTRA
Born in southwestern Ontario, Lisa Kaastra attended a small-town, Dutch Christian school with its own Tim Hortons and Canadian-infused experiences. After moving West to earn a B.A. in English and B. Ed. in elementary education, she now teaches junior high in rural Alberta, where she lives with her husband and baby girl. Despite the change in her cultural circles, Dutch boterkoek (butter cake) and Sunday soup still remain a part of what it means for her to be Canadian.
suddenly swung out from behind his back, holding an object towards the teacher. “I brought you coffee—double cream, no sugar.”
There was a pause. You could see Mrs. Beeksma silently debating in her head. “Oh very well, thank you, Zack,” she decided, reaching for the coffee cup as she ushered him to his seat. “We have a lot to get through today.”
I always wondered why teachers said that. It seems like we always have a lot to get through.
“Now I’m so excited for this year, and I want to start us off with a question.” She hardly skipped a beat while Zack slumped in his seat next to me.
“What does it mean for you to be Canadian?” Mrs. Beeksma finished with a flourish. Her eyes were bright and her arms outstretched as if blessing her students.
Zack’s hand shot up. “Actually, Mrs. B, we’ve thought about this before. In elementary school. We talked about beavers and snow and hockey and freedom and language, and I made a giant model of a Tim Hortons mug that held 14 cups of coffee.”
The rest of the class nodded their heads in agreement, as many of us had been in Zack’s elementary class. I’ve been hooked on coffee every since.
“Well…” Mrs. Beeksma was grasping for words to say—and to italicize. “Well, now you can think about it from the perspective of a mature, experienced student.” Double italicized. And she pronounced “mature” so the last part sounded like “tour”.
Suddenly our teacher’s eyes lit up, and she raised her arms. “Let’s brainstorm— that’s it! We’re going to take this deeper than elementary school. Think about who you are as a part of this nation and as one of its people. Think about identity. Think about citizenship. Think beyond the Tim Hortons mug!”
I’d never seen Mrs. Beeksma on a roll like this before. Her frenzied excitement was contagious, and little frizzy strands of hair were coming loose from the clip at the back of her head.
“Well, most of us have grandparents that came from somewhere else,” came an answer from the back. Brad Foreman. He wasn’t Dutch, but I couldn’t place the origin of his last name. What he said was true though.
“Very good!” Mrs. Beeksma nodded en- thusiastically. “Our immigration and multi-ethnic backgrounds are something very characteristic of Canada. How many different cultures do we have in this room?”
“Well, a lot of us are Dutch,” I said. I decided to stick my neck out and join the conversation. “But we should ask how many people here don’t have origins in the Netherlands.”
Mrs. Beeksma slowly nodded this time, not saying a word, but silently grinning. She looked over the classroom, raising her eyebrows in question. After a moment, about a third of the class raised their hands: a few Asians, a girl from India and a handful of those who were obviously of European descent.
“So what does it mean to be Canadian for you?” Mrs. Beeksma asked the question again, but this time it carried more weight. “You do realize that most schools in Canada aren’t usually characterized by this kind of demographic?”
I thought about tulips, coffee and beavers. I looked at my blond, blue-eyed classmates. Then I looked at those who weren’t. My fingers began tracing the title of the new textbook sitting on my desk. The room was silent.
Finally, I spoke up. “It’s not just about pieces of a multicultural puzzle,” I said. “It’s the fact that we can actually say that we’re Canadian—or Dutch, or Chinese or whatever. That’s being Canadian. We can be who we are.”
Mrs. Beeksma was still grinning as she leaned forward. But she didn’t say anything. I’d already said it. No more words need be italicized. ■