Where do I come from?

A few days ago as I was leaving the grocery store, the guy at the entrance who checks your bill to make sure you didn't steal the entire cart of groceries you are trying to force out the front doors of the supermarket, stamped my bill and said, have a nice day. And when I answered him in my splendido hebrew, he innocently asked me the ultimate existential question: Where did you come from?

I don't think he meant it to be an existential question and my first reaction was to say "Canada." Well, I did come from Canada. However, after I put all my groceries into the car and started to drive away, it struck me that that was a really simplistic answer.

Where did I come from?

Well, for the first 18 years of my so-called life I saw myself strictly as a Cape Bretoner. Not a Nova Scotian -- that would have been too broad a definition and the rest of the province seemed like an unnecessary extension of my island (when in fact, it was the exact opposite). I definitely not see myself as a Canadian -- the concept of Canada was just too big and it had nothing to do with my day-to-day life.

For all intents and purposes I was a 100% born and bred Cape Bretoner -- and that was a great source of pride and identity for me. If I had one regret, it was that my ancestors were neither native Cape Bretoners nor of Scottish descent. And in Sydney, where I grew up, many people referred to us as "your people" ... that meant Jewish in polite Cape Breton terms.

Overall, I had no complaints. Other than a few colourful anti-semitic moments, it was a great childhood and I only have good memories.

When I left home to go to university at 18, I moved to Hamilton, Ontario. I lived there for four years but never once felt like a Hamiltonian. I did, however, like Hamilton, because, like Sydney, it was a steel town and I was comfortable among the steelworking public.

After Hamilton I moved to Syracuse, New York and after a year and a half there I still felt like an alien. Americans and Canadians may share a very long and open border, but trust me when I say that Americans are nothing like Canadians -- and definitely nothing like Cape Bretoners. While I made some wonderful friends there, I could never have imagined my life south of the 49th parallel. Nope. Never. Yeesh. So much so that I ended up back in Hamilton armed with a master's degree and I went to work for one of the steel companies. And while I loved Hamilton, I never saw myself there long term.

Next, I moved to Toronto. I lived there so long that you would think that I eventually connected with the city. Well, it never happened. After 15 years in that city, I still couldn't wait to leave it.

One thing that did occur during all those years out of Cape Breton is that eventually I saw myself more as an Ontarian, with a hint of Canadian stuck in for show. I slowly lost most of my Cape Breton accent (notice that I said "most") and became a big city chick.

Then came the pivotal point in my life -- at 40 -- that my Israel-born, Toronto-raised husband decided that we should pack up and move to Israel. Without repeating all the details, I was less-than-thrilled-but-willing-to-be-cooperative. Fast forward eight years and as you all know, I love living here. So much so that I dislike traveling to Canada for anything ... except perhaps a quick trip to Walmart.

I really do believe that this is the best place in the world to be Jewish. And my Jewish self hates to be anywhere else. The problem is that this has caused a gigantic identity crisis for me. I didn't know that until my most recent trip to Cape Breton for my father's gravestone unveiling. The people who were there are the people I have known all of my life. They knew me from day one and most of them knew my parents years before they knew each other. These people are my roots. There are many things that I do not have to explain to them; we have the same shared experience -- particularly the Jewish ones because it is a tricky balancing act to be a Jew in the non-Jewish wilderness.

All of which brings me to my existential crisis. Where do I come from? Honestly, I don't think I could answer that question even if I wanted to. And I really do want to. All I can come up with is that I come from a little bit of many places and a lot of none.