Lost or stolen identity

At check-in at the airport, the Air Canada lady said to me, "You don't sound like you're from Liverpool." I looked at her apologetically, shrugged and said by way of excuse because I felt like I owed her an explanation, "I haven't lived there in 10 years." She answered, "Oh," as if to say, What an odd person you are. Or maybe she just meant, Oh right dear, now move along will you, we haven't got all day.

The thing is, I've got a hybrid accent - I speak English with a Canadian lilt, and French with both a Parisian and a Quebececois lilt. People never know where I'm from. Because I don't exactly look like an English rose either. But the question is, do I know where I'm from?

Lots of people that live abroad face this dilemma. Is their new home their home or do they still pine after their old home, making special trips to English shops to stock up on Ready Brek and clotted cream whenever they can?

I'm happy with my life in Montreal. I guess I would call myself a Montrealer, if hesitantly. And that's after 7 years. But there are still things that make me seem displaced to others and to myself. There's my accent, then certain cultural references, sometimes sense of humour, and quite simply not having family and friends around me that shared my past.

I prefer to think of the glass as half full as opposed to half empty, so I don't call my English identity my lost identity; I call my three quarter Montreal status my adopted identity.

At the other end of the spectrum, however, there's the stolen identity.

While I was waiting for my connection flight at Heathrow, I discreetly observed a rather strange couple. The woman seemed to be alone, but then was occasionally joined by an older man with a generous beer gut. They stood near each other, close enough for you to wonder if they were together, but far enough apart to think that it was random because she just looked vacant and he barely spoke two words to her.

When we landed I saw them exiting the airport with what looked like a friend of the guy's. The two men were chatting, the older man pulling a suitcase, while the other man walked empty-handed. The woman walked slightly behind them, struggling with her case and completely ignored by the men.

I couldn't help assuming she was a Filipino mail-order bride. She may have a better life in England but at what cost? Here was a beautiful woman that was obviously with someone that neither appreciated nor understood her. Her identity had been bought. And her glass was well and truly empty.