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Oh Canada, My Canada. Impressions of an Alien Son

by John Ronald (Pud) Smith

147 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0105; ISBN 1-55212-706-0; US$17.00, C$19.95, EUR14.00, £10.00

A collection of powerful vignettes that confront the ugly side of colonialism and racism in Canada.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts       catalogue info

About the Book This effort by an author with first-hand experience is a potent portrayal of British colonialism's effect on people from whom Canada was originally stolen by "uninvited English 'settlers', ruthless primitives who arrived with bibles, guns, greedy intentions, the British flag and disease." Superbly written, Oh Canada, My Canada. Impressions of an Alien Son provides an easy-to-digest and sometimes humorous perspective on the British colonial presence in the Canadian mind. Guaranteed to grab you and hold you, this material is insightful and inspirational. There's a great deal to learn about a systemically racist Canada that's been hiding all these years behind the lie of social equality.

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About the Author Throughout Mr. Smith's elementary and high school years in Canada the only competition for his involvement with the written word was sports. After serving in the U.S. military and working three years for the IBM Corporation in San Fransico, California, he landed on the campus at Wayne State University to study English (and little else). John Ronald (Pud) Smith possesses an extraordinary talent to communicate with the written word. His story-telling ability stems from a deeper understanding of the human spirit. Being raised in a drinking establishment/hotel provided awareness of the juxtaposition between 'doing' and 'being'. The writer's warmth, humor, wit and realism keep his reader immersed in the subject matter long after the reading is done. This book, which marries extraordinary writing skills to an intensely serious subject, has been written expressly to his "homefolks" and it reads like a personal message to them. When you read Oh Canada, My Canada. Impressions of an Alien Son you'll be opening yourself to a rare treat in North American literature. It will touch your heart, your spirit, and your mind. Mr. Smith, who lives with his two sons, currently arranges his time in Oregon, British Columbia and Central America to accommodate his appreciation of long sunny days wearing sandals, shorts and maybe a shirt.

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Sample Excerpt One

During the 1968 Russian intrusion into Czechoslovakia a wise man, responding to my outrage, explained without emotion that the Russians had invaded Czechoslovakia to maintain their balance of economic power. All I had seen was news footage of people under attack by military power and I couldn't get past that. To focus this ageless characteristic of relationship between nations he added, "Be absolutely certain that if Canada - which is merely an economic satellite of the United States - attempted to sever with the United States like the Czechs tried to cut off the Russians an American military force would be patrolling Canadian streets in the blink of an eye."

My mentor didn't mention (because our discussion occurred years before the event) that Canada appears now to be on track to partnership in the United States of North America, a process that looks like it's quietly moving along. The Free Trade Agreement, if you look down the road, just might be a precursor to the United States of North America. Combining American finance and technology with reasonable Mexican labor, plentiful Canadian natural resources and a population conditioned to lay down and roll over before foreign control seems to be a natural. It looks like the Canadian dollar's sliding apathetically into place already.

Excerpt Two

The nearby Salvation Army yard, a source of supply and adventure, was where the first authentic American bigot blended into my relationship with life. Looking back, it's not surprising that the first recognizable racist was American; Americans of that time were as bold with their racism as they were with their bombs and bullets. Canadians were decidedly different, operating so effectively with subtlety and denial that if you didn't have your ear to the tracks you wouldn't believe a train was coming.

We kids regarded Eddy contemptuously because Eddy had taken on the job of keeping us out of that coveted yard, which we prized for the reward of being able to make off with choice items before they reached the Salvation Army Thrift Store. Especially during the years after WWII when wives were making their returning hero husbands get rid of souvenirs that were for them reminders of a time they preferred to forget.

Eddy looked like an ostrich-necked thing you might see in children's illustrations. Wearing ponderous work boots, suspendered work britches, and one of those dull red cotton shirts, Eddy was different from what you'd normally see walking around a factory town like Windsor. His mouth ruminating on air, he drawled in a Deep South voice, "Ain' gon be no mo' Mista Nigga, ain' gon be no mo' Mista Coon. Nosuh. We gon hang 'im up with barbwire and kill 'im up gooood. Yessuh," and Eddy's jaundiced head would be bobbing like he was messed up on holy water.

We threw stones at Eddy, keeping a safe distance because the man could zing some rocks himself. We teased, taunted and mimicked him over the years, assuming he would forever be available for our sport. But then one day old Eddy died.

Excerpt Three

Summer ended and we reluctantly returned to school. This during a an era when the British flag -- the Union Jack -- flew from Canadian flagpoles and school children were programmed with British dogma administered mostly by pink-skinned boardbacks with inwardly puckered assholes. We called them "Sir," and it wasn't out of the ordinary for some of these unapproachable classroom monarchs to abuse pupils. That they did so with impunity seemed to me to be part of their mandate. One grade eight teacher, for example, a wordless wretch with pig jowls that sagged his face, was well known for his willingness to thump the back of a head with his hard cover text book, the man's substitute erection. Add to the equation an art teacher whose anger we were at the naked mercy of. This man had a bent for erupting into sudden maniacal rages and once the guy, who may have been in his thirties, grabbed Earl by the nape of his neck and hurled the kid forehead-first into the art room door. This in retaliation for Earl's reflexive "Ugh" to the teacher's repugnant art. The manual arts instructor got his jollies by beating the flesh of a boy's palms with the flat of a steel ruler. It seemed he saw this as a test of wills. The instructor would lay that steel across a palm with a smack that screamed pain until the kid cried or until his hands were so puffed and hurt he couldn't use them. This happened to me. I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, finally fleeing his class and pedaling home on my bike, steering with my forearms and crying. (Although my father complained to the school principal the teacher was shielded by that same disgusting code criminals, lawyers and cops use to cover their butts when they've wronged.) Lastly, include in that group a female who possessed a face that would have been lovelier than lilacs were it not for an inner ugliness that rendered her hard-featured and mannish. Because this beast that posed as a schoolteacher was so intimidating I literally dumped in my pants and sat in the stink rather than persist after she denied my request to be excused. This woman's passion shot to pleasure heaven when she strapped youngsters in a love-what-I'm-doing/hate-who-I'm-doing-it-to performance. She was so intense in punishing us that she'd raise up off both heels to get maximum leverage, puffing up in the cheeks and bringing her strap down with all the snort she could put into it. One time Earl, who seemed to exist in disfavor, snatched his hand back at just about mid stroke, causing the woman to deliver a resounding whack to her own thick thigh. The sound that fled that beast's lungs hit like a coyote in a cave, reverberating through hallways with an effect that caused doors that were closed to fly open and open doors to quickly shut.

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Catalogue Information

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