Sara Jewell - Field Notes: A City Girls Search for Heart and Home in Rural Nova Scotia

One Hundred Thousand Welcomes

W hen I was twenty-six years old and newly married, I left Ontario and moved to Vancouver. It was the mid-nineties, before the new millennium, before the internet was part of our daily lives, and before there was even caller ID. I quickly found work as a radio newscaster. When Swissair 111 crashed into the ocean off the coast of Nova Scotia in 1997, I remember feeling far more connected to the event than anyone else in my circle of friends.

We had the usual busy lives of twentysomethings living in a city: finishing grad school, starting careers, getting married, buying homes, meeting new people through work, play, and parties. One unique detail bonded us together: most of us had arrived on the west coast from somewhere else. Some came from as close as Kamloops and others as far away as Truro. Perhaps a handful were born and raised in Vancouver, but most of us were come-from-aways. It didnt seem to matter to anyone since Vancouver was a young citycosmopolitan, temperate, and easygoing. It was a place people chose to move to.

So, where are you from? was the go-to opening line for any conversation.

Ten years later and four time zones to the east, its a whole different world: older, more established, and deeply rooted. For a region that celebrates its Scottish and British roots and can claim a geological affiliation with Africa, it seems its inhabitants take the question of where you are from very seriously, as if they are waiting to stick one of those red-ended tacks into the spot on the map of Atlantic Canada where you were born.

On the east coast, the first question always seems to be, Who are your parents? because in the Maritimes, its assumed you were lucky enough to be born and raised here. With that assumption underlying all greetings, what matters isnt where you came from but who you came from: it is your family name that places you and gives your existence context. Who are your parents? and the subsequent answer is considered almost as essential as food, shelter and, you know, oxygen.

I have to admit, its a habit that both intrigues and discomfits me. Im not the type to ask personal questions of someone Ive just met, nor does it occur to me to want to know who someones parents are. I can appreciate, however, that meeting me might frustrate the average Maritimer; with my mysterious past, no one knows immediately where (or who) I came from. I may have married into a local family with deep roots but when someone asks, Who was she before she married Dwayne? the answer will be, Sara Jewell, or worse: I dont know. Since my birth name wont ring a bell, the next question must be, Well, who were her parents? The answer to that is, Reg and Lynda Jewell, or worse: I dont know.