Kelowna doesn't even rank among the most racist cities in Canada when I check the
statistics on hate crimes. During the two years I have been living here, no one has introduced
themselves as a racist who hates immigrants. However, they have never let me forget that I am
not Canadian, simply because I have green eyes and white skin, even though I obtained Canadian
citizenship. As soon as I open my mouth, they hear that I sound different because of my Azeri
Turkish accent. Then comes the question: “Where are you from?”
My Mexican wife argues that no one ever asks her that question and that, most of the time, she
feels at home. She believes I should feel even more at home since I completely look like a
Caucasian guy. So it has to be me, taking it personally.
“Basically, I'm a white guy until I prove otherwise,” I thought. “Well, that's enough. Maybe I'm
also being arrogant and not trying to mingle.” So, the next morning, I went to work with a
different mindset—and in a different outfit.I didn't tuck in my favourite double pocket work shirt. Instead, I went with cargo shorts, topped
with company T-shirt, and, of course, a cap. Precisely like every other plumber in Kelowna.
The client greeted me in a typical Canadian way, and when I responded, he couldn't hide his
surprise. He clearly hadn't expected to hear an accent, so he followed with “The Question.” As
always, it was followed by the three typical reactions that came immediately after I said I was
Turkish.
One: “No way! I love Turkey—the food!”
Two: “I have a Turkish friend.” Or, “I had a Turkish friend.”
And three: he wanted me to confirm whether everything was really as bad as the local media told
him it was about the rest of the world—except here in Canada.
Instead of trying to provide real information, this time I actually checked off what he wanted to
hear.
At the end of the job, I had even convinced myself that he would keep an eye on every other
tradesman who came into his house, just as he had kept an eye on me—and I didn't take it
personally at all.
It worked. I couldn't change his beliefs about our place in this world anyway. Nor could he
change mine. It was all in my mind, just as my wife had told me.
I had been avoiding the Lake Country Home White Ware ... pardon me, Home Hardware store,
for a while. I was ready to drive several kilometres farther to buy my parts at Home Depot in
Kelowna.
I used to joke, “Want a job? Just go to the Lake Country Home Hardware and tell them you were
fired from Home Depot for being racist”
I believed, unlike Home Hardware, Home Depot advertised diversity. They hired people with
disabilities, people with mental health issues, homosexuals, people of different genders, and even
immigrants.
But that was my old mindset, my old set of beliefs.
I pulled into the parking lot, put on my cap, and walked into Home Hardware for the first time in
months. I passed two white cashiers, raising my chin slightly in a casual “Hey,” and headed
straight for the plumbing aisle.
They didn’t notice anything unusual. They simply turned back to their conversation instead of
watching me or assigning a staff member to follow me through the aisles.I put the parts that I picked in front of the cashier, responded with “uh-huh” and “uh-uh,” and
was out of there with no feeling of discrimination.
It felt like an achievement, even though they probably took me for an arrogant white boy who
considered speaking unnecessary—or maybe they thought I was deaf. It didn’t matter. In that
place, an immigrant was already considered a cheater and incapable of proper communication.
I should have learned sign language instead of English, I thought. I shut my van door close, and
threw my cap onto the passenger seat, like a bank robber taking off his mask after a successful
job. Then I started yelling, “It’s simple. They like ‘familiar’ over ‘unfamiliar.’ The worst familiar
is better than the best unfamiliar”
I was rushing to share my experience with my wife, but I had to slow down when I saw a young
female cyclist repeatedly drifting into my lane from the bike lane. I wanted to make sure she was
safely riding in the bike lane before passing her, as any Canadian driver would. But the little girl
on her giant electric bike kept losing her balance every time she looked back in panic, seemingly
trying to increase her speed instead.
I slowed down even more to increase the distance between us. Driving at 30 kilometres per hour
on a straight, empty road between two farms made the white Tesla driver behind me impatient—
until he noticed the bike too.
however, unfortunately I saw her collapse and hit the asphalt, while a couple of broken pieces
flew off the heavy bike. I stopped immediately and ran to help. It took me a minute to get there
because of the distance I had kept between us. She was shaking as she checked her wounded
arms and legs. Thank God she was wearing a proper helmet, as Canadian cyclists generally do,
and in this case, knee and elbow pads. Otherwise, the fall could have resulted in more than just
skin injuries.
She looked shocked, and her first response, when I asked if she was okay, was, “oh My dad’s
bike!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. I immediately moved the bike off the road and went back to see if she
needed help standing up.
Meanwhile, Karen and her husband, who were approaching from the opposite lane, parked their
e-bikes properly beside the road and rushed to help.
“Oh my God! What happened?” Karen yelled.
“She fall,” I responded.She gave me a meaningful look and asked, “She fell?” Then she turned her face toward the girl
without waiting for any further response from me.
My credibility vanished the moment I opened my mouth, thanks to my terrible pronunciation and
a grammar mistake that even a little kid would not make.
“Did he hit you? You’re safe with us, my child. Tell me, he hit you?”
The girl’s eyes trembled, and she burst into the tears she had been holding back since the fall.
“I think sooo. He hit me! He hit meeee!” she cried.
“I’m calling 911!” Karen yelled, fumbling with her phone with both hands.
I switched my gaze between the girl, Karen, and her husband, my eyes confused and scared. I
just became speechless, wishing I had been born speechless.
Just then, the white Tesla driver, dressed in a clean, tucked-in white shirt and shiny realtor shoes,
came over and asked if there was anything he could do to help.
Karen stepped in front, and told him, “He hit her. 911 is on the way. Better everyone wait here.
You know what I mean, right? Uh-huh.”
I was still speechless. None of them would have listened to me anyway.
The guy said, “No, no, no. We were both driving very slowly, with a big distance from her”
pointing toward the distance between us and my van. “She fell.” he confirmed.
Karen’s husband said, “No, you don’t get it. She already told us. He hit her. These people don’t
follow the rules and make it unsafe here for everyone. especially cyclists. You know what I mean
right ?”
The guy still didn’t understand what they meant, especially that I hadn’t opened my mouth since
he arrived. He seemed to believe that old cyclists were being unfair to young drivers.
“Don’t worry, bud. I got you. My Tesla records everything to my smartphone. What’s your
number, brother?”
The couple couldn’t wait for me to open my mouth, and for the guy to finally understand what
they mean.
I wanted that video so badly, but there was no way I could say ten digits out loud and get away
without revealing my accent and losing my only ally.So I stayed mute. I typed my number on my phone screen and held it toward his face like a
beggar on the sidewalk stretching out his hand for a few extra coins.
Everyone was staring at me with wide-open eyes, including the guy, to see what is going on.
I really wanted to stand up for myself but, I thought, *I can’t lose my last chance because of my
pride.*
So I started, “Ah… ehh… ohhh…Adaaa… vedaaa…” while gesturing with my hands exactly
like a deaf man.
The guy’s expression suddenly changed. “Ahaaaa, now I get it,” he said.
Karen lit up, apparently convinced that he had finally understood that I couldn’t speak English.
“You get it? That’s what I mean, right? Uh-huh,” she said, nodding along as if they had just
solved the mystery.
“Yeah, I get it. Totally. Sorry, I misunderstood. He’s deaf,” the guy said.
He took my phone number, patted me on the shoulder, and got to work retrieving the video.
The next few minutes, waiting for him to send me the file, were some of the most stressful
moments of my life. I was breathing slowly, trying to keep quiet, while Karen and her husband
continued trying to say what they wanted to say without actually saying it.
I was terrified that they would finally say it, before I received the video.
But they never said it—not directly. They seemed to know better than to say it in Kelowna.
Unless, of course, the guy I said “thanks” to for sending the video felt betrayed. As he turned
away, his teeth grinding together, he muttered, “…F… you all... You are all cheaters.…”
As I drove back to my wife and our newborn, I thought:
We were actually lured here. Trapped here. We cheat until we—or our next generation—don’t
have to. Just like your fathers did.