I am Not an Imigrant Blog Post

I was born in rural Nova Scotia. My roots run deep into Canadian soil—deeper than the Trans-Canada Highway, deeper than Confederation itself. Yet here in the Greater Toronto Area, where I now call home, I'm asked the same question over and over: "Where are you from?"

"Canada," I answer.

The response is always the same: a puzzled look, a slight tilt of the head.  The follow-up that makes my jaw clench: "No, where are you really from? Where were your parents born?"

It happens all too often. A woman with a thick accent, and fancy jewelry actually had the audacity to ask for clarification, as if my Canadianness was somehow incomplete, somehow fraudulent.

Let me be crystal clear: I am not an immigrant.

Stories That Span Generations

Both of my grandmothers lived well into their nineties. They would tell me stories of walking to their own grandmothers' houses. Stories that stretch back through generations of Black Canadians who built lives, raised families, and contributed to this country long before it was even called Canada.

These weren't tales of recent arrival or adaptation to a new homeland. These were stories of home. Of belonging. Of roots that run so deep they've become part of the very foundation of this nation.

My grandmothers' stories are proof of something that too many Canadians don't realize: Black people didn't all arrive here yesterday or in the 70’s. We didn't all come through Pier 21 clutching documents and dreams of a better life. We've been here all along.

The Assumption That Erases History

Every time someone asks me where I'm "really" from, they're not just questioning my identity—they're erasing centuries of Black Canadian history. They're ignoring the Black Loyalists who arrived in Nova Scotia in the 1780s. They're forgetting the Underground Railroad conductors and passengers who made Canada their permanent home. They're dismissing the Black pioneers who farmed the prairies, or the porters who built the railway. They are discounting the families who weathered the harsh Maritime winters for multiple generations.

When you assume that every Black person is an immigrant, you're rewriting our story. You're suggesting that we don't belong here, that we're perpetual outsiders in the only country many of us have ever known.

From the CN Tower to Every Corner of Canada

Sometimes I want to climb to the top of the CN Tower and shout at the top of my lungs: "All Black people are not immigrants! Black people were in Canada long before the country was founded!"

Maybe I will, through this blog, through every post I write, through art and positive imagery that shows the full spectrum of Black Canadian experience. Our stories deserve to be told. Our history deserves to be known. Our belonging deserves to be recognized.

Reclaiming Our Narrative

I am Canadian. Full stop. No qualifiers needed. No additional explanations required.

I am the descendant of people who survived slavery, discrimination, and displacement to build something beautiful and lasting in this country. I am the product of generations of resilience, strength, and unwavering determination to call Canada home.

How Canadian I am isn't up for debate. I don’t like hockey or maple syrup. It's not conditional on the approval of strangers in grocery stores or the assumptions of well-meaning but misguided neighbors. It's a birthright, earned through the struggles and triumphs of those who came before me.

To every Black Canadian who has been asked where they're "really" from: you belong here. Your story is Canadian history. Your presence is not an anomaly, it's a continuation of a legacy that predates this country itself.

We are not immigrants. We are home.

This is the first of what I hope will be many posts celebrating Black Canadian identity, history, and belonging. Our stories matter. Our voices matter. Our place in this country's past, present, and future is undeniable.