The Border Down The Middle Of My Pants
I was born on a border, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t know anything. I was a baby. I wish I had some memories or stories to tell you, to make my story more real to you, but I remember nothing. It’s barely real to me, just a set of photographs, some stories, and paperwork. I was born in Canada and so I am Canadian. I had nothing to do with this at all.
I am also Sri Lankan, but this has even less to do with me. I am Sri Lankan through my father, and only my father, because the law at the time only allowed men to pass citizenship. I am Sri Lankan by descent, something I cannot possibly remember or effect because it, by definition, has nothing to do with me.
In that sense, I’m an apple that fell far from the tree. Still an apple and also, apparently, an orange.
So I just am. I am Canadian and I am Sri Lanka. This combination is well nigh pointless except for one thing. I can see borders. Because one runs through me. Most people cannot. More than mountains, more than rivers, more even than oceans, these are the hardest divisions in the world today. You can stretch a piece of paper across them, but without that they are more hostile than the roughest sea.
