I live in a city renowned for its ethnic and cultural diversity. My apartment building stands as a testament to this diversity and inclusivity. In the basement units, Black, Indian, and Arab tenants reside, while on the first floor, white Canadian families, and I, live. The two floors above mine are home to Asians, Latinos, and Arabs from various countries. 

In the last twenty years, Montreal has seen a constant influx of immigrants, averaging over 30,000 annually, except during the pandemic years when it dropped to about 27,657. According to the 2021 census, at least 30% of Montreal’s population belongs to visible minority groups. I moved here over 15 years ago from Mexico, a country where diversity is less common. To put it differently, there is less representation of white Caucasian, Middle Eastern, Asian and Black people in the Mexican population. Interestingly, Mexico doesn’t collect census data on ethnicity. 

Growing up in a southern state, I rarely saw individuals of any of the ethnicities mentioned above. Our understanding of people from different cultural and ethnic backgrounds was largely shaped by mainstream media. I recall encountering Black people at the Seventh Day Adventist Church hospital near my home, primarily due to the American staff who worked there. White people were more common; where from? Go figure it out! They’d be tourists, businesspeople, oil and gas operations employees, diplomats and artists for the most part.  

Bigotry, prejudice, and bias were pervasive in a country where ethnic discrimination had deep colonial roots. Indigenous people, the most highly represented ethnic category in Mexico, often bore the brunt of discrimination. Even within my own home, I heard countless jokes, stories, and expressions of discrimination from my parents. These expressions, while generally subtle, carried the seeds of otherness, ignorance, and intolerance. 

One day, my mother visited me in Montreal, brightening up my solitary life with her presence. My family’s culture, rooted in Southern Mexican tradition, provided a welcome connection to my origins. My mother is a strong figure in our family, a true matriarch, as was her mother, Doña Lusha. In our culture, mothers have the final say, or at least they pretend to. Deviating from their desires can lead to a small-scale, but impactful, family crisis. 

After a satisfying dinner reminiscent of Grandma Lusha’s cooking, my mother and I embarked on our customary post-dinner walk through the charming neighbourhood in Montreal’s West Island, where I live. Taking in all the scenery that Montreal’s suburbia can offer. As the golden hour bathed everything in a warm, gentle glow, we shared stories of our lives. Walking up the hill road next to the church, catching the last oblique rays of sunlight as they hit the landscape ahead of us. We continued past the graveyard and the library, and then into the straight path that goes through the park, all the way back to where we started, which is the Depanneur in front of my place (that’s how convenience stores are called in Quebec’s French). It was during this walk that a disagreement erupted. 

Curious about how my mother had spent her day while I was at work, I asked her to spill the beans. She delved into the epic tale of her connection with my old man. They are inseparable. They’ve accumulated nearly half a century of marital bliss, and have already reached that point in the life of a seasoned couple, where nothing can destroy them, except maybe separation!  She mentioned visiting the church across the street, which is when she had decided to cook Grandma’s recipe, a meal I nearly had all the ingredients for. She only needed a couple of items from the store on the opposite corner of the street. 

During previous visits, she had struck up a rapport with the store clerk, Habib, who had opened a tab for her. Habib mentioned he knew me and assured her that she could take anything she needed. My mother referred to Habib as the “ash-skinned little gentleman,” a term that made me wince. I gently pointed out that such language was inappropriate. 

A heated argument ensued, but my mother sly and skillful as she is, eventually turned the tables, and I was taken aback. I will spare you the nitty-gritty, but what had started as a picture-perfect stroll with my mother, almost spiraled into a shitshow. Tears were shed for added dramatic effect. To de-escalate the situation, I threw in a curveball: “Mom, I love you, but let’s address the fact that racialized comments are a no-go.” I reminded her that I am also an immigrant and part of a minority group in my community, which seemed to cast things in a new light for her. The silence that followed allowed us, like magic, to reset our connection.

The golden evening had cooled our tempers and helped us reconnect in a loving way. We both realized that challenging our old patterns was essential, even within our own family. “Hey, it’s never too late to switch things up and level up in life,” I suggested. I shared my pride in her accomplishments and her remarkable journey. That’s when I realized our argument had been ongoing without letup almost since we left my place over one hour prior. We had come to the initial point of our promenade after doing an entire circuit through and around the park, and we had now started a new, different circuit, which we were walking… holding hands.