CFA, or “come from away,” is an East Coast term given to anyone not born on the East Coast. Prince Edward Island takes it one step further and bestows the moniker to anyone not born on the Island itself. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve lived there or what great contributions you might have made to the province; if your first breath was not of island air, then a CFA you’ll always be.
My parents were born and raised on PEI but moved away shortly after they were married, making me a first-generation CFA. They were killed in a car accident when I was eight and the Island that had only ever been “the place where Grandma lives” became my home. Whether it was out of pity for my orphan status or respect for my grandmother, I had no idea I came with a label. It wasn’t until I started high school that my name took on the notorious post-nominal initials.
At first it was only a few whispers. Then one of the older boys came up with the idea to adapt the Styx song “Come Sail Away” to “Come from Away” and took to singing the musical refrain, “Come from away, Come from away, So get away from me,” whenever he was in my vicinity. I was a sullen child who grew into an even more sullen teenager. If I had allowed myself any sense of humour, I likely would have appreciated his cleverness or even recognized that the attention he was paying me was a ruse to get me to notice him rather than the cruel torment I took it to be. I knew the only reason I was on the island was because of an unspeakable loss. I blamed everyone, rejected any offerings of friendship or comfort, and saw to it that my high school years were miserable for all.
Mercifully, but by no means quickly, I outgrew my hatred of the world and everyone in it. But standing at the base of the steps of Niagara-on-the-Lake’s Niagara District Secondary School, known familiarly as NDSS, I could hear the ghosts of my past start in with, “I’ve come from away …” and every fibre in my being told me to run.
“Ms. James?” A male voice called a halt to my escape.
I looked up to see a large man weaving an easy descent against a sea of oncoming students. No small feat given his size. The man was huge in every sense of the word, and when he finally reached me at the foot of the stairs, I had to shield my eyes against the sun to meet his gaze.
“Ms. James?” he asked again.
“Bella. Please.”
“Gerald Harvey,” he said, extending a hand that completely swallowed my own. “I’m the principal here. I’m afraid … um … I understand you were supposed to meet Al Macie.”
“Yes, when I spoke with him on the phone, he said he’d meet me in front of the school.”
Principal Harvey surveyed the students, nodding greetings and offering smiles. He did so with tremendous effort, however. Only an expert in pretending everything is fine when it’s not would be able to pick up on it and unfortunately for him, I was one such expert.
“Mr. Harvey, is everything all right?”
He looked at me and revved up his smile. “Just a busy morning. But know we’re very happy to have you here, Ms. James. Bella. This is a wonderful opportunity for our students,” he said, referring to the pilot project the Shaw Festival was running in cooperation with the school.
In addition to offering world-class theatre, the Festival offered workshops to both teachers and students throughout the school year and an acting intensive during the summer. This season the Festival was trying out an Artist-in-the-Classroom program as a possible extension of its already successful education series. Company members in various disciplines—design, acting, dance, and directing—would work in the classroom alongside a teacher at the school as a means of enhancing the arts program. I’d been paired with Al Macie.
“Mr. Macie told me his students are very excited. I’m looking forward to meeting them,” I said as convincingly as possible.
If truth be told, I had come aboard this project kicking and screaming. I was in no rush to relive any of the high school experience, even if I had some semblance of authority behind me this time. Then there was the question of scheduling. Unlike my previous season at the Festival where I had opened my first show before my second even went into rehearsal, this season had me rehearsing two shows simultaneously. The addition of two mornings every week at the school for an eight-week period had sent me into a full-on panic.
“Yes, the students are thrilled about having Emma Samuel as one of their mentors,” Principal Harvey said.
“I should have guessed,” I said, laughing.
Detective Emma Samuel was a role I’d played on the TV series Port Authority for many years and, in spite of the critical acclaim I had garnered on stage at the Shaw Festival during the previous season, everyone saw Detective Samuel when they looked at me.
An awkward silence fell over us.
“So, shall I wait here for Mr. Macie or—”
“Ms. James, we’ve had a little … um … There’s been … Perhaps you’d just better come with me.”