Seven

“You must be Colleen!” At my scholarship interview, a girl meets me outside the doors of the office building in downtown Edmonton. She is Barbie Christianson, a recent alumnus of the Lester B. Pearson United World College of the Pacific near Victoria, British Columbia.

Before telling me about herself, Barbie locks my hand into a death grip, then pumps it with all her might. My fingers are tingling by the time she’s finished shaking my hand. She looks like a Barbie doll – tall, thin, tanned. No makeup, blonde hair swept off her forehead and pulled into a single braid down her back. Barbie’s never had a pimple in her life, I can tell. My face, on the other hand, is a whole other story. It broke out the day of Sister Maria’s funeral. I’ve got a constellation of pimples across my chin and the North Star on the tip of my nose.

“Coffee, decaf or regular. Tea, juice, water. Help yourself,” says Barbie, as she leads me into the office lounge.

There are doughnuts and muffins on a coffee table in the centre of the room; a fruit tray, too, plus a plate covered in tiny triangular sandwiches arranged in a circle with sprigs of parsley for garnish and radishes carved into the shape of roses. The sight of food makes me nauseous. Mom and Dad and I stopped at McDonald’s for lunch. I only ate half a Big Mac, but I hardly got it down before I threw it up again. The taste of vomit still lingers in my throat.

Since Sister Maria’s funeral, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve hardly been sleeping at all, in fact, and I haven’t had much of an appetite. For the past few days, at suppertime, I’ve been staying in my room. When Mom and Dad knock on my door, I tell them that I’m not hungry. Sophie and Wes take turns bringing me snacks – licorice allsorts, chocolate chip cookies. My favourite potato chips. I just don’t feel like eating. I lie on my bed – on my back, on my stomach, on my side – trying to find a comfortable position. Trying to avoid looking at the boxes of Sister Maria’s music stacked up against the wall in my room.

Dad picked up the boxes from the convent. All of Sister Maria’s books and her sheet music, her record collection, her cassette and video tapes. Stacks of manuscript paper covered in her handwriting. He offered to store the boxes in the garage for the time being – until I feel ready to go through it all. But I couldn’t bear the thought of Sister Maria’s music lying in some dusty corner of the garage any more than I can bear to look at it in my room.

I want to believe that Sister Maria is with me, that she is watching over me while I sit in the waiting room, getting ready for my interview. I want to believe that she’s cheering me on, giving me courage to get through this morning. On my own, I don’t feel very brave.

At the far end of the lounge, a couple and their daughter are seated around a tv set and a vcr. Barbie tells me that they’re watching the latest uwc promo video, shot at various locations around the world.

“That’s Vanessa,” says Barbie, pointing to the daughter. “She’s a candidate, just like you!” Barbie smiles a flawless Barbie smile.

Vanessa waves to me from across the room.

“Super person,” Barbie whispers. “And super parents. Just super. So supportive! Are your parents parking their car or something?”

I nod.

Mom and Dad dropped me off so that they could hit a few malls with Sophie and Wes while I do my interview. We’re meeting at the Eaton Centre in two hours.

Barbie joins Vanessa’s parents as they finish watching the promo video. Vanessa bounces over to me.

“I’m, like, so glad,” says Vanessa, “that someone else decided to wear pants! I was, like, so worried that I was, you know, under-dressed or something!”

Vanessa is wearing cream-coloured silk slacks with gold threads woven into the fabric. Her blouse is gold-coloured silk with gold buttons. All of her accessories are gold. There are gold sandals on her feet, a gold bracelet on her wrist, a thick gold chain around her neck, and gold teardrop earrings on her ears. My pants wrinkled on the car-ride from St. Paul. I’ve got a small dark stain on the collar of my shirt where I dropped a piece of lettuce covered in Big Mac sauce. I want to tell Vanessa that she is, like, so full of it.

To get away from Vanessa, I wander toward the coffee urn. She follows.

“Oh my God. I, like, so admire you for drinking coffee now. I’m so nervous. Coffee would, like, totally put me over the edge.”

I try to block out the sound of Vanessa’s voice. Her man-nerisms might rub off on me. I take my coffee to a chair in the corner – a good place, I think, to tune my guitar, run through the words of the song I’m going to sing. I’ve brought a lyric sheet with me so that there is no repeat of my performance at Sister Maria’s funeral.

Vanessa is about to plop herself into a chair next to mine when her name is called. She gives a little yelp, her parents dash across the room to embrace her.

Vanessa says, “Oh my God!”

In unison, her parents say, “This is it!”

They hug, they kiss. They hug again.

I try to concentrate on opening my guitar case. But Vanessa runs over to me, giving my shoulder a poke.

“Wish me luck!”

“You, like, totally don’t need luck. You’re going to be, like, so awesome.”

It’s too late. She’s already rubbed off on me.

I’m about to take my guitar out of its case when another girl enters the lounge – another candidate, another set of parents. The girl looks like she’s ready to attend a wedding – hair pinned up in a French twist, long green dress, spiky green heels. Her parents are dressed no differently. The father wears a double-breasted suit, dark grey with a royal blue tie and a puff of royal blue in his breast pocket; the mother wears a matching royal blue suit, short and sleek, with dark grey gloves and a dark grey hat. Maybe it’s a good thing that my parents didn’t come with me. They drove to Edmonton today in shorts and t-shirts. My dad hates suits. My mother doesn’t own a hat.

This girl’s name is Caroline Thompson. Barbie leads her across the room to introduce us.

“Another musician!” says Barbie.

Caroline has a violin case in her hand.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Barbie says, “so that you can talk music! And uwcs!”

Caroline looks down at my guitar sitting in its case. The body of the guitar is covered with stickers – cfcw radio, Kehiwin First Nations, Jesus is Lord. It used to belong to an Indian guy, a gospel singer from Bonnyville. Dad bought it for me years ago at an auction sale when I first started talking about playing the guitar. Mom said that we shouldn’t spend too much money, in case I changed my mind. Dad paid forty dollars for the Jesus is Lord guitar. A few times, after they saw that I really was going to learn to play it, Mom and Dad offered to buy me a new one – a better one. But I love the sound of this guitar. I don’t care how beaten up it looks.

Caroline’s violin case is made of black leather. Several Air Canada luggage tags hang from the shoulder strap.

I snap my guitar case shut.

“So, you play the fiddle?” I ask.

I’m joking, of course. I can see that she plays the violin. I’m just making conversation.

“Violin,” says Caroline, correcting me. “I’m section leader for the Alberta Youth Orchestra and the Western Canadian Youth Orchestra. I also conduct two youth chamber groups and play in one professional chamber ensemble.”

I try very hard to be friendly. “Oh. Wow. That’s – wow. Doesn’t get much better than that, does it?”

“Actually, I’ve been invited to play with the International Youth Orchestra four times – once in Berlin, once in Moscow, once in Stockholm, once in Peking. This year, we’re meeting in Mexico City.”

Egomaniac, I think. Braggart.

“That must be exciting for you. Mexico City. What a change from Edmonton.”

“Actually, I’m from Calgary. But Mexico is a second home to me as well. My family and I spend our summers on the Yucatan Peninsula. I speak English, Spanish, and French. I’m in French immersion.”

Summers on the Yucatan Peninsula. I speak English, Spanish, and French.

How can I compete with her?

My stomach turns. I excuse myself politely from Caroline, then make my way to the bathroom as nonchalantly as possible. I have to throw up again.

Dry heaves. There’s nothing left to vomit. I should leave now, Mom was right. I don’t have a chance. I’m out of my league – way out. I press my face against the toilet bowl. Berlin, Moscow, Stockholm, Peking. I’ve hardly been out of Alberta, let alone overseas.

I’m still at the toilet bowl when Vanessa and her mother walk into the bathroom.

“Everything, Mom!” says Vanessa. “I could answer, like, everything they asked. They asked me a bunch of questions about multiculturalism and what is Canada and stuff – that was easy. Then there was this big question about crime and criminals and what I think of extradition and countries that use capital punishment and, like, you know how we had that debate on the death penalty in social studies last semester? Well I just recited, like, everything our team came up with and I’m just totally sure it was exactly what they wanted to hear, you know, about the sanctity of human life and the futility of an-eye-for-an-eye and all that. It was a total dream interview. A total dream.”

As Vanessa and her mother slip into their respective bathroom stalls, I slip out of the bathroom altogether. I’m going to grab my guitar from the lounge and run. We’ve never talked about capital punishment in our social studies class. Extradition? I have no clue what the word means.

Barbie meets me in the corridor outside the bathroom.

“You’re up next!” she says, handing my guitar to me. “You’ve only got twenty minutes with them. Make every word count.”

I feel dizzy.

“Don’t worry, though!” Barbie puts her arm around me and squeezes. “Just relax and be yourself! The committee will call on you when they’re ready.”

Barbie joins Vanessa’s Dad and Caroline’s parents and Caroline on the other side of the room. Caroline is in the centre of the group talking about herself. She’s describing her volunteer work with aids victims and homeless teenagers and heroine addicts. Are there heroine addicts in St. Paul? I’ve volunteered at bingos for the Ukrainian dance club, to raise money for our trips to festivals. That’s it, the extent of my volunteer work. Bingo.

The interview room is long and rectangular; it’s decorated in pastel colours. A pastel blue carpet, pastel blue and pink chairs – high-backed, plush chairs that swivel – and pastel pink vertical blinds on the windows. Hanging on one wall is a pastel pink print of coral and seashells and, on the other wall, a matching pastel blue print of the ocean. The room is filled with a long rectangular table, and faces. Six faces, six people, each with a pastel pink name tag. Tim Van Leuwen, the committee chairperson, extends his hand. He’s balding. The top of his head, I notice, is pale pink. It matches the decor.

Tim takes me around the table, introducing me to the other committee members one by one.

J.J. Bowers, physiotherapist, University of Alberta Hospital. Pacific College Alumnus.

Craig Jefferson, Immigration Canada. Pacific College Alumnus.

Gena Fontaine, Alberta Teachers’ Association. Pacific College Alumnus.

Heinrich Bauer, Bauer, Franke, and Associates. Atlantic College Alumnus.

Fiona Clarke, Director of Marketing, peta. Atlantic College Alumnus.

Three women, three men. The committee is perfectly symmetrical. They even sit symmetrically – boy girl, boy girl, boy girl. Half have attended the Pacific uwc in British Columbia, the other half, the Atlantic College in Wales. There are no alumni of the Adriatic uwc in Italy or the College of the American West in New Mexico. No representative from the Southeast Asia uwc in Singapore. No one from the Southern Africa uwc in Swaziland. What a disappointment. I wanted to ask questions about the college in Africa.

There is no small talk. The committee goes straight into the questions.

“It’s standard procedure,” says Tim, “for us to begin by asking each candidate to explain his or her response to question 32.2(d) on the United World Colleges application form.”

Question 32.2(d)?

Craig takes a turn at speaking. “In your case, Colleen, we’re particularly interested in the way you chose to answer 32.2(d).”

Craig has short, spiky hair. He’s tanned, broad-shouldered. Well-built. The opposite of Tim, with his shiny head and his scrawny neck and his white-blue complexion.

I try to visualize the application form – 32.2(d), 32.2(d). It’s been two months since I filled out the application.

“I don’t quite recall question 32.2(d). Could you refresh my memory, please?”

Tim and Craig exchange glances. This, I think, is a test. A test of my memory. And I’m failing.

Tim clears his throat. “The question asked that you rank the colleges from one to six according to your personal preferences: one being your first choice, six being your last. On your application” – he sighs as he sifts through a stack of papers – “you failed to rank the colleges altogether.”

Tim pushes my application toward me; I pick it up, my hands shaking. My response to question 32.2(d) has been highlighted in bright yellow.

I remember now, of course. Instead of ranking the colleges, I simply marked my first choice. I circled the college in southern Africa. I drew tiny stars all around it. I placed an enormous number one beside the words Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa.

“We would be less than honest,” says Craig, “if we didn’t communicate to you the degree to which your application form – particularly, your response to question 32.2(d) – stands out as unusual among the other candidates’ application forms.”

“All of our other applicants completed the question as asked,” says Tim.

“That is to say,” says Craig, “they ranked the colleges from one to six.”

“And almost entirely without exception,” says Tim, “they relegated Waterford Kamhlaba to the bottom of their list.”

Craig interrupts. “You should know, Colleen, that we don’t – as a rule – send students on scholarship to Swaziland. I imagine that – given your obvious interest in Waterford Kamhlaba – it must be disappointing for you to hear this now. Perhaps your guidance counsellor or your teacher – whoever passed the application on to you – perhaps that person wasn’t aware of our policy?”

“The region is too volatile,” says Heinrich, the lawyer on the committee. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms behind his head. “Political upheaval, civil unrest. Violence. With the potential dismantling of the apartheid regime by militant black factions and makeshift guerrilla groups, it’s simply not in the best interest of our committee –”

“– or our candidates,” Craig says, interrupting him –

“– to involve ourselves with the college in southern Africa. It’s too dangerous.”

Craig cuts in again. “Safety,” he says. “The safety of our students is our number one priority.”

For a moment, nobody speaks.

“You don’t know that it’s not safe,” I say.

“Pardon?” says Tim.

“You don’t know that it’s not safe. You don’t really know what’s going on in South Africa. How could you? You haven’t been there and you haven’t sent any students there.”

The more I talk, the more assertive I become. My hands stop trembling, my stomach settles. It’s like being onstage, like a performance.

“All you know is what you read in the newspapers, and what you hear on tv. Do you believe everything the media tell you? I don’t. The media are in business. Selling papers, high ratings – that’s their business. They sensationalize everything. I don’t trust them. I want to know what’s really going on in the world. I want to see apartheid first-hand. If you’re worried about the danger, give me a waiver. Something that says the committee won’t be held responsible for any harm that might come to me. I’ll sign it. I’ll sign it right now.”

“What we’re asking,” says Heinrich, ignoring my little speech, “is that you select another college.”

“Keeping in mind,” Tim adds, “that Waterford Kamhlaba is really out of the question.”

For a split second, I think back to a conversation that I had with Mr. Kaushal, about the colleges. A week or so before Sister Maria died.

“I’ve read about the other colleges,” I say, “and they all sound wonderful. Don’t get me wrong. They sound beautiful. The campuses in New Mexico and Wales are both built around castles. The college in Victoria is surrounded by the ocean. But I’ve also read in your scholarship literature that when scholarship recipients have completed their year at a United World College, they’re obliged to return to their communities to share what they’ve learned from the United World College experience.”

I’m not sure if this is the right or the wrong thing to say. Probably it’s the wrong thing. I keep talking, though. I can’t stop now.

I tell the committee that Waterford Kamhlaba interests me because it was the first multi-racial school in southern Africa. It was designed to challenge the apartheid system, to show young people that it’s possible for individuals of all races to live and learn and work together. And the apartheid system – the system that forces black people to live in homelands – was modelled on Canadian Indian reserves.

Mr. Kaushal told me this.

“My hometown is St. Paul. And St. Paul is surrounded by five reserves. Saddle Lake, Frog Lake, Kehiwin. Good Fish, Fishing Lake. We’ve got our own apartheid happening right here, right now. It seems to me that if South Africa learned about apartheid from us, who’s to say that we can’t learn from South Africa how to dismantle it?”

Now I’m sure that I’ve said the wrong thing. The committee members are all writing in their notepads. I’ve insulted them by saying that Canada is like South Africa.

“Thank you,” says Tim, pursing his lips. “I think that’s enough. We can move on to the next question. Gena?”

Gena’s hair is curly and red, her face is pale and freckled. She says, “If a – if a Swazi student, let’s say, were to ask you what it means to be Canadian, what would you say?”

I pause, wondering how I should answer. Mr. Kaushal and I didn’t talk about what it means to be Canadian. But Sister Maria and I did. I showed her a song, once, that I sang in my elementary school choir, and we had a good laugh together about all the clichés that the songwriter had packed into it.

Finish this sentence, says Gena. “My country, Canada, is –”

Canada is fresh maple syrup

Canada is red-coated Mounties

Canada is the boreal beaver

And the bison and the loon

Without thinking, I recite lines from the choir song. I should stop myself before I go any further. I don’t think that I’ve ever tasted real maple syrup. We buy Aunt Jemima’s, it’s cheaper. And the rcmp only wear red on special occasions. I’m sure the committee members know a cliché when they hear one.

Canada is the Rocky Mountains

Canada is the northern tundra

Canada is Niagara Falls

And the Great Lakes and the plains

Tim tries to interrupt me. I ignore him. I’m on a roll, making up my own lines to the song. It’s like I’m reliving my conversation with Sister Maria, and the memory of her laughing makes me smile while I come up with a new verse.

Canada is the Maritime miner

Canada is the Calgary oilman

Canada is the Saskatchewan farmer

And the West Coast –

“Great,” says Tim. “That’s great. Let’s move on. We’ve got to keep our eye on the clock. J.J.? You go ahead.”

Damn it. I’m not finished. I wanted to say something about the Québécois language and Hibernia and the midnight sun in the Northwest Territories.

“As Tim mentioned,” J.J. says, “I’m a physiotherapist at the University Hospital in Edmonton. My primary interest is in body consciousness: healthy eating, physical fitness, active lifestyles.”

It doesn’t look to me as though J.J. is interested in healthy eating. It doesn’t look like she’s interested in eating at all. The skin on her face is stretched tight across her cheekbones and eye sockets. She wears a sleeveless shirt so I can see her arms, thin and sinewy, blue-green veins bulging down the length of her forearms and across the backs of her hands. I think she’s overdone it with the physical fitness and the active lifestyle. She looks anorexic.

“I’d like you to elaborate on your involvement in sports. Team sports and individual sports.”

I could lie. I probably should. Make something up about running, aerobics. Volleyball, tennis, badminton. I could play the part, pretend that I’m a jock. J.J. would never know the difference, I’m not wearing a sleeveless shirt. But what if they send me to a jock college? I’ve heard that the college in Victoria specializes in water sports like sailing and swimming and ocean kayaking. They do rock climbing in Wales, cricket in Singapore. I’d never make it at one of those colleges.

“I have to be honest. I’m not really one for sports, organized or individual. In fact. No. That’s an understatement. I hate sports. I always have.”

J.J. gasps. The other committee members lift their pencils off their notepads. They’ve probably never seen a candidate make so many mistakes in one interview. I have to be myself, though. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not.

“I’ve never tried out for the school volleyball team, basketball team, track team. Never played after-school sports, like softball or soccer. Wait – no – that’s not true. My parents signed me up for T-Ball one year.”

“You know the game, right?” I ask. “It’s sort of a tiny tots’ version of softball.”

Gena nods. Craig nods.

“The coach never played me. He said that I wasn’t aggressive enough.” I pause. “For t-Ball.”

“So, I suppose that set a precedent in my life. Ten years of phys. ed. classes and not once – ever – did I break a sweat. Never. I don’t think it makes me a bad person, really. Sports just aren’t for everyone, and that’s all right, in my opinion. For me, it’s the competition that I can’t stand. I mean – imagine. We’re playing floor hockey in phys. ed. and my best friend is the goaltender on the other team. Now, why would I want to go and score on her? She’s my best friend. I’m not going to shoot at my best friend. Or, let’s say, my best friend is on the other team, and she’s playing left wing and she loves to score. Scoring means everything to her – and she’s good at it, too. Why not pass her the puck and let her score? Scoring doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

J.J. looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.

“You’re telling me,” she says, “that you have never engaged in any cardiovascular activity? You’ve never worked out? You’ve never – perspired?”

“Oh no. No. I’ve perspired lots of times – just not in phys. ed. In Ukrainian dancing I used to get completely drenched. I Ukrainian danced twice a week, all my life. It’s a pretty good workout. But, technically speaking, Ukrainian dancing isn’t a sport. You asked me about sports.”

I try not to look smug.

J.J. turns to Fiona, shaking her head. “Your witness,” she says.

Fiona says, “I want to pick up on something that you mentioned when you were talking about Canada. You talked about the beaver in relation to Canada. You know, many of our students – past and present – are actively involved in the protection of endangered animal species. A lot of us are strict vegetarians. I’ve personally made a career of animal rights, working with peta, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”

I look around the room at the other committee members. Gena has set her pencil down; Heinrich and Craig have crossed their arms over their chests. Tim interrupts Fiona, asking if she could perhaps get to her question.

“Could you tell us about your interest in and your experiences with animal rights activism?” says Fiona.

“Animal rights activism,” I repeat. “That’s a tough one.”

It is a tough one. Mr. Kaushal and I have had an ongoing argument about animal rights. Fiona is on his side. She wants to hear that I volunteer at the spca with abused pets, that I write letters protesting the sale of ivory. That I spray paint on rich women’s fur coats. I don’t think that I can do it – play into her hand, tell her what she wants to hear. I can’t and I won’t.

“I’ll be straight with you,” I say. “I grew up on a farm. I’m fairly pragmatic about killing animals.”

“Pragmatic?” Fiona raises her eyebrows.

“I’m all for animal rights. I really am. I think senseless cruelty to animals is awful. But – take gophers, for example. They spell trouble for farmers. Gophers are big-time pests. They destroy crops; cows break legs because of gopher holes. They can’t be allowed to live. Not in large numbers anyway.”

“And farmers’ fields are more important than animal habitats?”

“Let me put it this way. If I had to choose between human life and animal life, I’d choose humans. Think about lab animals. Mice, rats, rabbits. Scientists need to use them in their research, to make medical advances. If we need to sacrifice a few rats to save human lives, so be it.”

I explain, then, that some animal rights activists seem to be selective about the animal lives that they fight for. “Mice and rabbits are cute, so they deserve to live. Cows are ugly, so they deserve to die. Where’s the logic?”

“By my logic,” says Fiona, “all animals have the right to live. I’m against the killing of all animals, so-called ‘ugly’ cows included. We could feed entire villages with the amount of grain that a single cow eats. How do you respond to that?”

I shift in my seat. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Is there not,” she says, “something inherently wrong – something inherently cruel – about the ways in which we privilege livestock industries over human life?”

“But killing itself isn’t necessarily cruel.”

Fiona stares me straight in the eye as I repeat a story that I once told Mr. Kaushal when I was arguing with him about cruelty to animals. It’s a true story.

“Have you ever taken a walk in the bush in northern Alberta in the spring? I have. My dad took me on a walk in the bush near our farm once in the spring. And we found fourteen half-rotten deer carcasses, all around the same spot, their undersides all red and raw and bloody. Dad says that we’re over-populated with deer. So when there’s not enough food for them in the winter, in the bush, they head out to farmers’ fields to get at the grain under the snow. Except that there’s this hard, icy crust over the fields and it scrapes the fur off their bellies. They don’t usually get to the point of starvation. They freeze to death first, bleed to death sometimes.”

“So you would support – culling, I suppose,” says Fiona, “as distinct from killing.”

“Exactly. I come from a hunting family. My dad and my brother Wes hunt. We all grew up on deer meat. Deer meat and moose meat, sometimes elk meat. We’ve got freezers full of wild meat. There’s a friend of my dad’s at Saddle Lake – one of the reserves by St. Paul – and he takes the hides and the antlers. We use everything except the guts. Dad leaves the guts for the coyotes. I don’t think it’s cruel, I think it’s natural.”

I’m feeling smug now. Like I’ve won the argument after all.

“And your dad,” says Fiona. “Does he keep the heads of the animals he kills for trophies? Or the antlers perhaps?”

I feel the blood drain from my face, and then rush up again to my cheeks. I look down at my hands, wishing I could crawl under the table.

“Not always,” I say.

“But sometimes?”

I clear my throat. “Sometimes.”

“So there is an element of sport to it, you might say.”

“You might say.”

“It’s not simply a matter of putting food on the table.”

I nod, miserably. Now I’ve really done it. I should have lied. I’ve done it now.

Tim says that we’re going to run out of time if we don’t get to Heinrich’s question. Thank God. He asks Fiona if she has anything to add. She keeps her head down as she furiously makes notes on the paper in front of her.

“Nothing to add,” says Fiona, glancing up at me, smiling.

“For the final portion of the interview,” says Heinrich, handing me a piece of paper, “we want you to look at these three questions. Take a minute. Read through the questions carefully. Choose the question that you feel best prepared to answer.”

I start to read the questions.

1. Should Canada extradite criminals to countries for which the death penalty is law?

There it is. The word. Extradite. From the context of the sentence, I can figure out what it means: export, deport – force to leave, basically. I don’t think that the committee actually cares much about the extradition issue. They want to know my feelings about capital punishment. Which is a touchy subject. And I’ve had enough of touchy subjects. I think that I’d better stay away from question one.

“Whenever you’re ready,” says Heinrich.

2. Give a brief explanation of the Meech Lake Accord and the controversy surrounding Meech Lake in contemporary Canadian political affairs.

Meech Lake. It’s been in the papers. Mr. Kaushal and I haven’t gotten around to talking about it, though. Meech Lake, I think, has something to do with Quebec – or is it Native people? Maybe both, I can’t be sure. It’s probably best to stay away from Meech Lake altogether.

“All set?” says Heinrich, drumming his fingers on the table.

I shake my head. I think he’s enjoying this, watching me squirm.

3. Define genocide. Provide an example. What punishment, in your opinion, is appropriate for perpetrators of genocidal crimes?

This could be the one. Genocide is mass murder. Example: World War II, Hitler. The Jews. Simple. But what about the punishment? If I bring up “an eye for an eye,” then I’m opening the discussion to capital punishment again – and I don’t want to go there.

I try to think of a better example of genocide, one that won’t lead to the death penalty issue. The Beothuck in Newfoundland. Perfect. Their genocide happened so long ago that there’s no one left to punish anymore. Punishment is a non-issue. It’s just a terrible tragedy, a horrific chapter in Canadian history. The End.

And if someone on the committee asks me for details about the Beothuck people? I know that they lived in Newfoundland. Or New Brunswick. Nova Scotia maybe? They were killed in the 1800s, I know that. Or maybe in the 1700s. Who killed them? I wonder. The French or the English?

“Anytime now!” says Heinrich.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll take the genocide question, number three.”

Still unsure of how to proceed, I swivel back and forth – left to right – in my chair. My foot bumps up against the guitar case beside me. My guitar. I’d forgotten about it. I brought it along with me, I really should do something with it.

“Genocide is the wholesale annihilation of a group of people for religious or political reasons. The Jews in World War II, for instance – well, Hitler’s campaign against them, I should say – that’s genocide. Or the Beothuck people of – of eastern Canada, who were wiped out completely by the – um – European invaders. That’s genocide.”

I reach down to my guitar case, lift out my guitar.

“Actually,” I continue, “all Native peoples in Canada and the United States were victims of genocide. They still are victims – when you think about it – of an ongoing genocide, really.”

Then I start plucking broken minor chords. One long A-minor arpeggio, one long D-minor arpeggio – brief E7 and back to A-minor. The chord progression is melancholy, plaintive. Mournful.

“It’s not that we’re murdering First Nations people outright. No, of course not. We’re more subtle than that. We’re perpetrators of a sort of cultural genocide.”

“Yes,” says Tim. “It’s like apartheid. You made that point earlier.”

I’m repeating myself. Oh dear.

As I pluck the guitar strings, trying desperately to think of something else to say without looking panicked, it strikes me that the A-minor, D-minor, E7 progression is the chord structure of a hundred Ukrainian songs. I’m an expert on Ukrainian people.

“Then again,” I say, “cultural genocide in Canada takes different forms; it comes in different degrees. My own family – my people, the Ukrainians – we’ve experienced our own persecution over the last century. Culturally, I mean.”

I change from plucking to strumming – softly, still – the same chord progression.

“When my parents and my aunts and my uncles were young, in the thirties and forties, they weren’t permitted to speak Ukrainian at school. The teacher expected them to speak English but most of them didn’t know how. They spoke Ukrainian at home. The teacher strapped them at school when they spoke Ukrainian; the other kids called them names. My parents and their generation, they grew up ashamed of who they were, and of who their parents were. Ashamed of their food, their religion – everything. Their whole way of life. So they raised us to be English, thinking we wouldn’t have to be ashamed, then. They gave us English names. They hardly ever spoke to us in Ukrainian.”

For a moment, I stop playing my guitar. I haven’t thought through what I’m saying but I have to keep on.

“We’ve all taken Ukrainian dancing lessons. My sister, my brother, me. At Easter time, we make pysanky. Ukrainian was even offered as a second language at school, for a while. Sometimes, though, I think – so what? I can’t talk to my grandparents. They only speak Ukrainian. I can’t read Ukrainian books, or Ukrainian poetry, or Ukrainian newspapers, or Ukrainian magazines.”

“If I had more time,” I continue, “then maybe I would tell you about my friend. Her name is – her name was Sister Maria, and she was my piano teacher. I can’t tell you about all of the things she taught me, even when we were just talking, or listening to music together, or having a cup of tea. But I can tell you about one thing. Sister Maria had a project that was always on her mind. She was trying to collect music that was written by a group of Ukrainian composers. Composers who were killed because of what they believed in – like Dmytro Bortniansky, and Lev Revutsky. Mykola Lysenko, Kyrylo Stetsenko, Vasyl Barvinsky.”

“So that’s one kind of genocide right there. Sister Maria told me how horrible it was. They were murdered, or they died in concentration camps, or they killed themselves. A lot of their music was destroyed. Only – you see, I think there’s more to it than that. Because, like I said, I’m Ukrainian. But until Sister Maria told me about these composers, I didn’t know that they existed. I’d never heard of them. They’re part of my history, and my parents’ history, and my grandparents’ history. Why didn’t any of us know their stories? It’s as though the worst genocide of all isn’t killing people, it’s taking away their history.”

I start strumming again and this time I sing along. I sing Vichnaia Pam’iat just like I sang it for Sister Maria. The same words, over and over again. The same melody, slow and sombre and dark. It’s a repeat performance after all, though I’m singing alone this time. The committee members are silent while I sing. Craig nods in time with the music, Gena wipes her eyes.

When I’ve finished the song, when my guitar strings have stopped ringing, I look around the room at all the committee members.

“Do you know what the words mean?” I ask.

Tim shakes his head. J.J. drops her eyes. Heinrich says, “No.”

“Vichnaia pam’iat means everlasting memory. Memory everlasting. It’s a song for the dead, for a funeral. At least, that’s what my mother tells me. I can sing dozens of Ukrainian songs because I memorize them phonetically. The funny thing is, though, if you were to ask me what the words mean, I couldn’t tell you.”

I put my guitar back into its case.

“And I don’t know how we’d punish people for that kind of genocide. I don’t know where we’d begin.”

The interview ends with another round of hand-shaking – “thank you’s” and “goodbye’s” and “good luck’s.” As Tim escorts me to the door of the interview room, he says that the committee will make their decision within the next fourteen days. Successful candidates will be contacted by phone; others will receive letters in the mail.

I think I’ll be getting a letter.

Waiting for the elevator to take me to the main floor of the office building, I hear Caroline warming up on her violin. She plays scales first, then arpeggios, then part of a piece – a concerto, probably – filled with sixteenth notes runs and trills.

The elevator doors open. A father and his son – another candidate – emerge, both in suits and ties and shiny shoes. I wish the son luck as I get into the elevator.

“Break a leg!” I say, before the doors close.

As the elevator takes me to the ground floor, I look up, wondering if Sister Maria can see me now. I think she can.

Maybe it doesn’t matter so much that I screwed up the interview. At least I taught the people in the room something that they didn’t know before.

And I learned something, too. Since Sister Maria died, I haven’t talked about her to anyone. I haven’t been able to say her name without breaking down. Until today, that is. It felt so good to tell the committee about her – even if I didn’t have time to say much; even though I couldn’t tell them her whole story.

I’m beginning to think that Sister Maria is still here. She’s gone, but she hasn’t left. She’s just with me in a different way now. It’s going to take some getting used to, and it’s going to be hard. Remembering her makes my heart ache. Forgetting would be easier. I’ll take it one step at a time.

I said her name today.

That’s a start.