Geographic bigotry -- or the curse of the suburbs

The following is excerpted from the manuscript for a book I have just completed writing and am coming close to throwing caution to the winds (as soon as Wendy finishes editing, that is) and sending off to prospective publishers so that I can get some more rejection slips to stuff in an already overflowing drawer of the damn things. Anyway, ‘I’ am pleased with what I’ve done with it. The book concerns growing up in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby, and what happened when I first encountered geographic bias.

When I arrived on the University of BC campus, I was a bit of a rube, as much befitted a yokel from Burnaby. Candide-like, I would innocently tell fellow students of my provenance. They would regard me at first with some confusion, offer semi-polite nods, or assume a look reminiscent of the expression the Queen might sport if she had just stepped in Corgi leavings or had been forced, due to protocol, to take tea with Camilla.

Realization about the perceived shabbiness of my geographic origins finally struck me when I mastered the courage to invite a comely coed from one of my classes to coffee one fine October morning. As we sat in Brock Hall, which was the student union in those days, sipping coffee-like tar but savoring the world famous cinnamon buns, she enquired after my origins. Thinking nothing much about the question, and instead fantasizing about what she would look like devoid of that soft red angora sweater (my imagination told me she’d look splendid), I told her.

“Burnaby,” said I, all the while attempting to look suave, sophisticated and worldly. I rather wished at that moment I smoked a pipe and wore tweeds since, in the world of that day, I believed that both would have been effective panty-removers.

“Light that pipe, Big Boy, and off they come.”

But, at my mention of Burnaby, her eyes opened even wider than in their natural state (and they were quite large and beautiful eyes) and she appeared flustered and maybe a bit sweaty. She then began to gather her books to her exquisite and ample bosom and muttered something about having a class, before quickly exiting Brock. “Thanks for coffee,” she said over her shoulder, “We’ll do it again real soon.” I never saw her socially after that.

What had my gaffe been? I was young. I was callow. I didn’t have an experiential file with which to judge her odd behavior. But then, it came to me. It was after I had mentioned Burnaby that she paled and turned away from my company. I had put her in an untenable position. I had forced her to be seen being chatted up by somebody from Burnaby. She was, of course, from Kerrisdale – or Shaughnessy – or Southwest Marine – or British Properties. I was the bloke from Shepherd’s Bush trying to score with a Mayfair Miss. To score with such a person was unlikely, despite the myth of society being classless in North American context. Periodically there are high-end girls who like a bit of 'rough' but since I didn't have tattoos, I couldn't even qualify for that.

Of course the foregoing is full of hyperbole, and her disparaging tones weren’t quite as elaborate as I indicate, but the fact remained that a Burnaby origin offered very little cachet in the eyes of those who regarded themselves as among the Brahmins of the social order of the Lower Mainland. It is a ‘to the manor born’ bearing that those who emanate from certain neighbourhoods never lose. I have a very dear friend whom I’ve known for decades, and love dearly, but she has never wavered from her ‘Full Shaughnessy’ demeanor. In her case, it’s part of her charm.

Eventually I learned and I adjusted. The time came that whenever I was asked where I came from, I would point vaguely eastward, hoping they would think I originated somewhere in the vicinity of 41st and Dunbar – not the top end, but still a pretty decent address.