
I’m a middle-class child of immigrants. I’m told we were poor when my parents emigrated from Scotland to Canada in the 70s, but I don’t remember any of that. All I remember is a bucolic childhood where I was never in want for anything I needed.
Everything I wanted, however, was another matter entirely. You see, like most middle-class children of immigrants, my parents were born and raised working class. That means they were never quite comfortable in the new world they created for themselves. It also meant problems. I didn’t have the kind of problems they had. I didn’t have to fight every day in Glasgow’s slums like my father did, and I didn’t have to make my own meals at 13 because my single parent was on vacation again, as was the case with my mother. That doesn’t mean my problems weren’t problems, though. (more…)