IT was one of those rare days when you wish you’d just stayed in bed . . . I had invested more than due diligence in writing a talk on workplace preparation that I was booked to deliver. But when the day finally arrived, everything seemed doomed to fail.
I arrived early at the venue where I was registered to speak on a panel, since the location (a historic church) was new to me. The organizer had given me a street address but no further details. I was aware that talks in this particular series recurred throughout the year, often without much organization. So I entered the door marked “public” (not the one marked “church”), intuiting that would be wisest: this was a weekday, secular presentation.
That was my first (and huge) mistake.
I found myself in a large and well-lit church hall with a rickety table and a few old metal chairs. No one was there. My watch now showed that the panel would start in 15 minutes. So I pushed further into the building to find the right room.
I tried all of the six doors available in the hall. All but one was locked. The only one that did open was a storage closet, stacked high with ramshackle furniture. In the same corner, I found one final door, marked in large and ominous black stencilling: “Danger: Do Not Enter.” The intensity of the sign (words and printing) made me stop and respect it.
(photo credit M. Nunzio)
Looking around desperately, I heard only crickets!
I tried to call the organizer on my smartphone, thinking that he’d given me the wrong address or at least could redirect my search. But he was out-of-the-office, leaving only voicemail.
By now, some 20 minutes had passed and still no one had appeared. I felt chilled, as it was a blustery, early winter day and the large hall wasn’t well-heated.
The only human I saw took the form of a caretaker—a dour-looking, wizened, old man–who entered the hall by the same doors I had used, picked up one of the chairs and exited the same way. He seemed skittish. When I shouted after him, the only response was the metal clank of the door closing behind him.
My anxiety had now risen to the point that I didn’t think to leave and instead try the “church” entrance. But, in an effort that some would have tried earlier, I tested the door marked “Danger.” I grabbed the handle, fearing the outcome. But to my surprise, the door gave way and I immediately felt a swoosh of warm air and heard the bustle of an administrative office.
“Do you need help?” inquired a middle-aged woman, who resembled a young Miss Marple. She seemed unaware that I’d just crossed a forbidden doorway. When I explained that I was trying to find a workplace preparation panel, her eyes widened and she pointed to a new room, saying: “Well, it’s just through there, dear. But you’re very late. They may soon be done!”
Exasperated, I rushed through the door and sure enough, the second speaker was well into her talk. Both she and the first panelist, neither of whom I’d met before, looked up and scowled. The first speaker whispered furiously to me: “We’re nearly done!” The audience of nearly 100 threw daggers with their eyes. My anxiety and anger started to morph into rage.
And then, in what seemed only a single breath, my turn came. I dropped everything except my notes and introduced myself, saying: “I’ve spent the last half-hour in an adjacent room, looking for you all and only found you moments ago—by crossing through a door marked as “Danger: Do Not Enter.”
Several in the audience gasped as I spoke and then nodded warmly back to me. Clearly I hadn’t been the first to “get lost” in this old and inhospitable space. But no one had changed the signage! I made a “throwaway” attempt at humour by saying I’d been trapped in a re-enactment of both the Chronicles of Narnia and Harry Potter.
Once my and others’ upset abated, my talk went very well. A full discussion followed. I grew calm enough to engage and noticed a high number of visible minorities in the room, some of whom could have been newcomers to Canada, years before, as my late father once was. (But I did make a mental note to update the organizer and the church administration that better signage and directions were urgently needed!)
Looking back on that ill-fated afternoon, I remember feeling as though I was a lone survivor in some gothic novel (or, as one of the speakers said, an episode of “Mr. Bean,” without the slapstick humour). The feeling that I was utterly alone in a strange and unwelcoming space was overwhelming.
That feeling must be like what newcomers endure when they first arrive in Canada—some without many (or any) contacts or context to help them. Even if they (and their papers) are prepared; even if they’re poised to start a business or take a job; they often get stuck in the preliminaries, sometimes finding no one to explain, much less, advise.
I felt some of the desperation newcomers describe, when they fear they’ll lose the right to stay in Canada, to build safe and productive lives for themselves and their families.
As an English-as-a-Second Language teacher (ESL), I’ve taught learners based all over the world, teaching them the language and cultural skills they need to unlock doors in inhospitable spaces.
And I encourage economic immigrants to keep trying to find the “right way” to build their lives in Canada. Sometimes, when every last option has been exhausted, they may have to take a risk by trying a door that forbids entry.
In the absence of support, wouldn’t the greater risk have been to return through the main door and go home, losing the opportunity to contribute? Or to wait, passively (in limbo), in the first empty hall where I’d been, where no progress would ever come?
Thankfully, a gateway through such impasses and obstacles can be found through clear and comprehensible English language skills.
As I tell my students, cultural and entrepreneurial values matter. And my purpose as an ESL instructor is to share both of those, while I teach “bread and butter” grammar, syntax and pronunciation skills (i.e. listening, speaking, reading and writing). My goal is to explain as part of my teaching. And then I refer them to legal and policy experts who can advise them on their immigration matters.
As the audience discussion that followed our wobbly panel that day, our communities benefit when outsiders bring their knowledge and questions.
I’ve taught local newcomers whose lives improve, as their language skills do—even though the doors they first found were locked.
The better their English language skills, the stronger their resilience to push through misadventures and overcome barriers to success. At a time when career-oriented, economic immigration to Saskatchewan (and to Canada, overall) is declining, I can attest to the inspiring nature of the lives and skills these newcomers share . . . .
But for now, I must run.
I have some doors to unlock and a few misleading signs to paint over.
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Are there economic immigrants in your circle who need to improve their English skills? Please let me know! I’d be delighted to hear from you.