Until I was six, I didn't realize there was a difference between myself and anyone else. Race and colour were of no significance to me until one day when a classmate in Bradford, Ontario, asked me with a frown, Why are you so brown? My only logical explanation at the time was that I drank too much Hershey milk. That was when I slowly started to realize that maybe the image I saw in the mirror was different from other people. More negative experiences started to unfold then. While I spoke no language other than English until I was about nine, I was told by the school that I needed to take English-as-a-second-language (ESL) classes in Bradford. Of course, the only other people in my ESL class were a few black kids and a girl who spoke Portuguese. I didn't last long in the class-they quickly realized I didn't need it-but the fact that I was put there based on my colour stays with me-and scarred me. With that negativity began the journey of creating me.I am half Pakistani, a quarter Algerian, and a quarter Saudi Arabian, born and raised under the white and red maple leaf. My father is of Pakistani descent, while my mother is of Arabic descent: her father was the son of a religious scholar from the Islamic kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and her mother was the daughter of an Algerian who had fled French rule and eventually found his way to India.This complex ethnic identity has created its own problems. To many people, identity needs to be simplified; either you are Pakistani/Indian or you are Arab. It is difficult for some people-especially Pakistanis, in my experience-to accept that I am both. They respond with a predictable ferocity when I say I am part Arab: they breathe a surprised oh, as if this makes me a traitor or an automatic outsider.When I was eight, my father decided my siblings and I needed to be cultured, which resulted in a six-year trip to Pakistan. There, my identity took sharp turns. I thought I was going to my parent's country, to a place where I belong, but it was completely different. I take pride in being Pakistani-in the heritage, the culture, the clothes, the food, the language that my father and mother speak-but the lack of tolerance that people have for difference is something that shocked me and that I could never understand or appreciate. It made me take a step back. I was never allowed to belong in Pakistan. I was always treated like that Canadian kid who doesn't know anything about Islam. I would get the highest grade in Islamic studies, yet the teacher would question how I knew so much about my religion, not realizing that I read and questioned widely outside of class about Islam. I was always considered the quasi-Muslim who was westernized, repugnant, and on the wrong path. When I thought about these experiences on my return to Canada, it served to make me more attached to my Arab roots. I found myself wanting to be any other ethnicity that I could remotely legitimately claim. I didn't want to have anything to do with Pakistan and the way those people treated me differently.In Pakistan, I never felt a sense of belonging. But even among the Pakistanis in Canada, I feel like an outsider. There is always that oh when I say I am half Pakistani. Immediately, I feel an aura of exclusion and difference. With north Africans, I never experienced such an attitude of exclusion and difference. I am more attached to my north African roots, precisely because north Africans have never excluded me for being half Pakistani. It is perhaps not surprising that my fiance is north African, but it is a connection that I feel not only with him but with the hundreds of others that I have met throughout the years.In any event, the reality is that, aside from my ethnic background and the various allegiances I have to these countries in varying degrees-I call them soft spots-they are only stories I tell myself, and the stories that are told to me by my ancestors, my uncles, my aunts, and my mother and father. …