On Monday, election day (which will forever more be known to me as "Black Monday"), I was heading north in a taxi with my mom following her late afternoon check up at a downtown medical building. Our cab driver was a bearded fellow who was wearing a white cap and one of those full length white robes. He looked a lot like this.
Had I seen him strolling on the street, I would have guessed that he was a recent--very recent--arrival, another immigrant/refugee come to avail himself of Canada's socialistic safety net and multiculturalism, our Trudeaupian social doctrine borne largely of white, leftist guilt.
"Where are you from?," asked my mom, who is apt to be ultra-friendly to service providers, and who, being in her eighties, lacks any sort of filter (think Bea Arthur's mother in The Golden Girls).
"I'm from Sri Lanka," he said.
"Sri Lanka," she repeated, "And how long have you been in Canada?
G'head. Guess how long he's been here. Six days? Six months? A year?
"I've been here 23 years," he said.
That's right. He's been here for going on a quarter century, and he's dressed exactly like he was the day he arrived from his homeland.
Back in 1992.
"Who are you voting for?" my mom went on (as I, cringing a little, sunk somewhat lower in my seat).
He was voting for Justin, son of Pierre (maestro of Canada's multicultist symphony), of course.
What--did you think he was going to give that anti-niqab "Islamophobe" Stephen Harper a tumble?
Don't be silly. Harper would have been much too "melting pot" for him. (And even down in the U.S.A., the melting pot doesn't melt all that well any more, as multiculturalism takes hold there, too.)