At St. John’s College Residence

[Continued from “Winterpeg“. This is the last post under “Coming to the New World … America“. Shows how language misalignment and unfamiliarity with culture could be viewed with a mindset that could be totally unrelated. Reaching out and willing to lean will tear down inaccurate perceptions.]

In my first day in Winnipeg, I was getting myself situated as a full time student at the University of Manitoba, and finding a place to live in. There were several accommodation options on and off campus. I was looking for the closest building to the University where I could walk door-to-door with the least exposure to the climate I’m not accustomed to, while staying within my scholarship budget. 

St. John’s College Residence seemed to meet these requirements, but I wasn’t sure how would the life in the seminary residence would be. I didn’t know if religious services at the dorm would cause me being in a state of discomfort. I visited the place before signing up the application to check it out. It looked cozy, quite, three meals served, and it had vacant rooms. Therefore, I decided to move in, be observant of the life style, and don’t involve in activities that does not comply with my faith.  I started, for the first time, a bachelor life away from my parents home, in a strange land, and in a different culture.  

It wasn’t too long before what I was concerned about happened. In the first few days of my stay, as I was leaving the residence, inhaling the fresh cold air, impressed by the healthy, bacteria and flies free air, I found my legs flying above and I’m in free fall for a fraction of a second. I slipped on ice! Ouch… The concrete pavement blew a kiss on my right thigh. I felt its passion through my hip joint… Sensational… 

As time went by, I started to know people around me. Everyone was minding his/her own business. Students came from different social classes, as it showed up in they way they dress and the material of their clothing. However, one thing was common among all; they were friendly people indeed, as Manitoba car license plates advertise, “Friendly Manitoba”. Contrary to my impression about life in a seminary dorm, I found it more liberal than conservative. The atmosphere changes on Fridays and sometime Saturdays. The students party at the college basement’s multipurpose room; I wasn’t part of this activity. Music is played, and students drink alcoholic beverages. It got some students to a drunken state, to the point that some would not lift themselves up and would vomit in the residence corridor.

One time, the guy who used to party till he drops stopped me (I’ll refer to him as Mike). His room wasn’t far from mine, and apparently he is coming from an affluent family. He said “Father Doug (I heard it Father Dog) is meeting with the residents in his suite this evening, and wants all to attend.” My eyes opened wide, and I was hardly able to suppress my laughter, thinking in my mind about “Father Dog!” I was surprised Mike was talking seriously with no signs on his face. I though, may be it is the way church servants name themselves as indication of humility to God. In the  Middle East, there was a father by the name of Mathew the Poor (Amtta Al-Meskeen). So, I thought that probably this is the custom among clergies to name themselves as such to show religiosity? I have to respect that, and I tried to control myself as I was asking him back. “Who is Father Dog?” He said, “It’s Father Doug,” the person responsible for residence operation. I noticed he pronounced the name different from the way I said it. I tried to imitate his pronunciation. I said, “Father Doag,” He said, “Doug.” I said, “Daug.” He said, “Never mind,” and continued, “We’re bringing donuts.” “Donuts!” surprised again. Thinking min my mind “Oh…this must be a religious ceremony. I saw it once in a church in Egypt. The priest puts a chip like thing in the mouth of the faithful, and they drink holy water from a cup. The flesh and blood of Christ.” My stomach was upset. I felt being forced to follow a religious practice that is not part of my beliefs, because I’m a resident in the seminary dorms. Trying to find the best word to convey to Mike to be excused from attending, “You know, I’m from a different religion. I’m a Muslim and we don’t do this. You go ahead, I’ll pass.” He replied, “Don’t worry, it has nothing to do with religion, you’ll be fine.” 

Few minuets before the meeting time, I stood up with other student in front of the suite door. The sign at the door read “Father Doug,” It is not Dog, as I thought, it must be abbreviation for Douglas. We knocked at the door. My heart was pumping and forehead was sweating, as to what I’m entering into, and will be behind the door. I was thinking about church seating, organ music, and the procession to the priest to put the donuts in the students’ mouth. 

It was few moments that seemed too long of a wait, before the door opened to find Father Doug appeared. An Anglo-Saxon man in his thirties, with shaved beard and golden wavy hair welcomed us in. He was wearing a black clergy shirt with a white piece showing up in its collar. On top of it was a regular jacket, and black slacks underneath. I was anxious to see what is behind him in the room. When I entered in, to my recollection, it was a spacious room with a wooden floor, carpet on top, tables placed within, and an office desk. I started to relax but was a bit overtaken with what is going to happen next; the ceremony of administering the donuts. What I’m going to do then. The crowd was waiting for the donuts to arrive along with the rest of the male residents, to commence the evening. Here they come… A big box with chocolate colored cover was placed on the coffee table at the center of the area. The box was open, and students were invited to pick a donut each. I wanted to know what’s inside, from far, to determine what I should do. As I started to see what is coming out of it, it looked somehow similar to some pastry we have in Egypt. It was not threatening, as I initially thought. By the time the box came to me, my resolve was set. I grabbed one, and put it under test. 

I took the first bite and felt the energy moving through my veins to my brain and limbs. The softness of the dough, and the sweetness of the mix was a treat. After that, I wasn’t paying much attention to what is going on in the meeting; I was looking at the donuts box waiting for the second donut to melt in my mouth.

Surprised continued, sweet and sour, as time went by and got exposed to different cultures and the environment. From -43 to +43 Degrees C in six month; from a winter that seemed to never end to a summer that seemed would last forever; from Tim Horton’s sweet and soft donuts to the spicy hot fruit salad served by the Indian community in Ramadan breakfast.