My Immigration Anniversary

Two weeks ago marked 42 years since my parents and I arrived in Canada.

On October 24, 1981, my small family arrived in Toronto to begin the next stage of our lives. My dad was 45, my mom was 37, and I was four. My mom left her parents behind in Russia, but otherwise we had no relatives closer than third cousins we hardly knew about. We arrived with two suitcases each—our entire worldly possessions. From that small acorn, my parents built a great oak of opportunity for me, for which I’ll be eternally grateful. Perhaps my favorite anecdote from the early days was when they went to a grocery store and, wanting to be frugal with the meager funds they were provided by HIAS (Jewish-immigrant aid) and the Canadian government, shopped for the cheapest meat. They were aghast that people here ate dogs and cats—not realizing that this was pet food, because who in Russia would’ve packaged food specifically for pets… I’m now the only Shapiro left from that landing party, but with my wonderful wife I’ve now created four more little Shaps. What a country! L’chaim!

In honor of that immigration-versary, I present to you a little synopsis of my life I wrote about a year ago, one that redounds with themes of immigrant striving, which was recently published in a volume called Libertarian Autobiographies. The book is stupidly expensive—I don’t understand the publishers’ business model that sells at these price points—but fascinating. I hope you enjoy my sliver of it. —IS