I consider myself fortunate in having had a happy childhood. I lived
and grew up in the Regent Park area of Cabbagetown in the City of
Toronto.
In the 1940`s this area was heavily populated with immigrant
Macedonian families. They liked to live in close proximity to St. Georges
Macedonian Church located on the corner of Regent Street and Sutton
Avenue.

My Father was an immigrant from the village of Oshchima in Macedonia. My Irish born Mother an immigrant also, became fluent in the Macedonian language. As a result of this and her gentle and modest nature, she was respected and embraced by the Macedonian community.
Our family was considered as Macedonian not only by them, but our fellow Canadians as well. Like most children of immigrant parents born in Canada we understood our Fathers native tongue. However when spoken to by relatives or older neighbors we invariably answered in English. This seemed to upset the older people.
This fact is the introduction to my story, of when I thought my name was Drvo.

Each day near the corner of Sackville and Sydenham Streets, on my way to Park Public School, I passed an old woman from my Father's village. She spoke to me in her native language, never once did I hear her speak in English.
Her greeting to me was always the same. “Sho priesh Oshchimetz”
Literally this meant how are you doing descendant from my village Oshchima
I would politely answer in English “Fine thank you”. This scene was enacted going as well as coming from school .Daily, weekly monthly,
A Macedonian greeting responded to in English.

One day she must have been in a bad mood. After her greeting and my response she shouted at me, “Drvo ti neh ouchish ili govori Makedonska yazeek” (Woodenhead, you are not learning or speaking the Macedonian language”)
Now one of my problems with being half Macedonian was the idea that I only needed to know half the words. I did not catch on to the meaning of the word Drvo.
Wondering what I had done to provoke that outburst I quickly continued on to school.

On my return from school I hoped she would not be sitting outside on the porch as usual, weather permitting. It seemed to me this older woman didn`t have anything else to do but to wait for me. I wondered why she could not be busy around the house, as my mother and the other neighborhood women were.
As I approached she greeted me with a strange smile almost a grin and a new greeting “Sho priesh Drvo” ( wood , thick, dense I did not realize she placed me in the last two categories) I was thankful she was still not mad at me. Respectful as usual I answered “Fine thank you”. And so Drvo became my greeting from then on.
After a while it came to me, Drvo must be my name in Macedonian.
She obviously was making up to me after that uncharacteristic outburst.
Drvo eh! She smiled so sweetly I began to realize she was grinning each time she greeted me.
Well it didn`t sound too bad a name, it had a certain solidity to it. Yes sir
That’s me Drvo, Drvo, Drvo hey I was starting to like my name.

Wanting to impress my parents with my growing command of the language I said to them “Yas sym Drvo” (I am wood) that`s my name, that’s who I am.
After much laughter at my expense, I said why are you laughing, they asked where did you hear that. Who told you your name was Drvo?
I explained that the Stara Baba (old woman) from your village, she calls me that .Again more laughter. They said Drvo means wood, but in my case it she probably means you are a wooden head, slow mentally or at least thick ( in the Irish sense). Warning me never to be impolite to her, they sent me on my way with smiles on their faces obviously enjoying this cultural interplay,

As I stated earlier there were some problems with being half Macedonian, this was a case in point. Although I was only eight years old I was feeling some thing I had never felt before. Was it the Irish half or the Macedonian half or a combination of them both? I wanted to get back at her. Imagine an old lady putting one over on a smart and in this case a Canadian boy having two ethnics to draw from.
I went to a Canadian born Macedonian friend by the name of Lenny Doncheff. Certain that he would not laugh at me I felt that he would help me. Telling him my story I asked what is my name in Macedonian? This friend with the face of a saint, not a trace of guile on it, leaned close to me. Looking from side to side to ensure us absolute privacy, he said your name is Magareh. (Read here donkey)
Never believing this friend was a born actor (which he turned out to be) his face and manner revealing only concern for me his buddy, I left.
I repeated my name over and over again, Magareh, Magareh, Magareh.

With the beginning of a plan forming in my mind, I headed home after school. I would show that Stara Baba from the old country that she would not get the best of a boy from this new country. Not this boy anyway. Strangely both halves of my ethnic thirsted for a payback.
Slowly with purpose and resolve I walked up the street toward what I was beginning to think of as a cultural battlefield where she was sure to be waiting for me.( Where was all this martial language and thought coming from?)
Turning onto Sackville Street I saw her. Poor woman she doesn`t know whom she is dealing with. All the stories my Father told me of the old country did not go in one ear and out the other. No sir. They went in one ear and then turned down deep into my soul.
I was steeped in stories of wars, occupations, bandits, rogues and heroes.
I knew the heroes by name and legend. This woman is not aware that
Even at eight years old I am a warrior. She has forgotten that I am of the seed of Phillip and Alexander. I come from Macedonian warrior stock.
Ready and able to do battle even cultural battle.

With these thoughts churning in my breast and not my head I walked steadily onward. Was that the Gaida (Macedonian bagpipe) I could hear playing somewhere inside me? I did not know at that time a soldier should never plan from his breast but only the head. Onward and at her greeting her private joke would be private no more.
She said “Sho priesh Drvo”
I drew myself up to my full height of nearly four feet. I turned to the field of what was to be a cultural linguistic battle.
I bet if Phillip or Alexander or Gotze Delchev a leader in the Macedonian uprising could see me now, they would choose me as a boy soldier or cadet.
With a loud voice and pointing to my chest for emphasis I spoke
“Yas sym neh Drvo moeto ime es Magareh “ ( I am not wooden head
My name is donkey)

I waited for the shock to register in her eyes when she realized she was beaten at her own game.
Instead she clutched her head to her knees and began to sob! My heart began to beat quickly. My head began to pound, my feet seemed nailed to the sidewalk. I was paralyzed with fear, what had I done? I never meant for her to cry. Well I would meet Drvo in a close and personal way when my Father hears of this. I began to fear the consequences of entering into this cultural war fare.
THEN! Loud raucous laughter came welling up from deep inside of her.
The sounds I first heard were not sobs, the very opposite. Her body shook as wave after wave of laughter poured out of her. Neighbors glanced over to see what was so humorous; children stopped playing to find the reason for an adult to laugh so hard.

I could not move. Were my feet indeed stuck to the sidewalk? Instead of the smile of victory I wore the face of confusion. My moment of triumph was swallowed up in disbelief. Holding the porch railing for support from the effects of such deep laughter, she struggled to her feet.
She said “Dete TI neh Drvo ili TI neh Magareh, Ti ci Budalla, bega doma da speeish” (Boy you are not a wooden head nor are you a donkey you are a fool, simpleton, ass, booby, nincompoop moron) take your pick (flee, run home go to sleep) I understood every word she laughingly said as her words stripped the cultural armour from me piece by piece and left me culturally naked, unarmed and speechless as she turned and went inside her home. Of course no one would hear of this encounter not from me anyway.
Was this not a familiar scene in the annals of war when the conqueror dismisses the conquered? I left the field of battle, not as those warriors “who say I am alive I shall fight another day” No sir, not for me, I know when I am defeated. I went home an eight year old boy, not a small warrior. I sure knew what Budalla meant; me the Moron.
Why had the spirit of Phillip and Alexander let me down? Why had the spirit of the Ilidendentse and Gotze Delchev not given me their cunning? Why didn't they warn me I might be going into an ambush?
Why did not any of their cunning pass down to me?
And why did my friend with the angelic face con me in so easily?
Why? Why? Why? These thoughts followed me all the way home.

The next day I started going up Sackville Street away from the Stara Baba`s doorstep then along Saint Davids Street and into the school grounds thereby avoiding the old Baba. Every once in a while my Mother or Father would say the Stara Baba was asking about you, she said she was so pleased at my mastery of the language. Are you speaking to her in Macedonian they would ask?
No! I would say! I realized by sending these remarks that she was keeping our encounter private between her and I but nonetheless still laughing at me. One thing I did notice, she was not always sitting on the porch as she used to. Then as is the case with young people things pass quickly and she seemed to pass out of my thoughts.

Years later when I was an adult I passed the house where the old woman used to sit on the porch waiting for me, or so it seemed. She was not there of course.
I wished I could hear her say “Sho priesh Drvo” once again. Did I hurt her feelings by going to school a different way? I stopped, as memory kicked in here at the very spot of our cultural or should I say linguistic exchange.
I wished she were there. I would kiss her on both of her cheeks as is the custom. I would tell her I now know why she was upset with me.
I would tell her she was right to do so.
She was fearful as so many immigrant people are that the youth will lose the language and forget their heritage, or worse be ashamed of it.
It was language which kept the Macedonian people distinct from all others of theBalkans.
Never Baba will we forget. If a child has Macedonian blood no matter where they are born or what language they speak in the land of their birth, in their heart and mind they are of Macedonian descent and proud of it.
As a matter of fact dear Baba, I have taught myself to read and write in the Macedonian language.
I now know my name is notDrvo, Magareh or even Budalla
My name is Edward Spero Thompson,I am a proud Canadian, I love the Macedonian language and I am proud of my Macedonian heritage.
My thoughts are always for the blessing of Macedonia and the Macedonian people everywhere.
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