I grew up in a small southwestern Ontario city. My mom was born and raised there and, in his late twenties, my dad had made the journey down from an even smaller Quebec town, to find himself a job. He found a job and a wife – my mom – and never left.

My hometown was predominantly Anglophone. Diversity wasn’t a word we tossed around there. It was a place – like many – where difference was weird, and so, being a half-francophone, was asking for unwanted attention.

Mom would call me ‘Cat-rrrine’ instead of ‘Ca-ther-ine’, and no matter how much I ranted and raved, my parents insisted that my sister and I attend French Immersion. They would even talk to us in French, regardless of how often we replied in English.

Twenty years later, a Bachelor and Master’s degree now under my belt, and some time spent living in other parts of the country, I made a recent move to Toronto from Montreal, or ‘Mont-real’, as we like to say. It was during my seven years in Montreal – a city where people flip from French to English then back to French without missing a beat – I learned the beauty of bilingualism.

When I moved to Toronto, to reap the benefits of its job market, I realized something that made me laugh. My mom’s ‘You’ll thank me later’ and my dad’s ‘Tu comprendras un jour’ rang in my ears. The job calls I received were not simply about my education or previous job experience, but primarily because of something that set me apart from many of the other applicants – my French.

Doors that would remain closed if I were unilingual open for me. The two positions that I’ve worked since I’ve moved here, have centred on my bilingualism.

Now, I understand what my parents were trying to teach me. I guess being weird is not so bad after all.