By the time I had my second conversation in Pakistan, someone had already laughed in my face for my terrible Urdu — and it was my own family member no less.
The smirks and odd looks came out every time I got a bit more confident with the language, which I could only speak at the level of about a seven-year-old.
Once, while apologizing about being late to a dinner, I casually explained that my phone had been killed. Turns out, phones don't "die" in Urdu because the phrase doesn't translate well.
I don't know the word for most numbers above 12, so every day I would sheepishly ask people to say numbers in English at shops. If it wasn't my lack of vocabulary, my accent always made people do a double take.
My parents immigrated from Pakistan in the 1970s and '80s, and while I was born in Canada, I lived there working for six months earlier in 2019.
I learned that it's one thing to travel to a new country and stumble through the language. It's another to look like you should be able to speak it.
My Pakistani background allowed me to immerse myself in the culture, and I loved eating street food and taking in the views of the Himalayan north. But I was always an outsider, and had never felt more Canadian than I did there.
Moreover, people were confused that I was an outsider. I looked like them, and sometimes I dressed like them too, wearing long white tunics on holidays or at family gatherings. But as soon as I opened my mouth, people wondered where I was from.
I had to erase social norms I'm accustomed to: in working-class areas, I stopped shaking a woman's hand unless she offered hers first. If I wore my hair scraggly like I do in Canada, I was told people might think I'm poor and won't take me seriously. It was all part of how class and gender still play important parts in Pakistani society, where there is still a large divide between the rich and poor.
I was constantly tripping up, and it began to affect my personality. I became more shy, and every now and then I stopped myself from speaking up because of my accent. I'd tend to only get close to family members or friends who spoke decent English despite my best efforts.
I realized I was going through an experience that was perhaps comparable to my parents' by learning how to integrate in a new society.
More than anything, it makes me appreciate the gravity of what my parents did when they came here.
I asked Usha George, a professor at Ryerson University specializing in immigration, about my experience living in Pakistan, and whether it mirrors anything like what my family went through coming here.
However, while my time there may have been a taste of what it's like, George said there are obviously tremendous differences.
"There are no consequences to whether you like Pakistan or not," said George, explaining that as one of the biggest differences between my temporary visit back as a child of immigrants compared to actually immigrating.
"They have to take risks, they have to work hard, they have to go through things they've never had to go through."
It's a matter of privilege too. A Canadian moving to Pakistan is still rich, and on some level respected just because of Western status.
That is often not the case for newcomers to Canada, especially if you immigrated in the 1970s and '80s. The stories my parents tell me about their first months in the country can be downright humiliating. I'll never have to face the kind of alienation they did.
George puts it simply: actually immigrating is a scary experience. In my case, I could always leave and I wasn't putting much on the line.
Going back to your so-called home country is a defining experience for your identity though, something that George says children of immigrants often grapple with.
"For many Canadian born children of immigrants, most of the time they talk about multiple identities," said George, adding while they may feel more Canadian sometimes, they might identify more with their parents' country at other times, like religious ceremonies or community gatherings.
"Identities are always moving and shifting, changing and evolving."
In my experience, almost every day in Pakistan made me feel more Canadian than Pakistani. Some of the reasons were small: it's uncommon — even a bit weird sometimes — to say thank you and sorry for everything. Other reasons were bigger, like how common it is to have a housemaid that families often only pay around a dollar a day.
If it all sounds like a negative experience — it wasn't. I understand more about my family and why they are the way they are. I can communicate better with my last grandparent in Urdu. And I now get why my dad cares so much about me always getting a haircut and ironing my clothes.
