It was October—Winnipeg had a sweet chill in the air, a prelude to the harsher “sweet chills” to come. I landed at the airport in 1972 with a grand total of five dollars. I’d already splurged two dollars at Heathrow in London, so things were looking… frugal.
Luckily, my elder brother was already in Winnipeg and waiting for me at the airport. He offered immediate monetary support, which felt like winning the lottery, only with fewer zeros. All I needed now was a permanent Canadian residence and a job.
The first part was thanks to Pierre Trudeau’s Amnesty Program; the second was a bit more challenging. I needed a job, any job, whether I knew how to do it or not.
As fate would have it, while wandering one of the side streets off Portage Avenue, I stumbled upon a 7-Eleven. The interview was brief—more like a speed date with employment. Despite my zero experience with Slurpees, cigarettes, or the arcane art of operating a cash register, I was hired on the spot. It was my crash course in customer service, accented English, and a few choice pieces of Canadian slang.
Things were going smoothly; customers were friendly, and my manager was good-natured. A few weeks in, he casually asked, “If you don’t mind, can I call you Peter?” Apparently, “Promod” was a bit of a tongue twister. I shrugged and said, “No problem,” figuring it was better than being called something like “Hey, You.”
This new name felt like a pat on the back from regulars and coworkers, though deep inside, I wondered if I was losing a tiny bit of my Indian identity. My inner voice, however, quickly reminded me: “To gain something, you have to lose something.” Fair enough, but I wasn’t ready to swap my original name for a Western one yet.
I soon learned that name-swapping wasn’t unique to me. It was practically a rite of passage for South Asian immigrants. Names morphed faster than I could count: Mohinder to Mo, Amrit to Amy, Rajinder to Roger, and so on. It was a whole new kind of cultural assimilation.
Catching the spirit, my manager shortened “Peter” to “Pete.” From Promod to Peter to Pete—it was a slippery slope. But it didn’t bother me much; it wasn’t like I was being called “Pumpkin Spice” or anything.
For many immigrants, these new names sparked lively debates. Professionals like doctors, engineers, and academics kept their original names like badges of honour, no matter how much they made a receptionist stutter. The rest of us found our identities more… flexible in manual labour or sales jobs. A “Pete” here, a “Mike” there—it was just part of the Canadian mosaic.
Working at 7-Eleven was a surprisingly pleasant experience. I handled money (a first!), met new people, and wore a jacket with the 7-Eleven logo printed all over it. It wasn’t just warm; it had an odd resemblance to those shawls holy men in India wear, covered in repeated “Ram” prints. My new robe of retail, I thought.
I didn’t stay long at the convenience store. However, almost 52 years later, the memories of my first “Canadian experience” in “Friendly Manitoba” are still fresh—me, Peter or Pete, wrapped in that omnipresent 7-Eleven jacket.
—Promod Puri
Promod Puri.com 