“ Your all American citizens, so you should pass this fake American citizenship test” the teacher yells to our civics class. I roll my eyes; of course I don’t look like an immigrant. I’m a pale white girl; I can only speak English, and have no accent. People have always asked my parents where they were from. They have British accents, my mum mixed with a hint of Canadian. I’m first generation Canadian, which though it’s a lot like America, to me it’s not. It’s my home, where my mum’s family still life. I look down at the questions; I know all of them expect maybe one or two. I have leaved here ten years, yet like other kids around me. When my parents studied with me, they themselves were learning about it. My mum moved to Canada when she was fourteen so she still had to take class, and she studied with my brother and I every night. I answer all the questions, I get three wrong, One of the highest grades in the class. I laugh to myself. I learn about England, where my family has leaved for generations. About Canada, were I am proud to be the first but not last generation. And America, where I get the help I need for my disability. When I have children, I want to have them in Canada, but even thought in school they will only learn about their birth place. I will, like my mother, tell them about America and England. My past, and present homes. Why? Because on of the perks of being an immigrant, is learning about the lands on this earth.