When I was very young, maybe two or three, I lived in a Greek neighborhood in the east of Montreal. One of the churches - it may have been St. Francis of Assissi, but I was too young to remember - had a small enclave of nuns. There were five or six of them, all over 60. They were sweet little old ladies, and were always very friendly to anyone who approached them. Although I was not raised in the Church, I knew (somehow) what nuns were, and that they worked for God. I was fascinated by them. Whenever I saw one of them, with their grey (or was it light blue?) veils, checking the ripeness of oranges at the corner grocery, their gold crosses shining against their plain street dresses of wool, I would always say hello. And from some mystical pocket I was never able to locate, a butterscotch candy was always produced for me. Sometimes I would see these ladies at the church bazaars where I picked up some awesome swag - when I was five, I got my first hat with a veil, a patent leather clutch, and kid gloves - all for about $5, ideal for playing dress-up with the other girls. These women of God were as much a part of my childhood and my neighborhood as the bakery or the park at the end of the street. They were part of the scenery - a part I enjoyed.

When I was just turning six, my mother and I were walking to the Woolworths, and I saw a young woman wearing a pearl grey veil. Her skin was olive, and I assumed she was Greek. It was interesting to see a younger woman dressed as a nun. But she had a young boy with her - a toddler. I approached her to say hello, just as I did with all the nuns. This lady was shy. I said hi, and asked her who's child that was with her. Her eyes darted to my mother, and back to me. In broken english, she said This my son.

My young brow furrowed. Like I said, I was hardly a theological scholar, but something wasn't ringing true to me. "But," I sputtered, "nuns don't have babies!" Out of the mouths of babes.

And there you have it, the start of my multi-culti education. The woman was not a nun, and the veil was not a veil - it was a hijab. We moved shortly thereafter. My father said something about the neighborhood going... there, wherever "there" was. But I never forgot my un-nun, and as the months and years past, I saw more and more un-nuns every day. It was the 1980's influx from the Middle East, post Tehran takeover by the Mullahs. And it was the start of the Muslim infiltration of Canada. It was the start of the days of political correctness, of multiculturalism, of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms...

It was the beginning. I miss the nuns.