Torch Envy

The advertisements were on television in Canada starting almost a year ago—sign up for your chance to carry the Olympic torch in the 2010 Olympic Torch Relay. You can bet that I signed up on every possible website as many times as I could.

In April of this year, I was informed that I was a semi-finalist and I needed to write a short essay (250 words or less, which is, incidentally, the name number of words in the first three paragraphs here) about myself and how I lead and encourage others to lead an active lifestyle. I submitted my blurb and waited. . .and waited. . and waited anxiously for the week in May when the winners would be contacted. I caught myself, on more than one occasion, daydreaming about how great it would be if I were selected, mainly because that would be one definite way of feeling a solid and patriotic attachment to my new country. I was so optimistic that I would be selected that I even put off buying plane tickets to England for Christmas, because I knew that if I was selected, I would be carrying the torch just after Christmas.

The month of May came and went and I was not contacted. I was disappointed, and I could feel my disappointment resurface every time the torch relay was mentioned on TV or the Internet. But, I figured that my loss was someone else’s gain and tried to look forward to the Olympics themselves.

Then in late September, the most amazing thing happened. I was at work and my phone rang, an unfamiliar number displaying on the caller ID. The voice on the other end confirmed who I was and then said, “I’m calling on behalf of Coca Cola to thank you for applying to be a torchbearer even though you weren’t selected.” I was just beginning to feel a bit irritated that this woman was calling for no other apparent reason than to remind me of my failure when she said, “And I’m calling today to invite you to carry the torch on December 28 in Tiverton, Ontario.”

You would have thought the first words out of my mouth would have been “Yes! I accept!” Instead I asked, “But WHY? If I wasn’t selected before, why am I now?” She went on to explain that others who had been selected had to withdraw or were disqualified for various reasons. She said that if I accepted, I would be given the spot as I had already passed the RCMP background check.

I then said yes to the invitation without hesitation and spent the next two hours of work time excitedly calling my relatives, finding out co-workers, and sending e-mails to share the news. Everyone seemed very excited for me. Sarah put something about it on her Facebook page. We both believed, erroneously, that all the Canadians we knew would be impressed with my determination to take part in such a high-profile national event.

About two weeks later, some of the negative feedback started. On three separate occasions, I have been told by acquaintances, “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you are in the torch relay. My husband is so pissed about that.”

Why are these people pissed? Because I’m not a Canadian citizen. I reminded these people that I am a permanent resident of Canada and that I was completely eligible to participate. No matter. I’ve been told that it’s something that only Canadians should be able to do. Even some of my friends have been a little less than enthusiastic about my one-in-a-lifetime opportunity—their tepid interest and reluctant congratulations have really curbed my own enthusiasm.

Compared to other countries, Canada has a very high percentage of residents who are not citizens. Sometimes these residents choose not to become citizens but to live as legal permanent residents indefinitely. Others, like Sarah and me, are in the midst of the three-year residency requirement that must be fulfilled in order to even apply for citizenship. I am fairly certain that I am not the only non-Canadian citizen amongst the 1200 torchbearers that have been selected.

I truly believe that if I was a permanent resident of Canada but from, say, Italy, I wouldn’t be picking up quite as many feelings of resentment. I’m left to wonder how much of the grudge against my torchbearership is related more to the fact that I’m from the US than the fact that I’m not a citizen of Canada.

Two days ago, my torchbearer uniform and other items arrived by post. I tried it on for Sarah and we chatted excitedly about the upcoming event. She will come with me and take photos and cheer me on. But, I am wary of making too much of a big deal about it to the Canadians I know because their disappointment in me as a choice is sometimes obvious. I very much want my friends and co-workers in Canada to be as excited as I am and to see that I view my selection as a torchbearer with great respect and solemnity. I have been searching for some way to prove to Canada that I have accepted this land as my home. I thought this torch relay had the potential of demonstrating that.

In lieu of support from Canadians, I’ve been trying desperately to get my own family in the US excited about the event. I can’t really blame them for not quite understanding the magnitude—they are lacking the daily news coverage of the relay and the television hype tied to the Olympics. Besides, they probably won’t be able to attend because of the distance they would have to travel in the likely poor winter driving weather.

For now, I’m just glad that in late December, when I am wearing my white uniform and plodding down the main street of Tiverton, Ontario with the Olympic torch, I will look like every other Canadian torchbearer. For at least that moment in time, I’ll be seen as (and feel like) a true Canadian.

Canada Inside vs. Outside, Part 2

I am not fourteen and living with my parents, nor am I nineteen and living in a dorm room. Therefore, I’ve lost one of those treasured means of unrestrained self-expression of youth, the walls. As an adult, the only socially acceptable wall-like venue of expression is the refrigerator door, but I am not the type of person who likes to cover my fridge door in magnets.

In my life, and primarily due to my affection for sports, I have accumulated a vast array of pennants, posters, plaques, banners, magnets, and more. Yet, neither my spouse nor my sense of what’s appropriate for adult habitational zones allow me to display these items. The home is really where one puts framed paintings and stylish timepieces, not Dan Marino posters and English soccer team scarves.

When I started my first job, back in Michigan, where I had an actual desk in a cubicle, I found that these walls were a great place to extend my self-expression. I noticed that my co-workers did the same. When I had a really neat picture of my dogs in an exotic place or a commemorative soccer game banner or an unusual magnet, up in my cube it went. I thought that using my cube space in this way was a method for me to reclaim the self-expression I denied myself at home. I didn’t realize until I moved to Canada the significance of workplace expression.

When I was in my final week of work in Michigan, I spent a few hours carefully packing up all the sentimental and unique items that adorned my cube. I put them in a sturdy box labelled “MJB’s Desk Stuff” and taped it shut. “There,” I thought. “Now when I start my new job in Canada, I can just open this box, unpack all of this stuff, and I will start to feel at home.”

I started my job in Canada in September of 2008. During my first week, I found myself seeking out co-workers and managers for advice or assistance, and when I would enter their work area or office, I felt quite uncomfortable and nervous, almost as if I was having difficulty establishing a rapport. This was an unusual feeling for me because, as socially anxious as I am inside, I have become quite good at forcing myself to break the ice with new people. I had to learn this skill as I had worked as a trainer for so long.

After one particularly stressful day at work when I felt that I had been especially inept at communicating with my colleagues, I went back to my desk and noticed the semi-hidden and still unopened box—“MJB Desk Stuff.” Then it occurred to me—Canadians don’t put many personal items on display in their workspaces.

Years of working in the US where employees will decorate their workspaces with everything from political signs to pictures of themselves bikini-clad and inebriated, I learned quickly that the best way to build a good working relationship with anyone was to find an anchor—something that I had in common with the person around which we could build our relationship. If I had to go to talk to Sally about a processing system error, the minute I arrived at her desk, I would quickly scan the area and find something, some anchor, through which I could connect with her. If I had to visit Jim’s desk to help him resolve an Excel formula, as soon as I got there, I would spot a picture of his dog and immediately begin chatting about dogs. If I had to go into Rachel’s office to have a very serious discussion about issues with an employee, the minute I saw her Red Wings pennant, we’d be reminiscing like best buddies. This system worked great for me in the US. Not so much in Canada.

When I go to talk to an unknown co-worker here, I catch myself semi-consciously scanning their desk or walls for something of interest that I can use to break the ice. I can feel my heart rate increase and my nervousness rise as my eyes desperately search for something personal and usually only find maps of Ontario, pictureless calendars, staplers, and department phone lists. The lack of such an anchor compels me to revert to my rapid-fire personal questions, and Canadians don’t appreciate such an inquisition. Their short, general answers reveal almost nothing except their unwillingness to reveal anything.

After about six months at my job in Canada, I finally moved from my temporary workstation to my actual cubicle. I brought out my “MJB Desk Stuff” box, and to my co-workers’ horror, opened and began unpacking it. Out came all the pictures of my dogs Cody and Brit, my Mutter Museum magnet, my English Premier League soccer banners, pictures of my current and former hockey and soccer teams, my Eastern Illinois pennant, my Michigan insurance agent’s license, old wine corks, buttons and stickers for some of my favorite bands, my clock radio, Nightmare Before Christmas pins, hand exercisers. . . .the list is quite exhaustive. My co-workers really could not believe all of the things I put up in my cube. They dropped hints that they thought it was not professional or acceptable. I even heard that one company manager had once made a rule that all employees were each only allowed one personal item to be displayed in their workspaces. My response was, “If I have to spend over forty hours a week in this cube, I certainly intend to make it feel like my own space with things that make me happy surrounding me. I would think the company would want me to feel comfortable in my own space as I will be more productive.”

So much for taking a stand on my self-expression. At work I’m now viewed more as a curiosity, a side show of the sort that would be on a documentary about hoarders. Coworkers that come to my cube almost avert their eyes as they are so overwhelmed by the amount of personal items surrounding me. Luckily I can get away with it as I am just the crazy American, probably living up to sterotypes.

However, I want to make it easy for people to get to know me. I want someone who comes to talk to me to be able to find that anchor for a relationship. I want people to see that there is a lot more to my life than underwriting insurance policies. Canadians are very good at making a sharp distinction between their personal and work lives. I respect that, but I also know that sometimes a working relationship can really be strengthened by a personal connection.

I am resolved to the fact that I won’t be able to convince my co-workers to express themselves so outwardly. My co-worker Kevin has not a single personal item in his workspace (see photo below). When I chided him for this, he argued that the Montreal Canadiens wallpaper on his PC certainly qualified. Yet, even this is hidden by other computer applications for 95% of the day. I know that Canadians prefer to keep their opinions and expressions inside. I will continue to have references to aspects of my life stuck to my cube walls, but I will also continue to have to work to find discreet ways of making personal connections with my new colleagues.

Below is a photo of my coworker Kevin's desk, which represents a typical Canadian corporate workspace. I would like to point out that the only item of interest, the calendar with the photo, was given to him by me and displayed only after my insistence.

In this next photo, you can see my workspace.