Identity Crisis

I remember closely following many soccer World Cup tournaments when I was living in the US. I would sometimes go out to local sports bars to view the games, just because I craved the passion of the atmosphere. I would look on in complete confusion as I saw people of Mexican, Italian, Polish, or any other heritage vehemently cheering against the US team when their team was the US's opponent. I don't know if I ever really felt angry, but I was frustrated. I couldn't figure out why, if someone had moved away from their country to find a better life in the USA, they would still be loyal to the country of their birth over their adopted and chosen homeland.

I was inclined to break all emotional ties to the US when I moved to Canada. After all, the very reason I was leaving the US was because I did not have equal rights there, and I felt so fortunate and grateful that Canada accepted and welcomed me.

This past month may well be the most emotionally difficult that I've endured in over a year. Nothing brings out national pride in Canadians more than hockey, and when that hockey is tied to the Winter Olympic Games, that pride is intensified exponentially. Unexpectedly, the Olympics have forced me to come face to face with my own national identity crisis.

I don't make a secret of my resentment towards the USA. After all, I spent my whole life there, in their educational system, living and working with other Americans in a few different states, and took part in the system by paying taxes, voting, campaigning for issues, marching in Washington DC, contributing money to various causes, etc.

My contempt of the USA was reaching its pinnacle back in the spring of 2005. Sarah and I had just completed our application for permanent residency in Canada. We went through the application process, which was more complex because we were not already legally married. We had our physicals. We had spent a fair amount of money on legal and application fees. Yet, we were still living in the US, facing the bigotry of those in our community while working and paying taxes to support the USA's discriminatory system.

In May of 2005, Sarah, my mother, and I drove through the night for about 14 hours to Philadelphia to see the Dali exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Neither of us had ever been to Philadelphia before, so while we were in town, we decided to visit the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and various other landmarks of the birth of the USA. I was a bit skeptical of what I thought we would encounter--the unabashed fanatic patriotism based on the ideals of a "free" country that sounded so hypocritical to both of us.

Instead, I experienced a newfound sense of humility as I stood in the Assembly Room of Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed, and where the humble and knowledgeable park ranger spoke with deep admiration about the founders of the country who had risked everything for their unshakable beliefs in freedom and liberty. And while their idea of "freedom" is not quite as broad as what we would consider today, for their time, theirs was a new and risky idea so contrary to the rest of the world's sustained oppressive military, religious, and/or class-based societies.

I left Philadelphia with a new attitude, a new appreciation of what my country was supposed to be. I didn't feel as though those ideals were completely lost--I could see the underlying hope in the future of the country. We hadn't strayed far away from the ideals on which we were based that all was lost--yet. And just because so many self-serving ideologues had hijacked the words "family," "freedom," and "patriotism," I figured the underlying principles of true freedom were still present somewhere, deep in the national psyche. I resolved not to lose hope and to try to focus on what my country was supposed to be, not the contortion some close-minded people were attempting to force.

The move to Canada turned out to be inevitable three years later, and while much of my animosity and resentment towards my homeland resurfaced at that time, I never forgot what I learned on my trip to Philadelphia.

I believe that most immigrants, from anywhere, find that they rarely have to align their loyalties with one of their countries or another, but during sporting events between the two countries, one must choose, even if one pretends to stay neutral. The current Winter Olympics have really forced me to difficult introspection and an emotional inventory with which I am still struggling.

In honor of the Olympics, my company held a casual day last week that allowed employees to dress in casual attire as long as it was red and white or Canadian-themed. I was happy for an excuse to wear a sweatshirt to work, so I put on my red Canada Hockey sweatshirt and off I went. This was the first such officially sanctioned patriotic-theme day I'd experienced in 18 months of working in Canada. I had also participated in my share of corresponding events while working in the US, so I didn't think much of it. . . until partway through the day when I went down to the cafeteria during lunch.

I had spent the whole day at my desk working on my own, but when I entered the cafeteria, I saw all the other employees' heads bobbing in a sea of red and white. Canada hockey jerseys, t-shirts, jackets, and even scarves were everywhere. It may have been my imagination, but I was sure everyone was staring at me as I walked through the cafeteria. Suddenly I was overcome with a feeling that I was a fraud. I thought, "All of these people must be looking at me and wondering why I am wearing this shirt when I am not a Canadian!" I wanted to run as far from the cafeteria as possible. Then, for no clear reason, all of the panic swirling inside me quickly reinvented itself as shame. I thought, "I am a traitor to the US! I shouldn’t be wearing this." Even though there were very few people in the cafeteria, if any, who even knew me, I hurried back to my desk.

A few days later, just my luck, the US men’s hockey team was playing the Canadian team in the first round of the Olympics. I wanted to avoid acknowledging this pending match-up. I could have ignored this game or watched it secretly on my own, but as the showdown had the whole country captivated, it was the main topic of conversation everywhere I went. And, because most people here who know me know I am from the US, they all wanted to talk to me about it. Much to my dismay, I had no choice but to make a decision about which country I’d support.

I’ve always believed that every human dilemma, struggle, fight, trial, or decision is based in a conflict between emotion and logic. My logic told me that I was more Canadian than American, that Canada accepted me when the US rejected me, that Canada was now the source of my livelihood. My emotions. . .well, who can explain emotions? I inexplicably felt as though I should be proud of being an American, as that is where I spent 90% of my life. I decided to root for the US team, a decision that I logically justified to myself as something that would be interesting as it would make me stand out from all the people around me.

The reaction I get from Canadians when they find out I am supporting the US athletes in the Olympics has been varied. Some make me feel as if I should go back to the US if I like it so much. Others imply that I am ungrateful for the new life I have been afforded in Canada. Others have tried to test my devotion to Canada, publicly, by asking me to explain my loyalties, stand and sing for the Canadian national anthem, or answer random Canadian trivia questions. I started to resent some of the Canadians for trying to force me to answer a more fundamental question that I hadn’t answered myself.

To make it all even worse, I found that I was feeling guilty about supporting the US. Then, after even deeper reflection, I realized that somewhere within me, I WANTED to hate the US, but that realization in itself devastated me.

The soul-searching that has consumed me since then has had me awake at night, in tears several times, and struggling more to write this blog entry than any other I’ve written. This issue isn’t about the Olympics, and it isn’t about any sporting event. This soul-searching is about my endeavor to find out my own true identity; it’s about dealing with feelings of love that I feel are misplaced; it’s about understanding feelings of guilt that are, often inadvertently, imposed on me by others; it’s about trying not to hate who I am if I don’t really hate where I’m from; it’s about not feeling like a hypocrite, imposter, or traitor. I’m trying to separate the logic from the emotion.

When I was feeling my lowest earlier this week, I remembered that I live with someone who has been through this same experience twice—Sarah. I told her everything about the distress, confusion, and sadness going on in my mind. She said, “You’ve been here, what, only a year and a half? Yeah, that’s about right. You’re probably in the most difficult time period of this adjustment.” She remembered when she had been in the US just over a year having similar experiences and struggles.

I don’t feel like I am part of Canada yet. I haven’t been here long enough to feel I belong. I don’t fully understand Canadians, and I don’t feel a connection with the Canadian culture. I don’t feel like I’m a part of the US anymore, either. I have been away just long enough that I’m starting to feel like I’ve lost my connection with the US mindset and culture. I’m a bit too Canadian to be an American and way too American to be Canadian.

I think about all of the Portuguese people who live in my town in Canada. They plaster Portuguese flags on their cars, fly them from their houses, go crazy supporting Portugal during the World Cup, and are not afraid to tell everyone that they are Portuguese. When I first moved to Cambridge, I felt the same bewilderment towards them that I used to towards the Mexicans living in the US. How ironic that what was bordering on intolerance in my mind has now morphed into respect.

When you are born in and live most of your life in a country, that country is part of you. And you are part of it. Even people who leave their home countries to seek political asylum after being jailed, tortured, or otherwise mistreated feel some pride in where they are from because it is an inseparable part of who they are.

I can dislike the political activists in the US, I can dislike the gunslinger mindset in some states, I can dislike the intolerant bible thumpers, and I can dislike the self-centered behavior so often exhibited by Americans on the world stage. I also have a lot of family and friends there about whom I care deeply. I can, without guilt, care about them and their wellbeing. I can, without guilt, love the varied landscapes, admire the strength of the true patriots, and admire a system that, while not perfect and certainly broken in some ways, never completely melts down to chaos. And, I can, without guilt, hope for the future of a country that was founded on ideals that can still be achieved.

I moved to Canada because I admired the people and their attitudes. I see Canada as my permanent home. I aspire to be a Canadian citizen and a productive member of society. Yet, I love the US, even while feeling frustration about the social climate there. Yes, I left the US to find a better life in Canada. And, yes, I love Canada. But, the USA will always be part of the fabric of who I am. Yes, it is a paradox, and no, I don’t owe anyone an explanation for a contradiction that I can’t even resolve in my own heart.

The Turn of the Screw

Conventional wisdom says that, when moving residences, the last thing to pack and the first thing to unpack is toilet paper. We’ve moved six times in the last nine years, mainly due to the unstable and volatile nature of Sarah’s status in the United States. Through these moves, we’ve learned some things, including not to ever get rid of reusable boxes, to leave certain items packed for the next inevitable move, to not acquire ridiculously heavy items like pianos, and how to fix cheap furniture that probably wasn’t designed to handle the wear and tear of one move let alone six.

The most important thing I’ve learned in the transient nature of my recent adult life is that, while toilet paper is always a good thing to have easily accessible, a tool kit within reach is most invaluable when moving.

My dad is a toolmaker, and so I grew up in a house where, much to my mother’s often-voiced dismay, tools were always lying everywhere. My dad knew how to fix pretty much everything, and even if he didn’t, he at least had the right tools to look like he knew what he was doing. From a very young age, I knew the difference between slotted and Phillips screw drives, the advantages of carbide-tipped drill bits, the function of a countersink, and that a lathe is the only machine that can reproduce itself. When I was in fifth grade, I had a prized collection of diamonds—sharpening diamonds that my dad didn’t use any more and had given me. From my high school graduation on, I received gifts of tools from my dad for any notable occasion. My point here is that I have a lot of tools, almost any type imaginable.

Then came my move to Canada.

When I arrived in Canada with a U-Haul full of that fraction of our possessions that we deemed important enough not to give away, the first items out of the truck were my tool boxes. I immediately noticed tasks in our rental dwelling that would require instant attention—a broken railing on the deck stairs, missing buttons on the stove, loose lighting fixtures, cupboard doors that would not shut properly, a lack of closets that necessitated the building of a coat rack, etc.

My first mission was to secure the loose railing on the deck, so I looked at the screw to determine what type of driver I would need. I looked at the screw, thought there was a foreign object on the head, tried to dust off the screw, did a double take, and thought, “Wow, that screw head is really stripped out.” It looked like someone had gone crazy with a Phillips screwdriver to the point that the socket was stripped into a square shape.

I was formulating a creative plan to remove the screw when I felt all the little square eyes of the rest of the screws on the deck staring at me.

I knew I would have to deal with metric sizes and goofy spellings in Canada, but different screws? I felt as useless as a roller-skater in a sandbox.

Screw drive head types are an element of national identity in Canada. What I had encountered, and still encounter regularly, are the Robertson head screw drives. Back in the early 1900s, a Canadian called Robertson decided that slotted screw drives were not adequate for Canadian screwing needs. So, he began manufacturing his square shaped drive head screws and corresponding bits in his factory in Milton, Ontario (about a half hour from where I live now). Apparently the Canadians were so pleased with a type of screw created by a Canadian that they insisted on using these rather than the old-fashioned slotted screws or even the Phillips screw drive head, invented some years later by Phillips, an inventor from the evil American empire.

One of the first things I had to buy in Canada was Robertson head screw driver bits. Clearly all of my screwdrivers, power drills, and hand drills would be worthless until I did. I popped into the hardware store, found the driver bits, and realized that I would be paying $5 for a square driver bit. Oh, but wait—there’s more! Not only do these Canucks like to use the square head drive screws, the squares come in three different standard sizes! Theoretically, one would need to purchase a bit in all three sizes to enjoy the much touted tight-fitting and easy-handling mechanism of the Robertson system.

Sarah and I recently bought our first house in Canada, and so last month, we did the moving thing again. This time we were moving about 2 miles rather than 300. Still, our house needed some attention, particularly because the previous owner of the house apparently liked to screw a lot—he must have put screws and drywall anchors in every wall in the house, to the point where we probably have no choice but to repaint. One of my first tasks was to remove these screws, some of which were sticking out from the wall at knee-height. Sure enough, the previous owner of the house was a big fan of the Robertson screws. This time I was a bit more prepared, and had the hardware I needed.

I always thought that it was enough of a pain to switch between slotted and Phillips drives, but now there is a third character in the mix. I’ve heard a rumor that the reason that Americans don’t use Robertson screw drives is because they didn’t want to adopt something created by a Canadian. Perhaps the Americans just realized that two main types of screw drives were enough!

Just for fun, I say let’s screw ‘em all and come up with something even better—something even more secure, more unique and more patriotic. I have created the Maple screw drive. My preliminary design is below. Compare with the competition. Surely this will be the new favorite screw of Canada! I also plan to release it in five different sizes!