When a Canadian is Not a Canadian

Ahhh, Canadian beers. They were my favorite before I even moved to Canada. I particularly like Moosehead. I remember the days when I could buy a six pack of Moosehead in Michigan for under $6 plus deposit.

Once I moved to Canada, I discovered many other Canadian beers that are not available in the USA and were just as good as Moosehead. I am particularly enamored with Sleeman Draught, Alexander Keith’s Red, and St. Ambroise Apricot Wheat Ale.

One of the biggest surprises to me when I arrived in Canada was the apparent insignificance of Labatt Blue as a popular brew. In the US, Labatt markets itself as the beer of Canada, representing all things Canadian. But, at least in Southern Ontario, the standard Canadian beer that epitomizes all things Canadian is Molson.

Molson is fairly popular in Michigan, but Labatt was definitely the most prevalent Canadian beer there, both in advertising and in shelf space. I really don’t think any of my friends here regularly drink or buy Labatt.

Because my Canadian beer consumption in the US was limited to Labatt and Moosehead, I had never really tried Molson. In Canada, that’s sometimes the only option you have depending on the bar/restaurant/party, and I have to be honest, I find that it’s a good beer. But, in Canada, Molson is not “Molson”—it’s “Canadian.” I had a few issues trying to order beer here when I would ask for a Molson. The waiter or waitress would look at me with a furrowed brow and then, after a long pause say, “Oh, you mean Canadian?”

Ordering a beer I knew as “Molson” by calling it “Canadian” felt as unnatural as ordering sliced turkey in grams rather than pounds. To avoid embarrassment and confusion, I eventually started to adjust.

There was one rather humorous episode where I was at a soccer tournament with some friends. In our hotel room we had a case of Molson Canadian and Molson 67. Before leaving for our game, I asked one of my friends to put the Molson in the refrigerator. When we got back later in the afternoon, I was set for a cold one. However, none of the Molson Canadian was in the fridge. I said to my friend, “Hey, I thought you put the Molson in the fridge.” She insisted, “I did!” I looked again, but all that was in the fridge was the Molson 67. I replied, “No, I mean the regular Molson.” She looked confused, so I gestured at the case of Molson Canadian, and she said, “Ooooh, you wanted the Canadian in the fridge. I put the Molson in like you asked.” Still pointing at the case, I said, “This IS Molson!” She argued, “No, that’s not Molson--that’s CANADIAN!” In the end, I actually had to show her the labelling on the case to prove that “Canadian” was made by Molson!

I have recently come to a point where I can order a Canadian at the bar without feeling awkward and know I’m getting a Molson. I think that means that I’m getting to the point where I AM CANADIAN???

Then I visited my family in Michigan for US Thanksgiving. For dinner on Friday night, we went, of all places, to a French-Canadian themed restaurant. Sure enough, the only beer on draft was Canadian. As I had spent most of the day battling Black Friday crowds, I felt in the mood for a beer, so when the waitress came over, I asked for a Canadian. She gave me a confused look and began stammering. I realized what was happening and said, “Uh, I mean a Molson.” And you know what? That felt very awkward to me!

Pure Discrimination

I spent a good portion of the month of November trying to convince my co-worker Kevin to take his annual pre-Christmas shopping trip to Michigan, over three hours away, rather than his usual one and a half hour trek to Buffalo, NY. I told him the Michiganders were very friendly, the deals were better, and the area nicer. Besides, I explained, he could get a quality hotel for a very reasonable price as the economy isn’t great in Michigan and they are doing everything they can to boost tourism.

I do spend a lot of time promoting Michigan as a tourist destination. I am always gushing about the gorgeous lakeshore areas on the west side of the state, the beautiful wine country near Grand Traverse Bay, the friendliness and warmth of the people, and the great deals available for travel in an economy that relies heavily on tourism but is struggling because of the other reliance—the auto industry. Most Ontarians are now familiar with the Pure Michigan commercials on the radio and the billboards designed to attract their tourist dollars to a beautiful place just as short drive away.

My pride in my home state is something I have trouble hiding. I am constantly telling Canadians that there is so much more to Michigan than Detroit, and advising them to check out some of the other parts of the state when they are looking for a long-weekend getaway. The more I am away from Michigan, the more it becomes idealized in my mind, as is true with any relationship—absence makes the heart grow fonder.

But as with other relationships, my relationship with my beloved home state is currently going through a rocky period.

Lately, I have picked up a new hobby, which is making jewelry out of coins. I find this activity enjoyable and it’s a neat way to make personalized gifts for people. And a great way to make gifts for myself! To that end, I purchased a sterling silver issue of the Michigan quarter, and a silver coin bezel to mount it. I was so excited to have this cool piece of jewelry to wear around and show my Michigan pride.

The same day I wore my new pendant for the first time, I stumbled online across a great debate about Michigan’s endangered status as the mitten state. Apparently, the Wisconsinites have decided that their state also looks like a mitten, and most Michiganders, like myself, are very offended. Wisconsin looks nothing like a mitten, but everyone has known for years that Michigan is THE mitten. After Wisconsin beat Michigan State for the Big 10 college football championship, this Wisconsin mitten comparison just got everyone in The True Mitten very heated.

So, I was looking at a Michigan news website, reading an article about the great mitten debate, and chuckling to myself at the foolishness of the Wisconsinites when links to other Michigan news stories on the side of the screen caught my eye: “Michigan Senate Bans Domestic Partner Benefits” and “Governor Snyder Says He’ll Sign Domestic Partner Benefits Ban.”

At first I felt a fool because these tidbits took me quite by surprise. I had no idea that this type of legislation was still worming its way through the Republican Michigan legislature. I remember in 2004 when a snaky referendum took place and my fellow Michiganders voted to not only ban gay marriage, but to ban gay unions, and most maliciously, any “similar union for any purpose,” embedding this tyranny in the state constitution. With that referendum passed, thousands of gay employees of government institutions or institutions receiving government money lost their domestic partner benefits in an instant. I thought the whole thing had died, and I had even semi-forgiven my fellow Michiganders for passing such a foolish law in the first place. But, I guess that wasn’t the end of the battle for the Republicans, who felt the need to cement the discrimination further with more laws.

I sat stunned for a moment, and thought about all the hardships I went through in Michigan because I did not have the right to marry. I thought about gay friends who couldn’t have time off work to attend their partner’s family members’ funerals, my colleagues whose same sex partners were laid off and then were left without benefits. And I thought of all my straight colleagues who enjoyed these benefits. And I thought of all the people I knew in Michigan who voted for a ban on gay marriage and who voted in the Republicans who were still passing such bills. Then I thought of all the energy I’d spent trying to convince Canadians of what a great place Michigan is to visit.

Feeling frustrated and not knowing what else to do, I took off my beautiful new necklace and put it away, out of sight, out of mind. Apparently I could hide my pride.

This past July, New York became the sixth state in the US to allow gay marriages. The next time I feel like taking a shopping trip to the US to pick up stuff I can't get in Canada, I will likely take a short drive to the southeast instead of a longer drive to the west. Maybe some retail therapy in the Empire State will help ease some of the pain at the betrayal of Michigan’s Pure Discrimination.

Feature Article in The Cambridge Times

Well, I know I've started to get settled in Canada when my local newspaper runs a feature story about me!

Here it is, from The Cambridge Times, December 1, 2011

Goodwill event an eye-opener
Cambridge hockey players helps promote game in Iceland
by Bill Doucet

Mary Bonevelle now understands where the Mighty Ducks movies found the inspiration to feature a tough Iceland team in Part 2 of the franchise.

The Cambridge hockey player saw that style first-hand in the second annual Icelandair Ice Hockey Cup last month as part of the TWOW Panthers team.

The team travelled to Iceland as part of a goodwill trip to promote women’s hockey in Iceland and raise money for Iceland’s Red Cross. Part of the price of admission to the games and the entry fee for teams went to the organization. Olympian Sami Jo Small accompanied the team to do a clinic with Iceland players.

One of the teams they faced from the home island featured some “young” female players, said the 38 year old. Their style of play was an eye-opener.

“They were very fast, but also very rough. Even rougher than us,” Bonevelle said with a laugh.
And that was the attitude the players had during the game – enjoying the tournament and playing for the right reasons. According to Bonevelle, Iceland only has three ice rinks on the entire island and women’s hockey isn’t a popular sport. The women’s national team is ranked 29th in the world and plays in the fourth division championships.

The lack of interest actually surprised her, as Iceland is off the coast of Norway and Sweden, where hockey is huge. Then again, Bonevelle moved here in 2008 from Michigan and admits that women’s hockey in that state is probably on the same scale as Iceland.

In fact, she didn’t even learn to skate until she found out she was moving to Canada back in 2008, and ended up being the only adult in her class of four and five year olds.

Bonevelle was a quick learner though and joined the K-W Women’s Recreational Hockey League, of which she is now a board member.

The trip to Iceland didn’t come through the league though, but from a chance meeting with a player from Toronto at this past summer’s Stephanie Boyd Female Hockey School in Gravenhurst.

The woman told Bonevelle about the trip and who to contact. She was put on a waiting list, but was called two days later and offered a spot. She jumped at the chance.

“When am I ever going to get another chance to go to Iceland,” she said, adding that she had a teammate from Cambridge on the Panthers, Stephanie Tuck.

The Panthers beat Iceland’s Valkryja 6-0, TWOW Northern Lightweights 3-1 and lost to The Whistler Bearers 7-1. To win they had to beat SR from Iceland and, after going down 2-0, came back with a 6-2 victory to become the first Canadian women’s team to win a hockey tournament in Iceland.
The games were interesting though, as the other Iceland team they played was comprised of “older” women and sometimes had to be told where to stand for faceoffs. And the referees were – questionable.

“Even though the games were competitive, nobody was complaining about the referees and taking it to the next level. There was just some whining on the bench,” she said.

“The first purpose of the trip was goodwill between the two countries and trying to promote women’s hockey.”

Besides a little headshaking on the ice, Iceland itself offered a bit of a culture shock.

“One of the strangest things I saw there was the way the Icelandic players carry their equipment. They have these big plastic crates, which look like milk crates but a little bit bigger, and they tie a string to it, put their equipment in and drag it around,” she said.

The capital city of Reykjavik, which makes up about two-thirds of the population of the whole island, wasn’t exactly Toronto either.

Since the city is known to be relatively crime free, women would leave their baby carriages and strollers outside shops and restaurants with their babies still in them.

Bonevelle noticed the same practice outside of bars in the evening.

After the experience, she’s hoping to get a Kitchener-Waterloo/Cambridge team together for next year’s October tournament.

“There’s already five Canadian teams there, so I don’t know how many more spots there are for teams. It’s worth a try,” she said.




Cambridge’s Mary Bonevelle (back row, purple bandanna) poses with her TWOW?Panthers teammates after winning the Icelandair Ice Hockey Cup last month in Iceland

Turn Up the Feedback

Americans are never shy about giving feedback. They will tell you their opinions on everything, from whether you should have an abortion to how they rate your driving skills. I grew up in this environment where feedback, both positive and negative, was continual. Obviously, when one is a student in school, feedback is ongoing. But this climate of feedback continues even into adulthood and on the job in the US.

At my previous employer, in Michigan, we were practically required to send complimentary e-mails to our co-workers whenever they did something great, and we were supposed to copy the whole department. Here is an example of an e-mail my boss received from one of my co-workers during that time.

“I just want you to know how impressed I was when I was proof-reading Mary’s Office XP document. I asked her if she used verbiage and/or text from other documents and she said that she did the research herself and composed the whole thing herself. That is quite amazing and that makes her an excellent resource to this department.”

This is just one typical example of about 100 such e-mails I received while working in that department for four years. Of course, I sent just as many e-mails to co-workers and their bosses myself. It became a habit.

On the soccer field in my women’s rec league in Michigan, we always had new gals joining the team who had never played before. While I would be lying if I said that the more experienced players’ frustrations never surfaced during games, I am being honest when I say that these new players were generally overwhelmed with the amount of positive feedback. It was as if we experienced players focused on finding all the positives in what the newbies were doing on the field and only commented on that, or made sure we mentioned these accolades before we got into any gentle constructive criticism.

One persistent theme of this blog has been that the Canadians I’ve encountered seem to keep to themselves more. They don’t advertise their political beliefs on their car bumpers. They don’t ask lots of personal questions. When I was in Girl Scouts and we learned about using pocket knives, we were taught to extend our arm out from our side and make a 360 degree turn with our arm outstretched to make sure we had a “safety circle” so that we would not be in danger of accidentally injuring anyone with our knives. I feel as if most Canadians are constantly keeping a figurative safety circle around them. Sarah claims that this is an example of the British influence in Canada, that the British behave in just as standoffish a manner, if not more so. I always wondered why Sarah’s family makes fun of me by imitating me saying “good job!” I guess that’s a phrase I use often, and with good reason because I never pass up an opportunity to tell someone I think they’ve done well.

In my current position at the insurance company in Canada, I have sent several e-mails to my colleagues and their managers when I feel written praise is warranted. This type of communication is great to save in your personnel file for the end of the year review. And, I think a boss should know when one of their reports is doing something especially well. Much to my surprise, on almost every occasion, these e-mails have only led to stunned silence.

In one case, after sending such an e-mail to a manager, she replied to me, copied my own boss, and chastised me for not copying my own boss on the original message. This came as a surprise because my own boss was in no way involved in the interaction. There was no “thanks for the feedback” or “yes, I agree Cristina is an asset to the company.” Instead I was roundly reprimanded and I felt as if I had breached corporate etiquette.

On other occasions, I have sent the e-mails to colleagues only to get no reply at all, and once I even got a reply from the co-worker in question—she was embarrassed that I had sent a complimentary e-mail to her boss. Additionally, I have never, in over three years in the Canadian workplace, received an e-mail anything like the one I quoted above.

I began to wonder if it was just the corporate culture where I work, but then I started thinking about one of my greatest frustrations since I’ve moved to this country—playing hockey.

Playing ice hockey is not easy. It has been a constant challenge for me, as someone who did not grow up playing hockey or even ice skating. I learned to ice skate when I was 34. I started playing hockey at 35. I still am learning and still have a long way to go. Every game is a massive challenge for me physically and emotionally. After most games, I feel useless and as if I’m just making a fool of myself. I can feel myself getting ever more frustrated, but until recently I couldn’t pinpoint why. I thought about all those newbies who used to play soccer with us in Michigan, and then I recognized the difference—feedback.

The feedback I’ve had during hockey has been mainly limited to the rare “MJ, what position ARE you playing????” and “stay with your point” and “keep your stick on the ice” and “don’t pass on the blue line.” The feedback I do get seems to center on either what I’m doing wrong or how I’m confusing my teammates. I do remember a time when it was a struggle for me just to skate down the ice without falling. Even though I am past that now, and I suspect I’ve improved a great deal, I have little evidence other than my own perceptions and Sarah’s comments (and she’s no hockey expert either). Every once in a while, someone will tell me how much I’ve improved, but I can’t remember the last time anyone in hockey told me anything specific I was doing correctly during games. Have I improved just because I don’t fall as much?

So far, knock on wood, my performance reviews at work have all been stellar. Yet, this is always a surprise to me as it is annual feedback. I really have no indication throughout the year how my performance is perceived. I would imagine that if I should get a negative performance review at work, that would come as just as much of a surprise.

And, yes, I know that I can always just ask those around me for feedback. But, as someone who comes from a climate where feedback is constant and unsolicited, asking for feedback seems just as unnatural to me as giving feedback seems to the people with whom I work and play here.

This coming Monday, my company launches a new internal site that is designed solely to provide a forum for giving positive feedback to co-workers. I find it interesting that this site has been created when such feedback could just have been given through e-mail or verbally all along. I remember how awkward I felt the first time I stepped onto the ice rink in my skates and hockey gear. I wonder if this is how some of my colleagues will feel when they attempt to use this site to praise a co-worker. One thing I can say for sure is that my goal is to be the first one to use the site, and I plan to give positive feedback to those co-workers of mine who are most deserving—so much so that the site crashes on its first day online!

Not in Kansas Anymore, Eh?

Growing up in West Michigan, I learned about tornado survival from a very early age. While Michigan is not technically in tornado alley, Michigan gets its fair share of these twisters every spring and summer. In the 31 years I lived in West Michigan, there were 37 recorded tornadoes in my home county and the three bordering counties. As soon as I was old enough to walk, my parents taught me to go in the basement if a tornado warning was issued. When I was in kindergarten, I experienced the first of what would turn out to be many school tornado drills, where we would open the windows in the classroom, grab a hardcover textbook, go into the hallway and get on our knees and elbows along the lockers with the book open and covering the backs of our heads and necks.

Even before I was a teenager, I could have told you that, in the event of a tornado, you should go to the basement near a supporting wall and not near a window. I would have advised that if you did not have a basement, you should find an internal room on the ground floor that has few, if any, exterior walls and no windows. And, I knew that if I was riding in the car and a tornado was bearing down on us, we would get out of the car and lie flat in the nearest ditch.

I can remember being seven years old, sitting in the darkness of the basement with my four year old sister and three month old puppy as the power was out and my mother foolishly stayed on the main floor and watched a tornado pull a gigantic oak tree out of our back yard as easily as someone picks a carrot. When I was much older, I once woke up in the night to a tremendous bang at 5 am, and then fell back to sleep, only to arise at daylight to find my house damaged by projectile tree limbs and my whole hometown decimated by what was likely a tornado—entire roofs were ripped from buildings, trees had fallen on houses and vehicles, entire buildings were reduced to piles of wood and concrete. The damage was so extensive that we did not have power restored for an entire week. I also recall several occasions at my place of employment in Michigan where I gathered with hundreds of my coworkers in the basement of our building while we waited for the all clear from the sheriff’s department indicating that a tornado had moved away from our area.

My tornado sense was invaluable when I went to grad school in south central Illinois, considered to be in tornado alley. No matter where I went or what I was doing, somewhere in my subconscious, I was surveying the area to determine where I would go should a tornado alarm sound. Luckily, every place I attended school or worked had a designated tornado shelter as well as regular tornado drills. We had tornado drills as often as we had fire drills. And if severe weather was in the area and a tornado suspected or spotted, municipal sirens would sound and the tv and radio stations would broadcast emergency warnings. Although tornadoes occurred frequently enough to be a concern, I knew enough about where to go and what to do and had the peace of mind that everyone would be alerted in the event of a tornado.

About a week after I moved to Canada in the fall of 2008, I started work at my new company in a five story building. Naturally, my subconscious immediately began processing where I would go to seek refuge from a tornado. Part of my employee orientation covered the evacuation procedures if there was a fire, a bomb threat, or how to behave if a crazy gunman was on the loose in the building. I asked about tornado drills and was told, “Tornadoes? Haha, we don’t have tornadoes here!” Being new at my job, I didn’t want to blurt out what I was thinking—“Oh, I see, so when tornadoes form in Michigan they are prevented from crossing into Ontario by the Canadian border guards??”

The following summer, I was on a business trip for work, and I was chatting with my colleague about tornadoes. She assured me that there really aren’t any tornadoes in Ontario, a statement I received with great scepticism, but again, said nothing. The next day, eighteen tornadoes touched down in southwestern and southern Ontario, causing extensive damage in residential areas, particularly in some Toronto suburbs. My scepticism clearly was not unfounded.

The following year, 2010, at least eight tornadoes were confirmed in southwestern Ontario, including one that resulted in hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage for my employer’s policyholders.

Needless to say, by this past summer, I wasn’t buying the whole “We don’t have tornadoes here” song and dance. In early April, my co-workers and I were in a meeting with my boss in her corner office on the fourth floor of our building. There were several windows for me to watch the darkening sky on the horizon as the weather intensified. I couldn’t concentrate in the meeting, and my co-workers laughed at me as I nervously and repeatedly tracked from my chair to the window and back again. I kept muttering that it was clearly tornado weather, statements that were laughed off by my co-workers. I had seen enough severe weather in my life, as well as formal tornado spotter training, to know the difference between a bad thunderstorm and tornado-producing skies. I got very little work done that afternoon, but one task I did accomplish was to e-mail the head of the emergency response team and ask what was the procedure in our building if there was a tornado. I explained that I thought it was important to have a designated tornado shelter and that some sort of system should be in place if a tornado was to be spotted in the area. I explained that the weather was clearly tornadic outside to the point that I was having trouble concentrating on my work and worrying about where to go in the building. He responded that there was no need for a tornado plan due to the lack of tornadoes in the area, and that if I was having trouble concentrating at work, I should seek counsel from my boss.

Well, before I had a chance to explain my apparent tornado ADD to my boss, I received a text message from her that night. “You must have really good tornado sense because a tornado was spotted just a few miles away this afternoon.” Hmmm.

Just a couple of months ago, on August 24, Sarah and I left our house for our hockey game forty minutes away in Hamilton, Ontario. The drive to the arena was harrowing as lightning and freakish clouds were everywhere. Luckily, in the windowless depths of the locker rooms and out on the ice, I wasn’t thinking about this weather. After the game, our team went to the upper level of the complex to the bar area for drinks. The weather outside had only worsened, except now it was after sunset and it was hard to tell what was going on. I checked my BlackBerry weather app—tornado watch for the entirety of Southwest Ontario. I mentioned this to my teammates and they dismissed it with the Ontarian nonchalance to which I’d become accustomed. I could see clearly out the window, as we were on the top edge of the “Hamilton Mountain,” every time the lightning flashed, just how unusual and fast moving the cloud formations were. I could feel myself getting jittery, so I just had more beer. A couple of beers later, I checked my BlackBerry again—this time it said tornado warning for Hamilton. I announced to everyone, with panic in my voice, that there was a tornado warning, expecting them to now take the threat seriously; their response struck me dumb—“Oh, well a warning is better than a watch. It just means to be warned that there might be a tornado where a watch means that we should watch because we can see a tornado.” I thought, “My god, these people don’t even know the difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning.” I looked up at the corrugated metal roof of the arena, heard the winds outside, and chugged more beer.

Luckily, Sarah stayed sober, and as she drove us home, I could sense that something was not right with the atmosphere. I strained my eyes with each lightning flash, scanning the horizon for funnel clouds, as I had learned when I attended the county-sheriff-sponsored tornado spotter training when I lived in Michigan. I didn’t see anything, but I knew there was a tornado in the area. I wished it was daylight so I could see it—I could sense one was near. Then I dismissed the feeling as nothing more than the beer influencing my judgement and tried to sit still for the rest of the ride home. As we got back into Cambridge, I noticed that the streets in my neighbourhood were covered with debris. I spotted a few large downed tree branches, but the power was still on so I assumed we had just missed a bad storm. The night was now very still and silent. We went in the house, comforted the dogs, took showers, and went to bed.

The next morning on my way to work, I drove from my house and the first few blocks were a complete mess. There were huge trees down, branches everywhere, tree debris all over the streets. Then, suddenly, after a few blocks, there was no more debris. I remembered that there aren’t any tornadoes in Canada, and so assumed that localized damage like that must have been due to a downburst during the storm. What a fool I was. It turns out that a confirmed F1 tornado had touched down in my neighbourhood and then continued on a 15km path towards Hamilton. We had been driving home from the arena in the midst of it all the night before. My tornado sense was right again. What was most unfortunate about the event, though, was that an F1 tornado touched down in a residential area, only trees were damaged, and the power didn’t even go out for more than a half hour. It made me worry that the people affected by the tornado would say, “Hey, if that was a tornado, that was no big deal,” because the Canadians I know don’t need any more reason to believe that tornadoes are no cause for alarm.

Last month, I was at work when the weather began to turn crazy again. By now, even my co-workers were believing in these mythical creatures called tornadoes, and they, sensing my unease, also started to feel a bit uneasy. My co-worker Justyna began having trouble concentrating on work and was continually checking the weather websites for any indication of tornadic weather. I suspected that neither of my co-workers had any idea what to do if a tornado was approaching, not that we had any alarms or sirens to alert us of such an imminent threat, so I asked them, “Do you guys know where you would go if there was a tornado coming?” Justyna said she would go outside and Kevin said he would go into the bathroom. So, I said, “Okay guys, let’s take a little field trip.”

Of course, in the absence of any official company protocol for a tornado event, I had identified, probably in my third day on the job, several places in the building where I could go. So, I led my co-workers to the underground parking garage and showed them exactly where the safest part of the garage was, away from the garage door and behind a support wall. On the way back to our desks on the second floor, I pointed out other areas of the building that would be suitable tornado shelter areas, as there are approximately 400 people working in my building.

On August 21 of this year, an F3 tornado hit the small southwestern Ontario town of Goderich. The tornado was about a mile wide and destroyed the city. One person was killed and several were injured. Even after this, I have still spoken to friends and co-workers here who insist that there aren’t tornadoes in Ontario. When I remind them of the serious tornadoes that have occurred in just the three years since I have lived in southwest Ontario, they dismiss these as once-in-a-generation events. I shudder to think of what type of catastrophe would occur before they take the threats of tornadoes seriously or before employers and schools take measures to protect their students and employees. Meanwhile, I will continue to be a Chicken Little, and when the sky does fall, I’ll be in my basement at home or with as many people as I can drag with me to my company’s underground parking garage.

For more information on tornado safety, check out http://www.spc.noaa.gov/faq/tornado/safety.html

The Seal Hunt Factor

Last month, the Vancouver Canucks hockey team lost their final game of the Stanley Cup Final in Vancouver to the Boston Bruins. Before the game, there were fears that upset fans might riot in the streets of Vancouver, and it turns out those fears were not unrealistic. Some Canucks fans went crazy in the streets of town after the loss, overturning vehicles, setting cars on fire, breaking into city shops, and committing all other sorts of vandalism along with fistfights and assaults.

Following this event, the people of Canada were horrified. Every news channel was showing interviews with peace-loving Canadians, aghast at the thought that the rest of the world was seeing the behavior of a people who are known for being gentle, helpful, and polite. All over every media outlet were various Canadians, from celebrities to politicians to regular citizens, explaining that this is NOT how Canadians behave. Canadians are generally peaceful and non-violent.

Around this time, I received a call from my dad. He said, "So, I've been hearing about these riots in Vancouver on the radio," as talk radio is his preferred form of "news." I replied, "Oh, yeah? Most Canadians are really alarmed that the world has seen this behavior."

My dad continued, "Well, what they were saying on the radio is how much Canadians like violence. After all, there are these hockey riots. Of course the Canadians love hockey fights. And, you know, that cage fighting , the UFC or whatever it's called? Well, apparently that's more popular in Canada than anywhere else."

I paused to consider the irony of someone who has been, at various stages of his life, a boxing fan, a hunter, a gun owner. Instead, I reassured him that Canadians are not violent and that I have found them to be much less violent, in fact, than Americans. I was very frustrated (though not surprised) that the American media had seized upon this opportunity to slam Canadians and their supposed violent tendencies.

Three nights later, I was getting ready for my hockey game. As usual, the conversation of my teammates was buzzing and there are so many separate but interesting conversations going on at once, I often don't know on which to focus. But, I picked up on one of my teammates, who is absolutely alarmed by any violence to animals, talking with another teammate who was planning to go game fishing. The one teammate couldn't figure out why anyone would want to hurt a fish just for fun. Everyone laughed at her. To participate in the joviality, I added my own comment. I sarcastically said, "Yeah, you could just go seal clubbing instead."

The room became dead silent. I realized I had said something I shouldn't have, but I didn't really know why. Then others decided to retort. "I don't have a problem with the seal hunt," said one. "Yeah, the seals eat all the fish" said another. A third chimed in with "They are overpopulated. Besides, that's how the people who live out there make a living." And finally, or at least the last thing I heard before I started talking with Sarah about something different just to tune it out, "Well, they do die pretty quickly. It's just a big quick hook sunk into their head. A quick death."

I was amazed to hear these people, normally caring, compassionate, and non-violent, so wholeheartedly defending a violent act. And this was not the first time since I'd been in Canada that I'd heard otherwise reasonable and intelligent people voicing their support of the seal hunt.

[In the spirit of full disclosure, I think it's important to mention that I have always been opposed to hunting of any type. To me, it's nothing more than killing for fun. Why do people need to go out and kill deer when they can buy meat at the store? Well, the obvious answer is because they find hunting (killing) to be an enjoyable activity. I am not necessarily opposed to eating animals, but I am disgusted by the idea of killing as recreation. I also don't buy the argument that people hunt because they can't afford food--the firearms, ammo, hunting license, beer, processing, and travel to the hunting area all cost just as much, if not more, than buying food from a grocery store. I also am aware that some native populations retain their rights to hunt through treaty, and hunting is their traditional way of life. I don't have an issue with that--until they start selling their hunting rights to (usually American) hunting tourists. If they can sell their hunting rights, they must not need to hunt to live.]

So, just as when I tried to defend the American intellect despite Sarah Palin's idiocy, I felt just as frustrated and betrayed at trying to defend the non-violent nature of Canadians despite the seal hunt idiocy. The Canadian media has been expert at extolling the virtues of the seal hunt to the Canadian public, and people who would normally be able to think for themselves have swallowed whole these arguments in favor of the hunt, which are mostly centered on economic reasons. Even the violence-loving United States has banned the purchase of any pelts from the seal hunt. As has most of the rest of the world. There is a major boycott of Canadian seafood products in the US, and this boycott is based on the fact that most of the non-natives who participate in the seal hunt are also fishermen when they're not clubbing seals.


As much as I hate, hate, hate deer/elk/bear hunting, at least in those situations, the creature has a chance, albeit minimal, to run away. Not so for baby seals that are flat on their stomachs on ice floes as men run up to them and bludgeon their heads with heavy hooks. And, I also don't buy these overpopulation arguments. I think it's pretty obvious that there is one creature on this planet that has overpopulated itself, and it ain't deer, seals, or elk. If anything, the seal population is running into trouble due to the receding ice areas in the Arctic (due to global warming or whatever you want to call it--the ice is melting).

So, the next time I hear Canadians commention on how stupid Americans are, I'm just going to smile and blow it off. Same goes for when I hear Americans talking about how Canadians love violence. I'm done defending people who don't even defend themselves through their actions.

The Palin Factor

I was out for drinks with my soccer team on Sunday after our game. Several of the players from the opposing team joined us, some friends, and some who I only met that day. One of the gals I had just met started on a rant about Americans and how they don’t know their own history. After all, she explained, when she was in Boston, she asked a Bostonian when they celebrate the Boston Tea Party, and apparently the Bostonian responded with a confused look and an “I don’t know.”

“I think that we [Canadians] know more about American history than they do!” she confidently declared.

These types of comments grate on my nerves. She knew I was American, yet she still made this comment, which I took as a personal insult. I could have defended my countrymen by explaining that there isn’t a formal holiday celebrating the Boston Tea Party. I could have explained that perhaps the Bostonian thought she was referring to the newly-formed right-wing political party, The Tea Party, which is essentially an arm of the Republican Party and thus didn’t know how to respond. Instead I just clenched my jaw in silence and waited for Sarah or one of my friends to defend me. Sarah changed the subject.

That evening after I was home, I was still feeling quite irritated by the comment, and I wasn’t sure if I was more irritated with the Canadian who said it, irritated with myself for not responding, or irritated with my friends and spouse for not calling her on her baseless generalization. I should have set the record straight—most Americans are quite educated and aware of their history. In fact, all the Americans with whom I regularly associate are brilliant and knowledgeable people.

Then I turned on my computer and went to Facebook.

Several of my American friends had posted a YouTube clip of the infamous Alaskan village idiot and Presidential hopeful Sarah Palin retelling the story of Paul Revere in her own twisted version, obviously geared towards National Rifle Association members. Her facts were wrong—Paul Revere’s intention was not to warn “the British that they weren't going to be taking away our arms by ringing those bells and making sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free,” as she so very eloquently explained.

Revere was alerting the American militia to be ready for a British attack. Everyone knows this—or so I thought.

I don’t know how I can continue to defend the American intellect when widely-supported American political figures such as Palin boldly spout out such garbage. I doubt my new Canadian acquaintance who finds Americans ignorant about their own history had seen the Palin clip when she made her unequivocal statement about Americans’ knowledge, or she would have probably mentioned it as evidence. But if I had gone six rounds with her, defending Americans and their awareness of their own history, I would have looked even more foolish when this Canadian discovered this Palin clip online later.

I guess, for now, I just have to find solace in the fact that my friends back in the US are as appalled by the Palin debacle as I am, and the reason they are so appalled is because they know enough history to know that Palin is wrong.

Then again, Palin’s supporters are now actively claiming that her version of history is correct and are even trying to re-write history to match her version. If the woman does get elected as President of the United States, I might just have no choice but to start denying that I have any association with that country. God willing, I will be a Canadian citizen before the 2012 election.

We Have Huge News.

Last week, on March 29, I received an e-mail from Immigration Equality, the immigration arm of the Human Rights Campaign, the largest LGBT advocacy group in the US. I have been on their mailing list for many years, even before they were part of the HRC. Usually their e-mails would be something to the effect of “Today the Permanent Partners Immigration Act was introduced into the U.S. House of Representatives for the thirty-fifth time. . .” After I moved to Canada, I really kind of only skimmed any e-mails they sent, as their news wasn’t particularly relevant to me in my new situation. But, the e-mail I received last week, with the subject line of “We have huge news.” got my attention. Apparently the news was not huge enough to warrant an exclamation point, but I decided to read the e-mail anyway. It began:

“Yesterday, the Obama Administration announced that it will allow LGBT couples to apply for green cards while courts consider the constitutionality of the Defense of Marriage Act. This is a major step forward for our families, and the first domino to fall for LGBT Americans with foreign national spouses. . . .”

If I would have received such an e-mail three years ago (which, I know, would not have been possible as Obama was not president then), I would have felt my heart stop for a moment and then cried. Instead, I felt my heart stop for a moment and then almost cried.

Turns out “huge news” was a bit of an understatement. Never before in US history have US citizens been allowed to sponsor their foreign same-sex partners for permanent residency. My first thought, actually, was “Oh, God, I hope my mom doesn’t see this,” knowing she would immediately expect, if not demand, that I sponsor Sarah for a US green card and return, post haste, to Michigan. Then I read it again, let out an extended sigh, closed the e-mail, and just sat in stunned silence.

What would have once been the best news I could have heard was now leaving me feeling very confused. I could sense my blood pressure had gone up, and I had a bit of an empty and hollow spot in my stomach.

Before I continue, let me explain the significance of this announcement for my Canadian friends who have been a bit baffled by the terminology. In 1996, the US legislature passed a law, in direct response to some U.S. states extending marriage rights to same sex couples, which basically made it illegal for the federal government to recognize any marriage that was not between one man and one woman, nor could the federal government require any state to recognize such marriages. This law is commonly referred to as DOMA, or the Defense of Marriage Act. This was not a change to the US Constitution, but a federal law. As immigration (and other many important aspects of life including some taxes and retirement benefits) are regulated by the federal government, this law has been a significant impediment, and to this point, an insurmountable obstacle, to same-sex bi-national immigration. In recent years, the law has been challenged in a series of ever-escalating court cases. The Obama administration initially required that the U.S. Justice Department fight to uphold this law in a federal court, where it was being challenged. I’m guessing that when “the Obama administration” realized that GLBT people in the US were feeling ignored and even betrayed and about to break ranks with the Democratic Party, the story was suddenly changed and the Attorney General was then told to stop defending DOMA. So, while this federal case is being argued, the status of DOMA is in limbo. This is why the Obama Administration is now allowing GLBT US citizens to sponsor their foreign partners for “green cards,” which is just a slang term for “US permanent residency status.”

When Sarah and I moved to Canada, we vowed that this would be our only international move. We made a decision that Canada would be our new permanent home. Now, here I am, for the first time, faced with an actual option of returning to the USA.

I was also faced with extreme conflicting emotions. I didn’t really know, and still don’t know, what I have been feeling since learning of this landmark change. Obviously, if I have no plans to move back to the US, it should be a meaningless announcement to me. But, I think I was mostly angry. Angry that this was happening too late to help us. Angry that we had already given up so much by leaving. Angry that I am still feeling the career, social, and financial implications of what has essentially been a restart to my adult life.

I will not return to the USA, though, even if these new developments do work out in favor of the LGBT bi-national couples. First, I have no desire to take another hit, another setback, socially, career-wise, or financially by moving back to Michigan. Moving back there would not give me back everything I’ve lost. In fact, I would be taking another further step backwards. Second, I am finally getting to the point where Canada feels like home. I have, finally, established friendships. I have started to make my mark in my job. Sarah just got a new job with a famous and well-respected Canadian company that she loves. We have taken on leadership roles on our soccer teams and with our hockey league. We are only months away now from being eligible to apply for Canadian citizenship. Canada gave us hope when we had none—this is a gift that will never be forgotten, and a I gift I doubt that Sarah and I can ever fully repay, though we will try until we die. I know where my devotion lies, and it is not with a country that still, current events notwithstanding, views me as a second-class citizen.

Furthermore, these events in the US will not change the bigoted mindsets of the many Americans who would, in all probability, prefer I stay in Canada. Just yesterday, I had to pick up a rental car to use while my car is being repaired. At the rental car office, I went through the normal stomach-churning discomfort of waiting for an opportunity to tell the agent that I needed my spouse to be listed as a driver on the rental car. When it was revealed that my spouse was, like me, a female, I was the only one in the place who was feeling any discomfort. I can recount numerous incidents renting vehicles in the US where the routine exercise of renting a car included humiliating interrogations and seconds of uncomfortable silence. Of course I am not so naive to believe that all Canadians are ok with same-sex couples. However, if I have encountered any Canadians who do have a discomfort, they’ve hidden it well.

I believe that when I moved to Canada, I was so busy with life in general, setting up a home, finding a job, getting a drivers’ license, starting a bank account, getting healthcare, etc., that I never really had time to deal with all the anger I had about having to leave my home country. Perhaps this is why I now feel so much anger. Yet, I truly am happy for those LGBT bi-national couples that will most likely not have to go through the pain and hardship that Sarah and I did.

Detroit: My Adopted Home Town

Growing up in a small town in Western Michigan, I was taught from an early age that we West Michiganders were not like the people from the east side of the state, the east side of the state being the greater Detroit area. I can remember family vacations out of state when I was quite small, and my parents, upon meeting other couples, were asked where they were from. If they responded with only "Michigan," the inquiring party would blurt out, "Oh--Detroit!" This assumption that all people from Michigan were from Detroit irked my parents to no end, and they went to great lengths, including using the famous readily-available hand map, to demonstrate that they were not from Detroit. They believe to this day, arguably correctly, that there is a stigma associated with hailing from Detroit, a stigma they wanted in no way attached to themselves or to their kids.

Once when I was about ten, I asked my parents why they were so angry when people assumed we were from Detroit. I had no idea--I had not been to the Detroit area since I was four years old, and remembered little about it. Despite obligingly following all the Detroit professional sports teams, as almost all good Michiganders do, my parents never traveled to the Detroit area. They much preferred Chicago as a destination, also a three-hour drive from our house. My parents frequently raved about the virtues of Chicago--the lakeshore, the friendliness of the people, the abundance of culture. In response to my youthfully ignorant inquiry as to why my parents would be upset if anyone assumed we were from Detroit, my parents told me, "We're not like them. They don't hold doors open for you. They don't say 'please' or 'thank you.' They are big city people and don't care about others. They would walk right past you if you were dying on the street and not help. They have big mouths and always think they are right. They drive fast and recklessly. They are even so stupid that they feed seagulls on the beach!"

Being young and impressionable, I just believed that we West Michiganders were truly classier and superior to our eastern counterparts because we were quiet, unassuming, caring, and polite. (In retrospect, I wonder how much of what I was told they were like had to do with the rather physical characteristics that set us apart.)

When I was in my mid-20s, I took a job as a computer software trainer, based in Grand Rapids, the second biggest city in Michigan, but definitely characterized as a Western Michigan town. While most of my workdays were spent in West Michigan, my company had three offices in the Detroit area. It wasn't long before I was asked to travel to one of those locations to teach a class. I was filled with so much anxiety--would everyone there treat me rudely? Would I get run off the road on a five-lane highway? (There are approximately six miles of highway with more than two lanes in all of West Michigan.) If I got lost, would anyone help me? Would I be mugged or murdered? I left late at night in the darkness, cranked up my tunes, and after two hours, hit the three-lane, and then four and five-lane, expansion and 85 mph traffic! It was a rush! Everyone drove quickly but safely. Tall, uniquely lit buildings were everywhere, and I felt exhilarated, like I was really an adult in a big city.

The next day, I was surprised to see that the students in my class were just as friendly and polite as those in my classes in Grand Rapids, although the physical makeup of the class was much more diverse. And, while I was teaching at that office for a couple of days, the other instructors, who I'd never met before, took me out to lunch and dinner and did their best to make me feel welcomed. I even made a few lasting friendships.

After that experience, I was not reluctant to travel to "The D" at all. Sarah and I started going there for Red Wings games, museum exhibits, shopping, and for the variety of ethnic restaurants that we were sorely lacking in Grand Rapids. The Detroit airport became our airport of choice and was far easier, faster, and more efficient than either of the main Chicago airports we had been using. All the while, I felt kind of cheated that there was so much going on in Detroit that I had not been allowed to experience as a kid.

Most importantly, I learned that I had quite a bit in common with the Detroiters, even more than I had in common with my fellow West Michiganders. Clearly opposite was the political climate. West Michigan is about as red as Alabama politically, yet Michigan tends to show up as a blue state in federal elections. This azure can be credited only to the voting predilection of the Detroit area. I wasn't ridiculed by the Detroiters for mistrusting Bushes or for thinking that it's a good idea to protect the planet, and being gay was not as much of an issue in The D. Another obvious difference was the Detroiters’ tendency to participate in sports as well as be spectators. The Detroit area had so many more opportunities for women to play sports than in West Michigan, both at an adult recreational and high school level. When I graduated from high school in the early 1990s, my high school didn't even have a women's soccer team. Yet, my female counterparts in Detroit had women's soccer at all their high schools. Girls' or women's hockey? In West Michigan, that was also non-existent, yet Detroit had classes and leagues (and even salespeople at sports stores who didn't behave oddly when a female went in shopping for hockey equipment). The other very noticeable characteristic of the Detroit area was the prevalence of Catholics. In West Michigan, I was definitely in an often-shunned minority being Catholic. Most West Michiganders are protestant, and specifically Dutch Christian Reformed. I had frequently felt like an outsider when I was in school because I didn't go to the same youth group as my classmates--I went to CCD. I didn't go to the same church as the majority of my classmates. My parents were not afraid to drink alcohol or mow their lawns on Sundays. To my classmates and their families, this was sacrilege.

Upon moving to Ontario, anytime I mentioned that I was from Michigan, I would be encountered with the now-familiar assumption that I am from Detroit. I would be told stories about times when people were lost in bad neighborhoods in that city, I would be asked if I knew so-and-so who lived in X suburb of Detroit, told stories of experiences at kids' hockey tournaments in X suburb of Detroit, and approached for information about my favorite casinos and restaurants in Detroit. Out of learned habit, I would insist that Michigan was bigger than Detroit and that I wasn't from Detroit, but to no avail. When my hockey teammates nicknamed me "Motown" during my first year playing, I decided that resistance to this conception was futile. I have some friends in Canada who I've known for over two years who will still ask me, after holiday weekends, if I went to Detroit to visit my family. I've stopped trying to explain, stopped pulling out my hand map, and just resorted to simple yes or no answers.

Since I've lived in Ontario, I've been to Detroit several times, and not just on my way to other parts of the state. Detroit is only as far from where I live now as it was from Grand Rapids. Add the time at the border crossing of course, but if timed right, it's a worthwhile trip. Most often we are going to Red Wings' games, but we will also go shopping, out for dinner, or to meet up with friends. On our most recent trip to the Detroit area, Sarah and I were sitting in a restaurant near the entrance of a mall, and I was watching all the locals coming and going. It was nowhere near baseball season, but almost everyone that came into the mall had either a Tigers hat, sweatshirt, or jacket bearing the big Olde English "D." After about 45 minutes of observing this recurring characteristic, I thought about how people in Detroit are very proud of being from Detroit. Detroit is commonly thought of, in both Canada and the US, as the worst possible city to visit. Clearly, the people who live in the Detroit area or who grew up there feel this stigma and know that any misconceptions of the city are automatically extended to them as residents or products of the area. Therefore, they have reacted by becoming even more proud of their hometown. On the highway in southeast Michigan, you'll see the big "D" decals on so many vehicles. I can't back this up with statistics, but I certainly believe that not all these people are avid baseball fans--the "D" has come to represent something much larger than the Tigers. "Defiance" and "determination" come to mind.

I recently overheard someone from Ontario remarking that Detroit was the ugliest city he'd ever seen. Someone else then chimed into the conversation about how "scary" Detroit is. I've been all over downtown Detroit. I've seen some "scary" areas, and I've seen some great areas. I also have seen the area just off the Ambassador Bridge that Canucks see when they come into the US via Detroit, usually on their way to somewhere other than Michigan. If that neighborhood is all they've really experienced of Detroit, I can see how that memory would mesh with the other stereotypes of Detroit as seen on TV. I can say honestly, though, that I've been scared out of my wits in Chicago more times than I've ever been afraid while in Detroit.

I certainly admire people who live in a not-so-pleasant climate in a state with a decimated economy who can still be proud of that place. In the same way that I have no tolerance for unfair stereotypes of Americans, I have no tolerance for unfair stereotypes of Detroit. I have also tired of trying to explain to people that though I'm from Michigan, I'm not from Detroit, and so for all these reasons, I'm calling Detroit my adopted hometown. I feel an inexplicable sense of belonging when I'm in Detroit that I don't even feel yet in Ontario. And I know that, because of the reputation of Detroit as tough, I pick up instant street cred by claiming it as my own.

Sarah is from northern England, and similarly to the US, there is a big north-south divide there. She also grew up being told how she, as a northerner, was different from southerners (ie, Londoners). When she moved to North America, so many people she met instantly assumed she was from London. For a while, she vigilantly fought this perception, but then after a while, stopped trying to explain that she was from Nottingham and not from London. Her gradual attachment to London has been similar to my gradual attachment to Detroit. She spent so much of her life defining herself as not from London, but when she moved to a different country, suddenly she found she actually had more in common with the people from that city than she did with her new countrymen. I can't help but think that all the Ontarians I have observed contemptuously identifying themselves as not from Toronto would feel much more affection towards Canada's largest city if they moved out of Canada.

Shopping Lists!

Quite often, when my friends in Canada find out that I have an upcoming trip to “the States,” I get requests to bring back items that are either not readily available in Canada or are much cheaper to buy in the US. Over time, I also began getting similar requests from my US friends for items they wanted me to bring them from Canada.

Now when I am planning any cross-border excursions, I generally have three shopping lists. The first shopping list is for purchases I must complete in Canada before I leave for the US. On this list, I will usually have:

• Ketchup-flavored potato chips
• Kinder Surprise chocolate (but not those dangerous eggs >http://news.sympatico.cbc.ca/consumernews/kinder_surprise_egg_seized_at_us_border/84fa70ed)

• Alexander Keith’s India Pale Ale
• Sleeman Draught
• Swiss Chalet seasoning mix
• Maple flavored cookies
• Ice wine
• Spectro Jel
• Kettle-cooked peanuts

The second list is my list of what I need to purchase in the US to bring back for my Canadian friends. It used to be that my top request was for Aleve, but luckily for me, that is now available in Canada, so I have more time to shop for other items. My list of stuff to pick up in Michigan for the Canucks usually includes:

• Payday candy bars
• Cherry Coke
• Peanut Butter Captain Crunch
• Jalepeno Cheetos
• Flaming Hot Cheetos
• Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper
• Cornbread mix
• Beer or liquor (because it's cheaper than in Canada)
• Red Wings stuff

Then there is a third list of stuff I can’t get in Canada that I need to pick up for myself while in the US. This list includes:

• Canned white corn
• Roast beef hash
• Fat-free canned ravioli
• Mexican seasonings
• Nice, sweet Michigan wines
• Chili beans
• Pinto beans
• Slim Jims
• Mucinex
• Zyrtec-D
• Canine brewer’s yeast tablets
• Decent sunflower seeds (in shell)
• Spicy microwave popcorn
• 1% hydrocortisone cream

Another part of the third list is of stuff that inexplicably costs soooo much more in Canada, even though the identical product is sold in both countries.

• Chap Stick Moisturizing lip balm ($1 in US, $3.50 in Canada)
• Pure cranberry juice--not from concentrate ($4 in US, $11 in Canada)
• Case of 24 bottles of beer--example, Miller Chill ($17 in US, $42 in Canada)
• Emergen-C drink mix ($9 per box in US, $21 in Canada)

I do know that some of the items on my lists are available in both countries, but, again, either they are much more expensive in one country, or they are not easy to find in both countries.

I’d be very interested to know what types of items my readers have found lacking in one country or another. Leave me some comments with your shopping lists. Or, if you know of a store in Canada that is easily accessible and carries some of the items I previously was buying in the US, I would appreciate that information as well!

One final note—after just returning from the US, I was happy to come back to Canada with two large tubes of 1% hydrocortisone cream that cost me less than $10. I am allergic to many things, as is my dog, so we both get through a lot of hydrocortisone. Much to my dismay, the best I can find in Canada are small tubes of .5% hydrocortisone cream which cost about $7 each. The 1% is much more effective for bug bites, hives, and the like. I was putting the cortisone I had just purchased from the US into my medicine cabinet, and out of curiosity, I checked out the label. The brand was a US store brand. But sure enough, the fine print on the label said “Made in Canada.”