My Life in Exile de Facto

Back on the Emotional Rollercoaster--Momentarily

2012-01-15T13:25:00.003-05:00

Back in December, there were reports that former Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien had been sending communications to supporters of the Liberal party warning them that Harper's Conservative government was secretly planning to repeal same-sex marriage. This was dismissed as propaganda and posturing, and I took no notice.

Then, suddenly, earlier this week, the news was that the Canadian Department of Justice lawyer had told a couple who was married in Canada but never resided in Canada that their marriage was invalid as it wasn't recognized in their home jurisdictions (Florida and United Kingdom). I soon had friends contacting me, asking me how this affected Sarah and my marriage.

At first, I went into panic mode, and for the first time in several years, I could feel the anxiety about the security and permanence of my relationship building up again. I thought about it for a while--I wasn't sure what to think. After all, at the time Sarah and I were married in Windsor in 2006, we were landed immigrants but not yet permanent residents. We were still living in Michigan at that time, so I had no idea, if this recent court decision declaring same-sex marriages of non-residents invalid would affect us.

Thinking about it a bit more, I realized that Sarah and I have been living together in Canada as permanent residents for over three years, making us common law spouses in Canada regardless. That made me feel a bit better, but I still didn't like the idea that my treasured marriage certificate was meaningless.

The next day, the Conservatives started rapidly backpedaling after a tidal wave of backlash from the gay community. The Justice Minister and the Prime Minister both said that they had no intention of invalidating same-sex marriages, and Harper said, as he has said for many years now, that he considers the gay-marriage debate settled, and I do believe him. Now, whether his other ministers and appointees feel the same way. . .I'm not so confident.

As much as I feel a bit better about the situation now that the Conservative government is saying that they are going to find a way to ensure that all same-sex marriages performed in Canada are valid in Canada, that brief moment of panic reminded me of the stress and anxiety I left behind when I moved from Michigan. Some of the nasty Republican presidential candidates' campaign commercials that happen to come across my TV here from US television stations also remind me of an entire element of stress I no longer have in my life.

However, whether Harper says the same-sex debate is closed in Canada, it clearly isn't or this whole topic wouldn't even be in the news now. Only time will tell what the actual implications are. But, there are two things I know for sure--1) Perhaps when Liberals like Chretien express a concern, they shouldn't be so readily dismissed as Chicken Littles, and 2) A government's recognition of civil rights is never guaranteed, and those rights can disappear at any time. It's a very slippery slope. As one of my favorite sayings goes, "Ignore your rights and they'll go away."

The Application is in the Mail!

2012-01-11T18:13:00.002-05:00

This past Monday, January 9, I mailed in Sarah's and my Canadian citizenship applications! What a relief to have that off in the mail. We had planned to send it in as soon as we were eligible, which was back in November, but we needed more time to gather the $200 per-person fee, so we waited until after the holidays.

The application process was relatively simple. All of the information you need to apply can be found on the Citizenship and Immigration Canada website.

They provide a checklist that you must include with your application so that you will be sure to include everything required.

Based on my experience going through the application process, here are some tips I have for others who will apply for citizenship.

1) Filling out the application--The application cannot be saved once you fill out the online PDF form. Be very sure the information is accurate before you print it and especially before you close it. If you find a mistake later, you will need to redo the entire application. Also, note that the instructions for the application require you to fill in many fields exactly as they appear on your immigration documents (record of landing, etc.).

2) Paying the fees--If you plan to pay the fees through a bank, as I did, instead of online by credit card, be sure to request the official receipt from the CIC. This will take a couple of weeks to arrive in the mail, so plan accordingly. Also, once you go to the bank to pay the fee, be sure to bring the receipt with you and also a printout of the instructions for paying through a financial institution which are hard to find on the site but can be found when you click here and scroll down just a bit. When I went to the bank to pay, I specifically asked to speak with a teller who had processed a citizenship application fee before.

3) Citizenship photos--As the instruction guide clearly states, citizenship photos are NOT the same as passport photos. I would suggest going to a reputable photographer who also does passport photos, but be sure to bring the CIC instructions for the photos to the photographer so he or she can see the exact dimensions. You may even want to ask if the photographer has done citizenship photos in the past. Ask the photographer to double check the requirements on the document and be sure the photos are correctly done. If the photos do not meet the specifications of the CIC, you will need to have them redone. Depending on where you go to get the photos done, they will cost about $10-$15. You are responsible for providing the information on the back of the photos, but most photographers will stamp the backs of the photos with their information and the date the photos were taken.

4) Residency calculator--The CIC provides an online residency calculator so you can be sure you actually meet your residency requirement before applying. The best thing about the residency calculator is that you can save it and update it. You can even save multiple residency calculators so that you maintain separate records for everyone in your family. If you have moved to Canada and are a permanent resident and ever think you may apply for citizenship, you should start using the residency calculator immediately to track your days outside of the country. It will be a lot easier to track these days as you go than to try to enter in three years' worth of trips all at once. I didn't know that the online calculator existed until about a year ago, so up until that time, I was using a paper calendar to track every trip Sarah and I took out of the country since we moved to Canada. You will then print and attach the residency calculator to your application.

5) Read all instructions before beginning the process--The last thing anyone wants is for their application to be returned because something was not filled in or completed correctly. Read the instructions very carefully and more than once. Search the CIC site for more information on any part of the application that isn't clear to you.

I have checked the processing times for the application, and the CIC site says it is currently taking 19 months. However, others I have spoken with, including immigration consultants, believe that the time is actually much shorter.

As I continue to go through this process, I will provide updates here that will hopefully be helpful to others who will go through the Canadian citizenship application.

I have attempted to provide relevant links in this entry, but the government likes to reorganize their site often, so it may be that these links are outdated quickly. However, you should still be able to find all the information you need on the CIC website by searching or following the links.

When a Canadian is Not a Canadian

2011-12-30T05:14:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-20T04:41:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-07T05:33:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-02T18:12:00.004-05:00

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?

2011-10-18T17:50:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-28T12:56:00.004-04:00

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

2011-06-07T07:31:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-04-06T18:07:00.004-04:00

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

2011-01-31T05:23:00.001-05:00

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!

2011-01-11T05:28:00.011-05:00

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.”

Thanksgiving vs. Thanksgiving

2010-12-03T18:34:00.003-05:00

Last week Thursday was a landmark day for me. I was in Canada, at the office, working away at insurance while the whole of the United States was celebrating what is arguably their most beloved holiday—Thanksgiving. This was the first time in my life that I had to go to work or school on the fourth Thursday of November. Oh, and it was also the first time in my life that I had to go to work or school on the fourth Friday in November, as I had always been fortunate enough to have jobs where I was given both Thanksgiving and the following day off from work or school.

The first two years I was in Canada, I was sure to take these days off and travel to Michigan to meet up with my family. This year, however, for various reasons, I just simply did not have enough vacation days left. Earlier this year, my parents suggested that our family rent a beach house in Florida for Christmas, and I warned them that if I was going to take off those extra days in December, I wouldn’t have enough vacation remaining to spend US Thanksgiving with them as well.

But as November got closer and eventually arrived, I started to feel the pain of this decision. In a previous post (ironically about Canadian Thanksgiving), I mentioned that one typically feels the loneliest when surrounded by others who are not lonely. Thanks to the blessings of modern technology, I now have Facebook flaunting all the fun things my friends are doing, and this was particularly trying as my friends and family in the US began posting their Thanksgiving travel plans, the benefits of a three-day work week, and their planned recipes for Thanksgiving dinner dishes. Despite our earlier agreement, my parents continued to call me weekly starting in September, asking if I would be visiting for Thanksgiving. I reminded them that I had no vacation time, and assured them, to their great disbelief, that we do not get US Thanksgiving day or the following Friday as a paid holiday in Canada.

Several of my Canadian friends, in response to my complaining about missing the big US holiday said, "Well, just make your own turkey dinner!" My response was, "Yeah, that’s easy to do on a Thursday when I’ve been at work until 5 pm. I can get home, take off my coat, and throw a turkey in the oven and get peeling potatoes!"

The day before US Thanksgiving, I was out to lunch with some friends here in Canada, and I was lamenting that I would not be able to celebrate the upcoming holiday and how hard it was for me emotionally. Their sharp rebuke? "But you’ve ALREADY had your Thanksgiving holiday!!" They were, of course, referring to Canadian Thanksgiving, which is on the second Monday in October.

I stammered, grasping for some sort of justification for my sadness, and I eventually countered with the brilliant and always appreciated, "Yes, but US Thanksgiving is better!" The dubious glances and smirks I received in return demanded a further explanation. "Really, it is the second-biggest holiday in the US, " I added. "Everyone loves it because they have time off work, spend time with their families, and there are no religious or gift-giving obligations. They can just have fun with their families."

My friend Jamie then said, "Yes, but most people HATE spending time with their extended families! They find that stressful." I thought about it for a minute and just laughed, but I realized there was more than a grain of truth in her statement.

Over the next couple of days, while I was at work trying not to think that I really shouldn’t be at work at all, my mind kept wandering back to Jamie’s statement. Do most people really dislike going to large family gatherings, and if so, why do Americans like Thanksgiving so much? And why does it seem to me to be so much more of a fun and relaxing holiday than Canadian Thanksgiving?

Granted, I have been in Canada for three Thanksgivings, but I’ve celebrated thirty-six US Thanksgivings, so obviously my take is a bit biased. But I have determined that US Thanksgiving does have more to offer as a holiday than Canadian Thanksgiving, even considering the way so many people feel about spending time with their extended families. Here are the reasons that I love and miss US Thanksgiving, including the reasons that make it more enjoyable than its Canadian counterpart.

1) Genuine tradition. Thanksgiving was started in what is now the United States. I think it’s great that the Canadians decided to pick up on the idea and make their own holiday, but really, it’s an American tradition. (Yes, I know that Canada is part of North America and Canadians could call themselves "Americans," but until the word "America" is actually part of the formal name of their country, I will mean "United States of America people" when I say "Americans" because "United Statesians" is a bit too much of a mouthful.)

2) Lack of religious obligation. I was right about this the first time. Jesus may be the reason for the season at Christmas, and the first Thanksgiving was firmly rooted in Christianity, but as a Catholic, I can assure you that Thanksgiving is not a holy day of obligation. While many churches do have services on Thanksgiving, I don’t believe any mainstream religions require attendance. I am not saying that having to go to church ruins a holiday (and I’m not saying it doesn’t), but the best holidays are those that are free of any pre-determined time commitments. This, in itself, doesn’t differentiate US from Canadian Thanksgiving, but it does help explain why Thanksgiving is as well-loved as, if not more so than, Christmas.

3) Lack of gift obligations. I was right about this as well when I was explaining my rationale to my friends. Everyone loves Christmas. Christmas is everyone’s favorite holiday. Christmas is everyone’s favorite time of year. Well, at least it is their favorite until they are in the mall at the last minute, digging through the bubble bath sets and magnetic chess games, competing with other shoppers to buy something for someone out of a feeling of obligation to get them a gift whether that recipient needs anything or not and regardless of whether the giver really wants to give a gift. No one I know gives any presents at Thanksgiving. This means that there is a major family-themed holiday without the stress of buying, wrapping, and exchanging presents.

4) Two days off work. Some people, such as those in important jobs like nurses, police, and retail clerks, do not get the day after Thanksgiving off. But, most others do. Manufacturing plants are generally closed on the Friday after, as are schools and most types of businesses. This creates a four-day weekend as opposed to the three-day weekend in Canada.

5) Fewer outdoor pressures due to the time of year. Canadians and Americans both spend a lot of time and effort indoors for Thanksgiving—preparing meals, cleaning in anticipation of guests. But, in the US and particularly in the northern climates, there is little to do outside. Usually, the leaves have all been raked, the grass has stopped growing, and it has yet to start snowing. What this means to Americans is that they can sit around and relax for four days without feeling like they really should be out raking the leaves or mowing the lawn. In Michigan, from time to time, we had to shovel the walkway if it had snowed significantly, but that was only if we were having people over.

6) No putting off the hard stuff. Canadian Thanksgiving is on a Monday, at the end of a three-day weekend. Canadians may celebrate the holiday during the weekend, but most I know actually have their family gathering and dinner on the Monday. In the US, most people have their family get-together on the Thursday. Jamie is right—many people do not like to spend so much time with their extended family purely out of familial expectations. I can definitely vouch for this, as starting from the time I was quite young, my immediate family would go away for the whole four-day weekend so as to avoid the stressful festivities with the extended family. But, even saying that, even those who do not relish rejoicing with relatives, at least it is over quickly. Wednesday you’re at work, then you go home, stop at the store, get up Thursday, start cooking, go to the family gathering, eat a giant meal, and then go home on Thursday night. Before you know it, the compulsory family requirement is over AND YOU STILL HAVE A THREE-DAY WEEKEND TO LOOK FORWARD TO!!!! In Canada, the stress of preparing the meal gets prolonged and the weekend is spent preparing for the holiday on Monday.

7) Shopportunities. Even Canadians are familiar with the joys and sorrows of Black Friday. The retail sales are usually well-publicized and worth checking out for shoppers. This Friday became black mainly because so many people have the day off, and it is the last extra day they will have off until Christmas Eve. So, what better time to shop? The beauty of Black Friday is that people who don’t want to go shopping are free to just relax at home. The meal is already over and done. Football games are on TV. There is probably not urgent yard work to do, and if there was, in most parts of the US it would be too cold anyway. And, while lounging around, one can take advantage of the many glorious leftovers from the prior day’s feast. And after Friday? There’s still a whole weekend left.

Is there anything I prefer about Canadian Thanksgiving? Well, there is one characteristic that somehow redeems it—it’s lack of proximity to Christmas. US Thanksgiving is almost always within a month of Christmas, which means that most Americans have their two biggest holidays concentrated into a five-week period. If I could move US Thanksgiving, I wouldn’t move it to October for the reason explained in number 5 above. Maybe I’d move it a bit earlier in November? Actually, I think it would be great in early March, when there is almost nothing to celebrate and Americans are in the midst of their five-month hiatus from major holidays that stretches from Jan. 1 to the last Monday in May. But then, if Thanksgiving was in March, it just wouldn’t be the same because of the traditions explained in number 1 above as well as because of the traditions that families have created themselves over the years. And for those Americans who are reading this blog, if you can’t imagine that Thanksgiving would ever be quite the same or quite as good if it was in March, then you know how it feels for me when it falls on a Monday in October.

Language Lessons from the Canucks!

2010-11-10T07:21:00.002-05:00

Currently, I am taking a couple of classes. The first is an insurance class, and the second is an intermediate-level Spanish class. The insurance class is very dry, the material mostly common sense, and the information is stuff I already know from similar classes I completed in the US. But, if I am to complete my Canadian insurance designation, I still have to complete six more of these classes. The Spanish class has absolutely nothing to do with my job—I just enjoy language, and because I have a bit of a background in Spanish language, I thought I would pick it up again to help stave off Alzheimer’s.

Over the past week, I have learned more about the cultural connections to learning languages than I have in the entire time since I moved to Canada in 2008.

The first story is very disturbing, so you may not want to skip a few paragraphs if you have a weak stomach. Okay, not really, but it was disturbing to me. I was going through my Underwriting Essentials textbook and making notes as a way to study for my upcoming midterm exam. One topic I need to know was the four stages of fire. I started making my little bullet point list. I wrote, “Incipient, smouldering, fire. . .” and then stopped in horror as I couldn’t believe what I had just seen my hand write. Smouldering? SmOUldering??? What was this? My mind began racing—was this how the word was really spelled? Was this how I had always spelled the word? Was this a Canadian spelling, a US spelling, or both? I quickly consulted my handy chart of differences between US and Canadian spelling. The word was not on the chart in any form. My next step was to consult dictionary.com to see if “smoldering” was a legitimate spelling. Without the “u,” it did look odd to me. Sure enough, dictionary.com showed the definition for “smoldering” and I stared at the screen, stunned, as I came to terms with the fact that I had unknowingly began incorporating Canadian spellings.

I have wondered for a while if this would happen, and if it did happen, how long it would take. Apparently the answer for me is two years. I will now sometimes do a double take when I see “neighbor” or “favorite” spelled without the “u.” Since I moved here, I have been using my backspace key, fighting with Microsoft’s AutoCorrect when it adds Us that I didn’t type to words. I’m not sure if I care whether the U is there or not, but I don’t like the computer telling me how I should have spelled words that I already know how to spell.

As someone who usually has no problems with spelling (although the frequent typos in this blog might lead you to believe otherwise), the evidence provided by the smouldering gun was disturbing—I no longer could be confident that I knew how to spell certain words. I’ll soon be reduced to a fragile and shivering shell of my formerly sure-spelling self.

My Spanish class has provided a language experience on a whole new level. Yes, obviously I’m learning Spanish. But, I am now learning Spanish with a bunch of Canucks, and those Canucks add an unexpected aspect to the learning.

Most Americans of my age or younger have had some Spanish language education while in elementary or high school. It just so happens that back in the early 1980s, my third-grade teacher was married to a Uruguayan, and she would often give us mini lessons in Spanish. I also had two years in high school and another year in college (university). Even those Americans who have never taken a formal Spanish class have been exposed to a significant amount of Spanish through bi-lingual labels, signs, pop-culture references, and cultural events. This is almost a direct parallel with the way that most Canadians have some level of French comprehension, whether they’ve taken formal French classes or not.

Before I moved to Canada, I enrolled in a French language class because I thought this would be beneficial for me when I moved. I have never found languages difficult, but I really struggled with French. I couldn’t tell when you pronounced letters, when you didn’t, and why was there no rhyme or reason to emphasizing syllables? Looking back, I am pretty sure that I and all of my classmates pronounced all of the French with Spanish accents. How can I be so sure? Because all of my current classmates in my Spanish class pronounce Spanish with a French accent!

Sometimes my fellow students provide what is, to me, a comical combination of French and Spanish without even realizing it. Phrases such as “mon amigo,” “nouveau casa,” and “Sud America” make me chuckle inside. Each night in class, I am exposed to a new Frenish phrase. I seem to be the superstar of my class because I don’t struggle with the pronunciation of Spanish words—I know to pronounce the letter E when it appears at the end of a word. I think it’s just years of being exposed to Spanish words. The preposition “de,” common in both languages, is pronounced “day” in Spanish. Yet, my classmates cannot seem to break the habit of pronouncing it as “duh,” just as I consistently pronounced it “day” when I was taking French.

In my most recent Spanish class, some interesting biases of the Canadians were revealed which surprised me a great deal. Our teacher was trying to get us to practice using the past tense, so he asked us in Spanish, “What did you do last Saturday?” (¿Qué hiciste el sábado pasado?) When I asked, I responded with “I played ice hockey.” (Jugué hockey de hielo.) Everyone in the class became concerned because they didn’t know what “hielo” meant. The instructor explained that it meant “ice.” A classmate blurted out, “Well, doesn’t that go without saying?”

The vast majority of the world’s population will think “hockey” means field hockey. In fact, that would be the assumption almost anywhere except Canada and parts of the US. And although the Honduran and Venezuelan hockey teams did very well in the last winter Olympics, I think that adding the “ice” descriptor might be beneficial in countries where Spanish is the first language. My filter was off, so I blurted out in response, “Yeah, only in Canada does that go without saying.” I don’t think that statement did me any favors.

Later that night in class, the lady sitting next to me whispered, “Do you think they have any curse words in Spanish? I don’t think they do. They must just be very polite?” My filter was still not on, so I belted out “What?! Are you kidding me?!” which promptly gained the attention of the entire class and the instructor. The instructor, who is from Colombia, also looked a bit puzzled that the student would think that there were no swear words in Spanish, so she explained her question, “Well, we all know all the swear words in French, so I just thought that if there were swear words in Spanish, we would have already known about them.”

At least in Spanish, there aren’t too many words spelled with an “ou” in them. The “ou” spellings in English words are directly derived from French, and the Canucks preoccupation with French languages, for better or worse, indicates that these spellings aren’t going away any time soon. I’m going to have to make an extra effort to keep these language concepts separate in my head, or pretty soon I won’t know how to spell or pronounce anything correctly whether it’s French, English, or Spanish!

Political Pains

2010-10-25T06:24:00.002-04:00

Americans are very fond of aligning themselves with political parties. Those political affiliations play a large role in defining Americans as people. If you are a Republican, this is more than just a footnote on your personality profile—it becomes a badge of honor that you wear and defend every day. The same holds true with those who are Democrats. Your party affiliation can influence where you shop, where you buy gas, what apolitical charities you support, what clubs you will join, what sports teams back, and who you will befriend. Over 75% of Americans, when they register to vote, register as a member of one party or the other if that option is available in their states. Sure, there are other fringe parties in US politics, but these are either so short-lived or have too small of a membership to hold any significance. And, because there are only two major parties in the US, and because these parties are polar opposites, the social and political divide in the US is massive. I would go so far as to say that there is a lot of anger and hatred between voters of these parties.

In Canada, there are three, and some would argue four or five, major political parties. The comparatively abundant number of viable political philosophies effectively results in less dramatic and obvious polarization in Canada. I have yet to uncover any evidence that Canadians are given the option of registering as a member of a specific party when they register to vote. My conversations with Canadians has led me to make three generalizations that embody the political differences between Canadian and American voters: 1) Canadians are not as committed to parties--they will support a candidate for her beliefs and plans rather than solely based on her party affiliation; 2) Canadians don’t define themselves or judge others on their perceived or actual party affiliations; 3) Canadians who do align with a particular party do not necessarily view this as a permanent state nor do they agree wholesale with all of the positions that party espouses.

I have found these characteristics of the Canadian political landscape to be quite refreshing. While I was in the US, I would, right or wrong, judge someone based on what party they support. Oh, and for those of you who have not lived in the US, it’s easy to tell what party someone supports—Americans are not shy about sharing what many would consider to be very private information. You can tell a lot about Americans' political beliefs by the stickers they put on their cars, the signs they put in their yards, and most of all, the loud verbal broadcasts of their opinions occurring when they are sure that not only are their beliefs the right beliefs, but that everyone around will agree with them and nod approvingly at their wisdom.

I grew up in an area of Michigan that is close to 90% Republican leaning. As I got older and realized that there was almost nothing about the Republican tenets that meshed with my own beliefs, I also realized I was part of a very small minority. I was not really safe speaking out about my own political beliefs on issues unless I was certain I was in the company of like-minded individuals. Otherwise, I would be ganged up on by the Republicans. I became quite adept at identifying the non-Republicans in my midst and making connections. (I need to clarify that I hesitate to call myself a Democrat as I refused to identify a party affiliation when I registered to vote. Although I generally support Democratic candidates, I have no desire to align myself with a party.) I could also very easily identify the Republicans around me as they were not shy about divulging their opinions—why would they be? They’re surrounded by so many like-minded people in West Michigan.

Knowing that the Republican party does not support equal marriage rights (or equal rights for gays in general), and that those who vote for Republicans are essentially voting against my equal rights, created many a dilemma for me during my adult life in West Michigan. How could I be friends with someone who was proudly Republican? Even those Republicans, some of whom are in my own family, who say that they still support Sarah and me, vote against my constitutionally-granted rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness every time they cast a Republican ballot. I kept known Republicans at an arm’s length. I had been hurt too often by “friends” who eventually confided in me that they didn’t really believe I should have the right to marry Sarah, even if it meant me having to leave the country of my birth. They would happily take my tax money, invite me to their homes for dinner, accompany me to festivals. But, what their flagrant political opinions screamed to me was, “Sure, I like you, but I don’t believe that you deserve the same rights that I enjoy.”

If I started to befriend someone new and then gleaned any information indicating Republican inclinations, I would halt the progression of the relationship. After all, how could I ever be myself around that person? How could I introduce my wife without worrying it would make that person (and consequently me) uncomfortable, or even worse, prompt an I-don’t-mind-as-long-as-I-don’t-have-to-see-it, love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin response?

Thinking about the friends I had (and mostly still have) in Michigan, I believe I only had one good friend who was Republican. That relationship was (and still is) trying on many levels, as there are certain topics we can just never discuss. As much as I love this person and value her as a friend, there is always an indescribable barrier that prevents us from being as completely open and honest with each other as we are with our other friends.

Perhaps I’ve been a bit naïve since I’ve moved to Canada. I know that gay marriage is law here and that there are people who aren’t necessarily comfortable with gay marriage. However, even those people, for the most part, don’t outwardly exhibit indicators of their disapproval. I have been buzzing around Canada for two years in ignorant bliss, believing that everyone was okay with Sarah and me. Out of an ingrained fear of a negative reaction, I don’t usually “out” myself to anyone until I have a good reason. Any time I have been upfront with Canadians about my relationshis, the revelation had about as much impact as if I’d told them I drive a blue car.

But, a negative reaction was bound to happen sometime, and I have known this all along. Canadians are more tolerant in general, but there are still those who fear and dislike others who are different. I came face-to-face with this situation earlier this month.

I went to lunch with someone I considered a friend. This guy is extremely friendly, intelligent, and well-read. My own prejudices caused me to assume that anyone who is intelligent is also open-minded. I had noticed a bumper sticker on my friend’s car promoting a certain Canadian political candidate known for being ultra-conservative. I was surprised to see a campaign bumper sticker at all, as this is not a common sight in Canada, and I was even more surprised that someone I thought of as intelligent and open-minded would support such a candidate.

Next, I did something very foolish, something I wouldn’t have done when I was living in the US. He made some joke about his bumper sticker, and then I said, “Are you a Conservative?” [Capital “C” intended here as I am referring to the Canadian party not the adjective.] His startled look in response to my impulsive inquiry caused me to follow up with, “Oh, I don’t know if it’s appropriate to ask that in Canada.”

He smirked and replied, “Yes, I am a Conservative.” I felt that awful sick feeling come over me that I used to get when I lived in Michigan and discovered that someone I liked or admired was a Republican. I remembered that Conservatives in Canada are not usually as right-wing as Republicans, so I gave him a chance to redeem himself in my eyes by asking, “Are you a fiscal conservative or a social conservative?” this time focusing on the rationale for his support of the Conservatives.

He looked me in the eye and said deliberately, “I’m a Conservative.” This response didn’t make me feel any better, so I decided it was time for him to lay all his cards on the table. I swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Do you support gay marriage?” He continued to stare me in the eyes and said unapologetically, without hesitation, “No.”

The sick feeling in my stomach intensified and I couldn’t believe I was actually having lunch with someone who thought I didn’t deserve the rights I had travelled so far to get. He knew about Sarah. He knew my story about having to leave the US. As much as I had to give him credit for being honest with me, I couldn’t look him in the eye. Finally I managed a helpless and weak “Why?” He explained that even though he was not a Christian, he really liked Christian values. I stared at him in disbelief—I know he lives with his girlfriend, and that, in terms of supposed “Christian” morals, his objection to my relationship was inconsistent with his own relationship status. I wanted to point this out, but by this juncture in the conversation, I had already given up on the friendship and didn’t want to belabor the issue.

Was it a mistake to ask him so directly about his beliefs? I don’t know. I guess I feel like, after all I’ve been through and how much I’ve given up to be who I am, I have a right to know how my “friends” perceive me. Was it foolish for me to assume that most Canadians are okay with my “lifestyle”? Definitely. Now I am left to wonder how many of my friends in Canada are actually supportive of Sarah and my relationship. I probably won’t ask anyone else. I’ll just wait until I can observe clues, which will take a bit longer than it did with people in Michigan as Canadians are a bit more private about their beliefs.

American Oddities

2010-10-18T09:57:00.001-04:00

I’ve begun to have a little trouble finding blog topics about Canadian cultural characteristics. But, I think that is because I have stopped noticing what I perceive to be oddities of Canadian culture. That’s just it—I’ve stopped noticing. If I were to draw a graph of my transition between Canadian and American culture, I would be at the midpoint. A recent trip to Michigan confirmed that now I am noticing what I perceive to be oddities of American culture.

Last month, Sarah and I took a trip to Michigan to go shopping (which is quite a Canadian thing to do). We stayed near Frankenmuth at a hotel with my parents. It was a good halfway point for us all to meet and spend the weekend catching up and shopping.

The hotel was located near a busy highway. I looked out the window of my room and saw a giant billboard with a photo of a rifle advertising “SAVE BIG—BUY USED Over 2,500 used guns in stock.” As much as I dislike the stereotype that Americans are all gunslingers, I could see why any visitors to the US would believe this, considering this billboard and several other similar signs I saw in eastern Michigan. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have even noticed a gun store advertisement, or if I had, it wouldn’t have seemed unusual to me.

Our hotel rooms had refrigerators, and my parents had brought bottled water and cans of pop. We all watched some late-night tv together before going to bed, and on my way back to our room, I was cleaning up and put the empty water bottles in the recyc. . . .oh, there was no recycling bin in either of our rooms, only trash cans! As much as I dislike the stereotype that Americans don’t recycle as much as they should, I was surprised to be in a hotel where each room did not have its own recycling bin. The last several hotels I had been in were in Canada, and recycling bins are a standard amenity. I couldn’t bring myself to just throw the bottles away, so I left them on the counter. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have even noticed the lack of a recycling bin.

By the third day of our weekend excursion, not only was the weather rapidly deteriorating, as we got further into the fall season and the rain was falling, but my dad’s mental state was rapidly deteriorating as he had reached his shopping patience limit. So, during one of our final shopping stops, my dad stayed in the car while my mom, Sarah, and I went in to shop. When we finally emerged from the store an hour and a hundred dollars later, I was surprised to see my dad sitting in his SUV with the engine running. . As much as I dislike the stereotype that Americans are gluttonous SUV drivers on a mission to destroy the world, I didn’t know how long the vehicle’s engine had been running, and I was horrified. I even briefly glanced around, embarrassed that someone might see me getting in this car that had been destroying the air for our children and our children’s children. Such idle idling would not be tolerated in Canada. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have even noticed cars idling in a parking lot.

The most striking reminder of how foreign my home state now feels was during breakfast at the hotel. A breakfast was included with our stay, and we were happy to take advantage as the food was fresh, diverse, and tasty, and the breakfast room was large, clean, and bright. We were staying at the hotel during a busy weekend when high school athletic teams were traveling for competitions, groups of older women were on overnight shopping trips, and medieval re-enactors were participating in the nearby renaissance festival. As I was getting through my second coffee and first banana, I paused and tried to discern what was gnawing at the back of my mind. Something was slightly uncomfortably different, but I couldn’t identify what in particular. I spent some time observing what was going on around me in the busy breakfast room. First, the noise level was quite high as all the breakfasters were loudly discussing their plans for the day with apparent disregard for their very public surroundings. I wondered if they almost were hoping everyone around would be listening in. Those who were not brashly sharing their itineraries were looking around the room with furrowed brows, evaluating the other guests. I even inadvertently made eye contact with a couple of people who were staring directly at me—I quickly moved my gaze; they did not. I realized that I was feeling uncomfortable because no one was keeping to themselves. I stared down and my coffee and thought very hard about how this same situation would be different in Canada. First, Canadians generally would be much quieter in their conversations. Second, Canadians wouldn’t be staring relentlessly at those around them. They might glance around with curiosity, but during my two years in Ontario, I had clearly become intolerant of the type of intense eye-boring I was getting from the Americans.

Of course, everything I am saying here is a generalization based on generalizations, and perhaps my observations are distorted by my preconceptions. I might as well also make a comment about the marked lack of “eh” and “sorey” expressions floating around the room, eh?

Despite my newfound discomfort, I got up and went back to the breakfast bar to get some biscuits. A guy who was seeking similar sustenance arrived at the biscuit bin a split second after me and displayed an inordinate amount of irritation that I was in his way. I smiled nervously at him and said, without any real justification for doing so, “oh, sorry.” Expecting my unnecessary apology to be reciprocated in turn, I was a bit taken aback to instead be presented with another loud sigh and eye roll.

Holidays and Loneliness

2010-10-11T23:57:00.001-04:00

The poignancy of loneliness is relative; relative to the time of day, the mood of the lonely person, the time of year, the weather. Most of all, the amount of pain caused by loneliness is relative to the social surroundings. The feeling of loneliness one has while sitting alone at home watching TV is, for most people, substantially less depressing and disconcerting than that feeling of loneliness one has while eating alone at a restaurant or holding up a wall at a party. In my own experience, the times I have felt the most overwhelmed with loneliness were when there were when I was surrounded by others who were socializing and enjoying each other’s company, and I was merely a spectator and not a participant. I’ve been to the movie theater on my own a couple of times, and once the lights go out, I get lost in the storyline—besides, all of the other couples and groups present in the theater aren’t a taunting reminder of my solitude until the lights go up at the end of the film. Once I foolishly went on a bus trip to an amusement park by myself, and the other people on the bus were cuddling couples or groups of laughing friends. I was the only person on the bus sitting by myself. The feeling of loneliness that overwhelmed me on that five-hour ride was merely a preview of what I would experience when we arrived at the park.

Today is Thanksgiving in Canada. Thanksgiving in Canada is a bit different from Thanksgiving in the US for a few reasons: 1) In Canada, it’s not the start of Christmas season but more of a fall festival, 2) Canadians only get one day off from work while most people get two days off in the US, 3) Canadian Thanksgiving is on a Monday in mid-October while American Thanksgiving is on a Thursday in late November, and 4) my experience has been that Thanksgiving is the second-biggest holiday in the US, but I’m not sure Canadians regard their Thanksgiving with as much importance. However, the two countries’ holidays have much in common—turkey, large meals, internal inventories of gratitude, and family gatherings.

This is my third Thanksgiving in Canada. Each one I’ve experienced here has been especially memorable, but memorable because of the loneliness that creeps up on me. It starts in mid-September when I overhear people talking about their plans for family get-togethers for Thanksgiving. My first thought is usually about why they are planning so far in advance; after all, Thanksgiving is over two months away. Then I remember with a jolt that it’s in October. As Thanksgiving weekend approaches, I overhear all the conversations around me about family gatherings, preparations for big meals, talk of turkey. Then I remember with a jolt that Sarah and I will not be spending time with any family as we don’t have any within a five-hour drive. That is the point where I start to feel a bit sad and lonely.

Oktoberfest is a very big deal in the Kitchener-Waterloo-Cambridge area, and Sarah and I have gone each year that we’ve been in Canada. Oktoberfest always coincides with Canadian Thanksgiving. The first year we were in Canada, I had only been living here less than two months, but somehow we managed to get tickets to the biggest festhallen in Oktoberfest. There were thousands of people there, but Sarah and I floated around the uber-long tables without knowing anyone. The feeling of being lonely in a crowd was ever present. This year’s Oktoberfest was a vastly different experience. We had tickets to go to a hall on the first Friday night, and not only we were lucky enough to go along with some of our favorite Canadian friends, but we saw several of our other friends there throughout the night. But the prospect of a lonely Thanksgiving day still loomed at the end of the long weekend.

This year, we were also fortunate enough to have visitors for at least part of the Thanksgiving weekend. Some of our friends from Michigan were driving to Philadelphia and stopped to stay with us on the way. Still, they were only staying until Monday morning, which meant that Sarah and I would be on our own for Thanksgiving day. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Well, Thanksgiving is not a romantic holiday—it’s a family holiday, a holiday typically celebrated with more than immediate family. And, one of the problems with family holidays is that when you don’t have any family around, your friends aren’t around either because they are all with their families. So, this morning, as we stood on our front steps and waved goodbye to our friends from Michgan departing for Pennsylvania, we felt a bit lonely as we saw all the other cars arriving at our neighbors’ houses. The air outside smelled like a thousand turkey dinners. I was getting a bit depressed, but didn’t say anything to Sarah about it. For a fleeting moment, it occurred to me that I used to get so easily annoyed with the obligations of family holiday gatherings. Then the moment was gone and I felt a bit lonely again, missing my family.

We went back in the house and Sarah, looking quite forlorn, said “I feel really down. I’m a bit homesick today, but I don’t know why.” I said, “I know.” I gave her a big hug and thought about how thankful I was that at least we were together.

My Survival Guide Arrived. . .A Bit Late

2010-10-07T19:02:00.003-04:00

Three things I enjoy very much in life are teaching others, analyzing cultural differences between people of various nationalities, and the mechanics of the English language. While they seem fairly unrelated, I have discovered that I can combine my interest and skill in all three by teaching English as a second language (ESL). I have been a volunteer ESL conversation circle leader for about two years now, working with my local immigrant services organization and neighborhood associations. Canada has a considerable influx of immigrants from all over the world, and a sizeable portion of these immigrants speak little or no English on arrival. Aside from my experience teaching English (which included some ESL training while I was in grad school), I can relate somewhat to those who are newcomers to Canada. But when I found out that my local college offered an actual post-graduate certification in teaching ESL, I applied and was accepted into the program.

I just finished my first course in the program. We had discussions and assignments on cognitive theory, language assimilation, and linguistics. We also spent a fair bit of time discussing cultural obstacles that ESL learners face, as these obstacles must be anticipated by the ESL teacher. One assignment was to read an article about culture shock. I had never read this particular article before, but when I did, all I could think was “I wish someone had told me all of this two years ago!” I was surprised at how accurate it was. I also showed Sarah, who has immigrated to new countries twice now, and she agreed it rang very true.

I have put this text in my blog because it really sums up everything I’ve experienced over the last two years (and am still experiencing). This text used to appear on a website called cultureshockguides.com which no longer exists. You can find this information still on other sites (such as the Migration News website). I am pretty sure it was originally written by the people who write the Culture Shock Guides, which are books than can be purchased about the culture and customs of various nations. See below for the immigrant “survival guide.”

YOUR SURVIVAL GUIDE

Many new settlers suffer from varying degrees of culture shock, ranging from the odd surprise at differences in local customs to major belts of home sickness. Even migrants from English speaking, Commonwealth countries such as the United Kingdom, are susceptible to vary degrees of "culture shock" as they are often not prepared for any sort of change at all or the "subtle" differences in social etiquette or customs. The key to success is being pragmatic and accepting that you will never "change" your newly adopted home land. It is YOU who must change or at least adapt to the local environment. Most find that they do not have to change a lot, while others may find the task of "fitting in" to be more difficult.

It is important to understand the emotions that you will encounter when migrating. It is not just you. Every new settler feels them. Some say that moving to a new country can be a roller coaster ride, with many ups and downs along the way. These ups and downs have been scientifically proven and are known as the assimilation process. To help you understand the assimilation process, it can be broken down into three distinct stereotypical phases below:

THE ASSIMILATION PROCESS. . .

PHASE 1 - Euphoria

The Euphoria phase occurs when you first arrive in your new country. It will be a great adventure much akin to taking a holiday. You will be enjoying your new life and discovering everything that your new adopted home land has to offer. This is the honeymoon period.

PHASE 2 - Culture shock

After 6 to 12 months, the honeymoon will be over. You need to start working, your first tax bill will arrive and the grind of day to day life begins. Although you are largely enjoying your new lifestyle, you discover aspects of your new country that you dislike. You have a few surprises along the way as you encounter differences in social etiquette and customs, especially when developing a group of friends or socialising with work colleagues. You miss some aspects of your home country and most importantly, you will miss your family and friends. You will become a little home sick.

PHASE 3 - Assimilation

Successful re-settlement! It can take up to 2 - 3 years for some people to achieve full assimilation. This is when you fully accept your new home land and ignore the aspects that you dislike. You now fit in and are confident that have you built a good life for yourself. Perhaps you will have taken a trip back to your home country (recommended) and you now realise just how better off you are. You have a much healthier and interesting lifestyle than any of your friends and family back home and they will be envious of your new life. You take a balanced view of your relocation and learn to accept the various aspects that you do not like or that you miss.

THE KEY TO SUCCESS. . .

To achieve full assimilation more quickly, it is important for you to understand the 80 / 20 rule. This is a well known law of averages. Experience has shown that many new settlers will like 80% of the aspects of their new adopted home land. But they will dislike 20%, sometimes quite strongly. Some people make the mistake of spending 80% of their time focusing on the 20% of aspects they do not like. The 80 / 20 rule. These negative thoughts can be very damaging and can lead to failure. The key to success is spending 80% of your time focusing on the 80% of the aspects that you like. Accept that you will never like 20% of your new country, but since it is the minority, you are still better off.

Remember to remain flexible and open minded when emigrating. View your move much like a permanent holiday for the rest of your life. You will never change your newly adopted country so love it for its differences. And most importantly of all, make the effort to discover all the outdoor pursuits and recreational opportunities that you new country has to offer. And if your work colleagues or a contact invites you for a BBQ, accept! Through one person you will meet 10 and this will ensure you successfully assimilate without delay.

My Moving Mix

2010-09-28T23:19:00.007-04:00

I love my iPod. My iPod is one of my most reliable companions. My iPod can inspire more emotions and reflection than a sappy soap opera and historical documentary combined. One of my favorite things about my iPod is that I can create playlists for any mood. I have a playlist for when I’m mad, one for playing before soccer games, one for when I need cheering up, one for morning motivation, one for laughs, one for running, and even one for my dogs. Some playlists are created for temporary needs, such as road trip playlists, or playlists created for entertaining visitors.

One of my playlists was created for a temporary purpose—to help me get through my move to Canada two years ago. However, that playlist remains on my iPod and may be there forever. When I listen to those songs now, the emotions I was feeling two years ago come rushing back. And, listening to those songs helps me remember the difficulties I overcame when I went through such an emotionally trying transition. I’ve been thinking about my expatriation to Canada more lately, as it has been just two years since I moved, and I thought I should give the songs the credit they deserve for helping me preserve my sanity at that time. These are the songs that kept me going when I was still in limbo, not knowing if Sarah and I would be able to stay together. These are the songs that were my crutch as I packed up my stuff and donated all but my most important possessions. These are the songs that gave me strength as I made the ten hour trip from Grand Rapids, MI to Cambridge, ON. These are the songs that helped me keep my chin up when I was new in Canada and felt very alone.

The lyrics of some of the songs on that playlist are so eerily apt to my situation and my move that I still get chills or teary-eyed at some of them. In fact, I wrote a little synopsis of what was going on in my life two years ago using only excerpts from those songs:

This doesn’t feel like freedom. This ain’t my American dream. Nothing’s belonged, nothing’s been “yes,” nowhere’s been home, and I’m ready to be limbo no more. I’d give anything to get what's fair. Somewhere there's a place for us. It's time to make a move. I've got my heart set on anywhere but here I'm staring down myself, counting up the years. We gotta move. This ain't no living. I wouldn't stay around if the money let me linger on. When the white oak (national tree of the USA) has no answer, it turns its back on you. The maple calls you, shows you something new. In Canada, they treat you like a queen. In Canada, they never will be mean. I hear spring is nice in Canada. I start to wonder why I’m here, not there.

I sit with filled frames and my books and my dogs at my feet. My friends by my side, my past in a heap. Thrown out most of my things. You can have my stereo. Only kept what I need to carve something consistent. We said goodbye to a dear old friend, and we packed our bags and left feeling sad. I've got a heart full of rubber bands that keep getting caught on things. And I know it aches and my heart it breaks--I can only take so much. I’ve got to leave it behind. We’ll leave behind the worst we've known and build ourselves a brand new home--maybe then we'll find the time we've lost I’m ready to wake up, there in the exodus, on the beautiful side of somewhere. So I packed my car and headed east. There’s something exciting about leaving everything behind. Turn your head and don't look back. Just set your sails for a new horizon--don't turn around, don't look down. And you know it's really not surprising--it gets better when you get there. I remember my home--I left there with bitter words. I won't forget the place I come from. We said hello as we turned the key. A new roof over our heads--somewhere I belong. My roots in the ground, something at last I can feel a part of. It's a shame that we have lost so many things that we will never find again. But it doesn't matter anymore, anyways.

Below is a list of the songs on that playlist and a snippet of the lyrics for each. The songs with an asterisk are the ones that have been the most meaningful to me, and I have posted their entire lyrics. I hope that anyone who might be moving to somewhere new and unknown can find solace and encouragement in their words and music as I have (and still do).

No More—Matt Pond PA
“When the white oak has no answer, it turns its back on you. The maple calls you, shows you something new.”

Even Rats—The Slip
“I hear spring is nice in Canada. . .you can have my stereo.”

American Idiot—Greenday
“Well maybe I’m the faggot America. I’m not part of a redneck agenda.”

In a Big Country—Big Country
“I thought that pain and truth were things that really mattered, but you can't stay here with every single hope you had shattered”

Somewhere—from West Side Story
“We'll find a new way of living, we'll find a way of forgiving. Somewhere . . . There's a place for us.”

American Dream—Switchfoot
“It doesn’t feel like freedom. This ain’t my American dream.”

Godspeed You Deathwolf—Sleepless Nights
“I don’t want to move to Toronto.”

Breakaway—Kelly Clarkson
“Though it's not easy to tell you goodbye, gotta take a risk, take a chance, make a change and break away. Out of the darkness and into the sun, but I won't forget the place I come from.”

*Limbo No More—Alanis Morissette
“My house, my role
My friends, my man
My devotion to god
All the more feels indefinite

Nothing’s been clear
Nothing’s been in
Nothing’s felt true
And I’ve never had both feet in
Nothing’s belonged
Nothing’s been yes
Nowhere’s been home
And I’m ready to be limbo no more

My taste, my peers
My identity, my affiliation
All the more feels indefinite

Nothing’s been clear
Nothing’s been in
Nothing’s felt true
And I’ve never had both feet in
Nothing’s belonged
Nothing’s been yes
Nowhere’s been home
And I’m ready to be limbo no more

I sit with filled frames
And my books and my dogs at my feet
My friends by my side
My past in a heap
Thrown out most of my things
Only kept what I need to carve
Something consistent and notably me

Tattoo on my skin
My teacher’s in heart
My house is a home
Something at last I can feel a part of
Sense of myself
My purpose is clear
My roots in the ground
Something at last I can feel a part of
Something aligned
To finally commit
Somewhere I belong
‘Cuz I’m ready to be limbo no more
My wisdom applied
A firm foundation
A vow to myself
‘Cuz I’m ready to be limbo no more”

*We Said Hello, Goodbye (Don’t Look Back)—Phil Collins
“We said goodbye to a dear old friend
And we packed our bags and left feeling sad
It's the only way
We said hello as we turned the key
A new roof over our heads
Gave a smile
It's the only way
Only way

Turn your head
And don't look back
Set your sails for a new horizon
Don't turn around don't look down
Oh there's life across the tracks
And you know it's really not surprising
It gets better when you get there

Well it really don't matter much where you are
Cause home is in your heart
It's a feeling that you wake with one day
Some people keep running all their life
And still find they haven't gone too far
They don't see it's the feeling inside - the feeling inside

Turn your head and don't look back
Just set your sails for a new horizon
Don't turn around don't look down
Oh there's life across the tracks
And you know it's really not surprising
It gets better when you get there

We said hello as we turned the key
A new roof over our heads
Gave a smile - it's the only way”

*What We Have Been Waiting For—Daphne Loves Derby
“I have been waiting for July to come around
I hear the summer whispering the things to come

We have been waiting for the sun to show its face
Thank you, sweet winter
But now we're desperate to move on

We leave behind the worst we've known
And build ourselves a brand new home
Maybe then we'll find the time we've lost

Set us free, sweet summer day
We've been waiting much too long for you to come
Save me from the worst I've known
And let me relive the days I've thrown away

Times have changed so quickly
It's a shame that we have lost so many things that we will never find again
But it doesn't matter anymore, anyways
Summer sings a song to us that I can't ignore
That I'm desperate for
I tried too hard to keep my calm but I just cannot anymore, anyways

We leave behind the worst we've known
And build ourselves a brand new home
Maybe then we'll find the time we've lost

Set us free, sweet summer day
We've been waiting much too long for you to come
Save me from the worst I've known
And let me relive the days I've thrown away

Remember all the times we've wasted
Drowning ourselves in foolish dreams
We were betrayed by our own hope
But the summer will be a sweet revenge

The end”

*Stop and Stare—OneRepublic
“This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us
It's time to make a move, I'm shaking off the rust
I've got my heart set on anywhere but here
I'm staring down myself, counting up the years

Steady hands, just take the wheel
And every glance is killing me
Time to make one last appeal
For the life I leave

Stop and stare
I think I'm moving but I go nowhere
Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared
But I've become what I can't be.
Stop and stare
You start to wonder why you're here, not there
And you'd give anything to get what's fair
But fair ain't what you really need
Oh, can you see what I see

They're trying to come back, all my senses push
Untie the weight bags, I never thought I could
Steady feet, don't fail me now
Gotta run till you can't walk
But something pulls my focus out
And I'm standing down

Stop and stare
I think I'm moving but I go nowhere
Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared
I've become what I can't be
Oh, do you see what I see”

*Another White Dash—Butterfly Boucher
“There is something exciting about leaving everything behind
There is something deep and pulling leaving everything behind
Something about having everything you think you'll ever need
Sitting in the seat next to you

And I watch another white dash, another white dash, another white dash fly beside us
And I watch another white dash, another white dash, another white dash fly beneath us

Away away..

There is yelling of an engine, a constant rattling door
There is serious, deep and mumbled a conversation I'm not in
Flickering lights, shadows of trees makes me blink my eyes
Makes the land appear like a really old movie

And I watch another white dash, another white dash, another white dash fly beside us
And I watch another white dash, another white dash, another white dash fly beneath us

Away away..

I've got a heart full of rubber bands that keep getting caught on things

And I count another white dash, another white dash, another white dash, I drift off at eighty.. something!
And I count another white dash, another white dash, another white dash out of time with the music
Another white dash, another white dash, another white dash, fly beside us
And I count another white dash, another white dash, another white dash fly beneath us

There is something exciting about leaving everything behind
There is something deep and pulling leaving everything behind
Something about having everything you think you'll ever need
Sitting in the seat next to you”

Waiting in Canada—Jann Arden
“Drive your car all night by just starlight to Canada”

Nothing Left to Lose—Mat Kearney
“There’s nothing left to lose. So I packed my car and headed east. . .push the pedal down, and watch the world around fly by us.

Catch the Sun—Doves
“I ain’t ever going back, back to the place that I can’t stand.”

The Beautiful Side—The Wallflowers
“I’m ready to wake up, there in the exodus, on the beautiful side of somewhere. I’m ready to come down and see us both somehow, on the beautiful side of somewhere.”

Gotta Get Thru This—Daniel Beddingfield
“I gotta get through this. . .just another day and then I’ll hold you tight.”

Miles From Our Home—Cowboy Junkies
“You're miles from your home, miles from your home. But that's where I want to be.”

Start the Car—Jude Cole
“Start the car, we gotta move. This ain't no living, this ain't no groove. . .
But somewhere waiting there's something more. Start the car.”

Don’t Look Back—Thallia
“Trust your heart, you'll make it somehow. It's everything you're looking for. . .Don't look back, keep straight ahead. You know what is right--out of mind is out of sight.”

Check Yes Juliet—We the Kings
“Run, baby, run. Don't ever look back. They'll tear us apart if you give them the chance.”

Brand New Day—Sting
“The river's wide, we'll swim across. We're starting up a brand new day.”

Walk On—U2
“And I know it aches and your heart it breaks--you can only take so much. Walk on. Leave it behind. You've got to leave it behind.”

Somerville—The Pernice Brothers
“I wouldn't stay around if the money let me linger on until the end of December and waste another year like a minute, trying to forget, but I remember my home--I left there with bitter words.”

In Canada—B. J. Snowden
“In Canada, they treat you like a queen. In Canada, they never will be mean.”

Canadian Idiot—Weird Al Yankovic
“And you know what else is too funny? Their stupid Monopoly money.”

Guard it Closely—The Jealous Sound
“There's an empty chair here--we guard it closely. You're so far gone.”

No Way Back—Foo Fighters
“There is no way back from here, but I don't care--no way back from here.”

My Third Canadian Autumn Begins

2010-09-19T22:34:00.005-04:00

I’ve always found it remarkable how many people say that autumn is their favorite season. You would think that people would prefer the lazy doldrums of summer. Yet, ask any North American to name their favorite season, and you will invariably get a response indicating either fall or both summer and fall.

I think the explanation for this is that fall is a time of year when people often start something new—ironically, a season of death represents new beginnings for so many. Either it’s off to school, sending kids to school, the start of a new sports season, or even getting new clothes that provide a bit more protection from the elements than the summer tank tops and shorts. One of my friends and I were recently discussing how powerful seasons and holidays are in prompting memories and emotions—it’s the temperatures in the air, the thickness of the atmosphere, the decorations, the colors of the fields, the richness (or lack of) in the hues in the sky, and most of all the smells that cause us to get lost in reverie, depression, or excitement. Fall, in particular, is a bit drastic in these changes. While autumn slips in some flurries here and there just to get everyone mentally ready for the upcoming cold, winter moves to spring in a blustery and muddy but gradual way, and spring eases into summer with two-degrees forward/one-degree backwards type intervals, the fall of fall always seems to be more sudden. There is always a day each year when I walk out my back door and say, usually to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.” I can’t recall ever having that same epiphany for other seasons.

While autumn has always been my favorite season, the changing from summer to fall has increased significance for me now as I remember that one of the biggest changes in my life happened in the late summer/early fall of 2008. That was when I moved away from the US. The 30^th of August recently came and went, and the magnitude of the date did not escape me—it was my two year anniversary of moving to Canada.

I had some chance to contemplate how much my life had changed in two years, and in what ways the changes were so much different than I could have imagined. The following weekend was cold, rainy, and blustery, and I remember mentioning to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.” Our friends Tony and Rick came from Michigan to visit us for the holiday weekend. This was their third annual Labor Day weekend visit. Their first visit to Canada on Labor Day weekend was when I moved to Canada. They arrived in Cambridge on the Friday night and stayed with Sarah so that they were there and able to help us unload the U-Haul when I arrived from Michigan the next day. In the mean time I was sleeping in a nearly empty house in Michigan with a U-Haul parked in the driveway. I got up the next morning and finished loading the final few items. My friend and neighbor Beth came over to say a tearful goodbye and to give me a bunch of Canadian coins that my soccer teammates had collected as a going away present.

As I needed to bring not only the U-Haul to Canada, but also my car, my friends Clare and Jason came over to make the trip with me. We had a nice little three-vehicle convoy—I was driving the giant U-Haul truck. Clare drove my car, and Jason drove his car so that he and Clare would have a way to get back to Michigan.

I’ll never forget those few split seconds when I pulled out of the driveway for what I knew would be the last time. I was full of fear and sadness. Sarah had made the same journey just six weeks earlier, and she said that the further she got from Grand Rapids, the more the fear and sadness started to transition into excitement and anticipation. Like her, I was driving all alone with only my iPod and my “moving to Canada” playlist to keep me company. More on that in a future post.

The U-Haul could only go so fast, and we had to stop for gas and food now and then. When we reached Detroit, we had to stop to export my car. Most encounters with United States federal government employees are a real treat, and this was no different. It took about an hour to complete something that should have taken ten minutes. Finally the car was exported, and we headed over the Ambassador Bridge. We didn’t get too far as the line to get into Canada extended almost the length of the bridge. I will never forget thinking about how during that whole time on the bridge, my car was a car without a country—exported from the US but not yet imported into Canada. I was kind of the same.

The import proceedings at the Canadian border took an additional hour, but were a much more pleasant experience, as the customs officers were very chatty and helpful. Then we were on our way again, driving the horrendous two hours of highway 401 nothingness between Windsor and London. Once we hit London, I knew we were only an hour away from my new home, and as Sarah predicted, my fear and sadness has changed to excitement—here I was in a new country, MY new country.

A journey that would typically take under six hours ended up taking ten hours. Our little convoy arrived at the house in Cambridge where we were joyfully greeted by Sarah, Tony, Rick, and our dogs Cody and Brit. The reunion with Sarah and the dogs was emotional enough, and the realization that four of my friends made the incredible journey with us just to help us out and help ease our anxiety was overwhelming. It was already getting dark when we arrived, so we opted to wait until the morning to unload the truck. Besides, Sarah, Tony, and Rick had made a trip to the Beer Store and stocked the fridge with over 72 bottles of new and exciting Canadian beers.

I woke up the next morning and opened my eyes and thought, “Wow, I’m in Canada. I’m in a different country!” (This internal morning ritual was repeated every morning for almost the next five months.) The rest of the weekend was filled with shopping, drinking, and unpacking. On Labor Day, all of our friends headed back to Michigan, and so we were left all alone in a new country where we didn’t know anyone. I had negotiated to start my job the following week, so I had one week all to myself to explore my surroundings. Sarah was working, so during the day, I rode my bike and walked around town, took drives through the countryside, and sat on the deck taking it all in. Autumn came early in 2008, and by the first week of September, the feeling was already in the air. The day before I started my new job, I was hanging out on the deck with the dogs. The sky was cool gray, the wind encouraged a few red-tinged maple leaves to surrender to gravity, and I buttoned my overcoat with a shiver. I mumbled to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.”

Hockey--For Weddings and a Funeral

2010-08-04T19:10:00.000-04:00

I had only been in Canada about a year when I first had occasion to go to a funeral. Two of the first close friendships I made after moving here were with one of my hockey teammates and her husband. In many ways, they have been like surrogate parents to Sarah and me. They invite us to their family functions, go with us to watch football and hockey games, come over for dinner, etc. Unfortunately, my friend’s brother was very sick in the hospital and he ended up dying at a relatively young age. I found out about this untimely death a couple of days after it happened, and as I was at work when I found out, I did some online research to find out about the funeral and visitation.

Sure enough, as I looked online, I discovered that the visitation was that very morning. I was thankful that I was dressed in business attire (not casual) that day, and I got permission from my boss to leave work for an hour to go to the visitation.

I parked my car outside the funeral home and saw that there were many cars there and people going in and out. Yet, something didn’t seem right. I was too focused on my own social anxiety at going into a place full of people where I would likely only know three or four people, so I just looked at the ground as I made my way through the parking lot and in the door.

The funeral home employee in his formal business suit greeted me and directed me to the appropriate room. As I entered the room, I had the fleeting thought again that something wasn’t right, but this time, after only a split second, I figured it out. Everyone at the visitation was wearing a hockey jersey. I couldn’t have felt more out of place dressed in my suit.

Almost all of the hockey jerseys were Buffalo Sabres jerseys, so I visually sifted through the sea of people dressed in dark blue or white to try to find my friend. Finally I spotted her in a jersey that was about four sizes too big. I immediately hugged her and then also saw her husband, one of the few other people dressed in a suit. I spoke with them briefly and expressed my condolences. As I was speaking with them, I noticed that my friend’s husband had a Buffalo Sabres sticker on his lapel. Scanning the room, I saw that almost all of those not in a jersey at least had stickers on their clothes.

My friend explained to me that her brother was an avid Sabres fan, and that he would have been just thrilled to know that people came to his visitation and funeral in their Sabres jerseys.
There was no body in the room—only several photo boards. But, I am sure if the body would have been there, my friend’s brother would have been in a Buffalo hockey jersey.

Feeling out of place due to the way I was dressed and because I knew almost no one, I left and hurried back to work and reflected on what a surreal experience that had been. It seemed so bizarre to me that I wondered if there was even any point telling my friends back home about the hockey-themed funeral. I was planning to include this story on my next installment of my "favorite Canadian moments," but then I decided that it probably was an anomaly and would be unfairly stereotyping.

Then, this past weekend, I attended my first wedding in Canada. Well, I guess I can’t really say it was my "first" wedding in Canada, as Sarah and I were married in Windsor in 2006, but it was definitely my first wedding as an attendee since moving here.

Ironically, it was also the first time I had ever attended a same-sex wedding (again, other than my own two weddings with Sarah, where I was a participant). I didn’t know what to expect, and I was eager to experience a same-sex wedding as a mere observer.

Two of my friends who I know from work and from hockey were marrying each other. I was just so thrilled that they invited me, and Sarah and I were looking forward to the experience. We arrived at the wedding, which was outdoors, and immediately saw a small string quartet playing upbeat jazz. Sarah and I took our seats near the back and watched all the other guests arrive. I was bracing myself the entire time in case I overheard any negative comments about same-sex marriage, and I looked carefully for any body language that implied a participant was not quite comfortable with what was about to take place. I didn’t hear or see either.

Soon, there was a slight stir in the crowd and someone announced the pending entrance of the two participants. I was caught off guard when, expecting to hear a traditional wedding march or other wedding song, I instead heard another slightly jazzy and upbeat tune coming from the string quarted behind me. Everyone in the crowd began laughing, including Sarah. I saw my two friends enter the area together, smiling broadly. The tune was vaguely familiar, and I eventually determined it was from television, but I couldn’t quite place it. Everyone around me was still laughing, so I was embarrassed to ask because I didn’t know exactly why it was funny. Finally I whispered to Sarah, "What song IS this? It sounds familiar."

She looked at me a bit surprised and then responded, "It’s the theme song from Hockey Night in Canada."

Oh, yes, why hadn’t I realized that? After all, nothing says love and commitment like Hockey Night in Canada!

After this song finished, the ceremony turned much more formal and was, in fact, quite touching and beautiful. After all the vows were said, rings exchanged, kisses kissed, and papers signed (for my US readers--in Canadian weddings, all the paperwork is signed during the actual ceremony), the best man was called up to the front. As the wedding reception did not involve a formal dinner, the best man was called up front to make a speech. Sure enough, he was dressed in a new Dion Phaneuf Toronto Maple Leafs jersey over his suit and tie. (Both brides are passionate Maple Leafs fans.) He was an odd contrast to all of the other wedding party members who were in nice dresses or pantsuits.

Later in the evening during the reception, I was still pondering the significance of attending my first Canadian and same-sex wedding when both of the brides came over to chat. They wanted to show us something really neat, they said. One of the brides rolled up the leg of her pantsuit to reveal a garter. But this wasn’t just any garter. This was a Toronto Maple Leafs garter!
The brides wandered off and I looked at Sarah and said, "You know, there is NO OTHER PLACE IN THE WORLD where we would have experienced what we did today--a legal same-sex wedding with a hockey theme and attendees who are all truly happy for the brides and at the wedding because they genuinely care about the couple, not because it’s like a sideshow of deviant behavior."

It took me about two days to get the theme tune to Hockey Night in Canada out of my head! I also began to wonder what song was played at my friend’s brother’s actual funeral service, and I guessed that chances were good that it might have been from HNIC.

Sarah's First Two Years in Canada

2010-07-19T20:36:00.002-04:00

Two years ago today, my partner Sarah left our home in Michigan to move to Canada. Her work visa for the US was about to expire, and she had to leave the country. I still had to put in a few more weeks at my job in Michigan and also try to find a job in Canada, as well as try to manage our house that was up for sale. So, she had to leave without me knowing that I would follow later.

She had a dorm room reserved at the University of Waterloo for two weeks because she needed somewhere to stay while she tried to sort out more permanent accommodation for us. She packed as much as she could into the back of her beloved pickup truck, tied a tarp over it all, and left me, in tears, standing in the rain in the driveway knowing it would be another six weeks before I would move.

This was not Sarah's first international move, as she had moved from England to the USA to be with me nine years earlier. However, it is fair to say that this was Sarah's first international move as a full-fledged adult with a career, a family, and a home. We both moved to Canada not knowing anyone—we had no friends or family or even acquaintances in Canada at the time. At least when I moved to Ontario six weeks later, Sarah was already there. But for her, she dove into a vast unknown completely on her own.

Even though this blog is intended for my reflections on moving to Canada, on this occasion, I thought it would be interesting to add her perspective. I asked her to answer the questions below honestly, even in cases where she knows that she and I may disagree.

MJB: Two years ago today, you were completely on your own, moving to a new country. How did you feel during that drive (that turned out to be a seven-hour ordeal due to border crossing and import/export issues)?

Sarah: My heart was in my stomach. That Saturday, I had to say goodbye to my partner and dogs who I knew I wouldn’t be seeing for a couple of weeks. A few hours earlier I had served my last day at my company in Michigan. I had worked there for almost ten years so had had to say goodbye to all my friends there. Once I hit the road with my truck and was assured that the tarp was secured, I felt incredible pangs of sadness at leaving Michigan, which quickly turned to anger when I passed by a political billboard on the highway. There were a lot of nerves not only around the border crossing – (would I be stuck at the border for a long time? Would my papers be in order? Would I be able to bring everything I had packed into the truck with me? ) but also nerves surrounding starting a new job on the following Monday morning.

Once I got to London, an hour away from my new digs, I started to get really excited and it dawned on me that I had moved to a NEW COUNTRY! I cranked up my tunes and hit the gas singing for the last hour of the journey.

MJB: You started your new job in Waterloo less than 48 hours after arriving there. If you could do the whole thing over again, would you have given yourself more time to settle in?

Sarah: We were ahead of the game in terms of preparation already . We had done a lot of preparation getting a SIN, setting up a PO Box, bank account etc. beforehand. However, there was a lot of other administrative stuff still to do – for example getting my truck up to code so that it could be driven on Canadian roads, and work on securing a place to rent that would accommodate two fairly large dogs. That along with the usual new-job-administration meant a lot to organise.

MJB: Other than having to live in the non-air-conditioned dorm in July, what was the most difficult part of your first two weeks in Ontario?

Sarah: Boredom and depression. Everyone seemed friendly and polite enough but I wasn’t used to my coworkers being so private, almost aloof. If I had been in Michigan, I would have been taken out to dinner and invited to the homes of coworker families but that wasn’t done here. In Michigan, within a few weeks I would be fully up-to-date with Michigander coworker medical history and family skeletons. I felt very alone and missed my home (Michigan) horribly.

MJB: Tell me about the people you met during your first two weeks here. How did they respond to you when you told them of your situation?

Sarah: There was the usual questions from new coworkers about where I was from and cute quips about accents. Beyond that, there wasn’t a lot of follow-up questions. There was definitely more respect for my personal life which was at the expense of seeming a bit aloof. (Respect for my private life which may be one reason why we have equal rights here, I guess, so maybe I shouldn't complain about that so much!) I was so used to being closeted in the States, after all I risked losing my job due to my lifestyle, so I was not particularly forthcoming with the exact reasons behind the move. Just told them visa problems in the States and corrected coworkers as needed when they referred to a husband. Turns out I had already been outed because the supervisor who handled my hiring paperwork had not been particularly discreet about who I was adding to my health benefits, but in a 100% heterosexual department, I think many of my new coworkers struggled on how to refer to MJB (partner? wife? spouse?) as well as bring up something so personal.

MJB: What was your happiest moment during those first two weeks?

Sarah: None. I was thoroughly depressed. Incredible boredom, loneliness and mourning the loss of my old life, especially at weekends, thoroughly depressed me. The only good thing was there was lots of spare time to surf the web in the dorms at night and play with Ubuntu which I had just loaded on my laptop. The University of Waterloo has some beautiful trails and parks, as well as a good cafeteria so I rode my bike around campus some evenings and looked out for wildlife.

MJB: Okay, on to more general questions now. How long were you in Canada before it started to feel like home, assuming that it does?

Sarah: Only fairly recently. Now that we have bought our own house and our daily routine is established, and we are active socially, I started to feel at home after about a year and a half. I feel ready to give back now, and serve a useful societal purpose.

MJB: What, specifically, is your favorite memory from the two years you’ve lived here?

Sarah: Being in Canada during the Vancouver Olympics is up there. There was a shared national pride amongst all especially when that first gold medal was won. The torch relay was a great build up to that.

Also, most of our friends have been established through joining soccer and hockey teams. End of season celebrations in soccer and hockey always bring fond memories.

MJB: What is your favorite thing about living in Canada?

Sarah: Poutine! Also, it wasn’t until I moved to Canada I realized how much energy I had spent being closeted. Every conversation with a stranger involved playing the pronoun game. I still have a long way to go, but I feel much freer here.

I've also found that there is generally more respect for work-life balance. A public holiday means everyone and his dog refrains from work (unless emergency public services or tightwads). I was flabbergasted when I saw Walmart closed on Canada Day.

MJB: What do you miss most about living in the US? What about the UK?

Sarah: Our families and Michigan friends are far away. Little things that MJB's dad would help us fix, we can no longer rely upon. MJB's mom dropping by with something cool she picked up at the farmer’s market. Being able to go to family gatherings etc.

I also miss how inexpensive it is to eat at restaurants there

The area of West Michigan we lived in was very clean-living and safe. You lose your wallet and it is very likely that it will be handed in with money intact. I miss that but do not miss being judged all the time.

UK – it’s been eleven years since I lived there. Although I try to stay on top of cultural happenings by reading the online newspapers and watching British TV shows on PBS, I find I’m missing more and more each year I’m gone. New celebrities and cultural references emerge from TV shows that aren’t aired in Canada. I also miss going to the pub on Saturday night and watching a live artist. The small-town local pub atmosphere just can’t be replicated here.

MJB: What has been the greatest obstacle for you to overcome since you’ve moved here?

Sarah: Recover from the financial loss we took short-selling our house in Michigan and the debt we racked up for moving here and buying a house.

Career-wise, we both took a step backwards. I’m now in a job which doesn’t challenge or thrill me. I’m having a bit of a crisis of career right now but understand I still have a mortgage to pay. The good thing now though is that I’m not tied to a company with a work visa. I have the freedom to do something about this. Just need to figure out what.

MJB: Finally, if you could have your choice of one of the following, which would you choose and why? 1) Instant US citizenship and an all-expenses-paid move to anywhere in the US and job placement, 2) Instant UK citizenship for me and an all-expenses-paid move to anywhere in the UK and job placement, or 3) stay in Canada as is?

Sarah: 3. I’m done with moving to new countries. I want equal rights, nothing less. I can’t get that in the US and only to a lesser extent in the UK. We’re established here in Canada now and I feel safer here in terms of financial safety (lose my job, I don’t lose healthcare) and feel the challenge of working hard to try and get back to the same financial position we were in when we left Michigan.

The World Cup through Canadian Eyes

2010-07-07T05:33:00.000-04:00

Around this time four years ago, I was in Europe, which isn’t so remarkable in itself except that I was in Europe while the FIFA World Cup was taking place in Germany. Sarah and I were even fortunate enough to attend a first-round game in Germany—Germany vs. Poland. We got off the train in Dortmund a stop too early, and so we had to walk all the way across town to get to the stadium. I will never forget that walk through the downtown and the atmosphere all around. The German fans were partying through the streets, drinking, singing, and chanting. There were also some Poland fans about, getting pumped up for the game in their own way. We only witnessed some good-natured joking between the groups of fans. It was remarkable to see people so passionate about their countries mixing without much incident despite somewhat recent history of conflict between the two nations. The atmosphere in the stadium was so loud, and so energizing, and I was surprised to see Polish fans sitting amongst the German fans, and again, a lot of good-natured ribbing going on during the game which Germany eventually won.

I was also privileged enough to be in England during the 2002 World Cup, and I was in Italy just before the 1998 World Cup. If you can’t go to the actual games, the second best option is to travel to a country that is passionate about their team participating in the tournament. Even in 2002, I was at a packed out pub in England at 10 am buzzing from strong beer and watching on the big screen as the English team was playing their game in the Far East.

Unfortunately, at some point during each of these trips (which did not last the duration of the tournament), I had to head back to West Michigan where I lived at the time. Unless you’re in a really big city like New York or Los Angeles, the US is probably one of the worst places in the world to try to follow the world’s biggest sporting event. Even finding the games on TV can be difficult. While the games in the later stages of the tournament may make it to ESPN or other standard cable channels, for many of the first round games, I would have to make friends whose cable packages included Spanish-language channels.

When games were being played during my workday (due to time zone differences), I would find live score updates online and follow as closely as I could while working. I would see the score change and an upset in the making, and listen from my cubicle for gasps or comments from anyone else—certainly there had to be other people watching the scoreline. But, I never heard a sound that was soccer related, nor did I know of anyone in the vicinity who would care if I shared the news.

When games in the later stages were televised live on weekends, Sarah and I craved the fan atmosphere we had experienced in Europe. We wanted to find a sports bar where the game was being shown. We learned from several past disappointing experiences that we should call around first before just showing up somewhere. We’d start calling the biggest sports bars in Grand Rapids (a metropolitan area of about half a million people). We would ask if they were showing the soccer game. “What soccer game?” was often the reply. Eventually we’d work our way to calling the bars popular with the Italians or Mexicans, and we would make our way there. We’d try to round up as many of our friends as possible and try to get them excited. We’d all show up to half-empty sports bars with eight big screens, and they might have the World Cup game on one of those screens. Other screens would be showing golf, NASCAR, baseball highlights, or the NHL draft. If we were lucky, the sound feed would be from the soccer game—IF we were lucky.

Well, here I am in 2010, another World Cup year, but this time in Canada. I didn’t think that the World Cup experience in Canada would be any different from that in the US. Now less than a week away from the final, I know that there is no where in the world I’d rather be (other than the actual games at the stadiums) during this event.

I had my first clue that something was amiss back in mid-May when the car flags of various nations were everywhere on vehicles all around town. I soon deduced that the car flags coincidentally were the same as countries in the final 32 of the World Cup. At the mall, almost every store was selling soccer jerseys, country flags, scarves, or hats—even stores that don’t normally sell sporting goods. At the farmers’ market, stalls were set up selling similar types of soccer fan merchandise. On a main street corner in downtown Kitchener, a vendor had set up a tent in an empty parking lot and had flags, jerseys, banners, scarves, and balls of every team.

This year, I opted to cheer for the Ivory Coast, as one of my favorite players, Didier Drogba, is on that team. Obtaining an Ivorian car flag through any channel other than online shopping would normally be impossible. But, here in Canada, it was no problem.

About a week before the tournament started, there was no question as to where we could go to watch the games. All the bars and restaurants were advertising that they would be showing the games. As far back as January, CBC, the main television broadcaster in Canada, was advertising for the World Cup—they’d be showing every game.

At work, everyone talks about the World Cup all the time. Everyone knows what teams are playing, and everyone has a favorite. In the US, I would have had numerous tiresome debates by now with people who are certain that there is no value in watching soccer because it is so “boring” compared to other spectator sports. Not so in Canada—there is a genuine appreciation of the game, and a stark absence of any comparisons to football or hockey.

Part of the reason that Canada is such a great place to be during the World Cup is because of the diversity of the population. I could take the most obscure country in the tournament, probably Ivory Coast, and still find fans of this team who are have Ivorian heritage, right in downtown Toronto. Then when you consider some of the more dominant teams in the sport such as Germany or England, the supporters are everywhere. Canadians are generally accepting of individual displays of national pride, and since there are so many Canadians who are immigrants or first generation Canadians, these displays are varied and widespread. No one seems offended by anyone’s car flags or jerseys. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Canada is not in the World Cup itself, so no one feels any pressure or obligation to cheer for Canada. They are free to cheer for any country they choose, and usually these choices center around individuals’ heritages.

If I was in England right now, the fervor over the World Cup would be over because England is now out of the tournament. But here in Canada, when one country exits, the fans from the remaining countries become even more evident. My friends of Dutch heritage who don’t even like soccer are now following the tournament, and better yet, even wanting to talk about soccer with me! A few weeks ago, the Spanish team flags and jerseys were lost in the sea of Portuguese red and green. Now, I can see that there are fans of the Spanish team in my midst, as much as they are still outnumbered by the German fans in this heavily German area. And, once Ivory Coast was out and I switched my allegiance to Paraguay, no one cared or saw me as a traitor. The fan bases here are like rolling snowballs that increase in size as other teams are eliminated from the tournament.

Two weeks ago, Portugal and Brazil played each other in the first round. Several hours after the game, which ended in a 0-0 tie, I was driving through town and couldn’t believe how many Portuguese fans were on the streets shouting and waving large flags. The 0-0 tie was fairly unremarkable, but that was the game that had given Portugal enough points to go on to the second round. It was like being in Portugal without being in Portugal.

This Sunday, the Netherlands will be playing in the final game. This is a huge deal for the Dutch people, who have always fielded a strong team but never actually won the World Cup. The people in the Netherlands are going crazy. The whole country will most likely literally shut down for the day of the game, and probably the day before. The Dutch or Dutch descendents I know here in Kitchener-Waterloo are beside themselves with excitement.

Back in West Michigan, where Dutch and Dutch descendents are the largest ethnic group in many counties, there’s only a limited amount of attention being paid to the upcoming game. I would imagine that if Sarah and I were still living there, despite the Dutch influence in Grand Rapids, and despite the significance of this game, we would still be working hard to convince our friends to go out and watch the game with us, and we may or may not get any takers. Then again, we would likely have trouble even finding a bar willing to show the game!

More Random Thoughts on the US Immigration Policies

2010-05-19T20:11:00.000-04:00

The immigration debate has really been heating up in the US lately, with Arizona passing all kinds of creative legislation, and the controversy even penetrating the inner sanctum of the Miss USA pageant. I'm quite happy to be observing all of this from north of the border, no longer living a life subject to the prejudiced and uninformed opinions and whims of straight, white male US congressmen and senators.

If you don't know or if you've never read the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, check it out and see if you can understand why I'm beginning to think that the US should give up the statue and perhaps give it to some other country (such as Canada).

Here is a poem that sums up my feelings:

Two Banners

Look through the stars to see the bars,
Horizon-spanning grate of red,
Exclusion in a welcome’s stead.
Send not the homeless tempest-tossed--
Her lamp is doused, her seekers find,
With blood from knuckles, knock, knock, knocked--
Exalted golden door now locked.

The maple leaf extends his arms,
Inviting those who dare to dream—
To challenge for such lives redeemed.
Arrivals, shapes and hues motley,
Slot in mosaic spaces held.
For this the leaf only demands
On guard for all of us we stand.

--MJB 04/2010

Happy Anniversary, Eh?

2010-05-08T08:19:00.002-04:00

On April 29, 2010, Sarah and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. On that same day ten years before, we were married in a ceremony that was part of the Millennium March in Washington, D.C. We exchanged vows and rings on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Our friends Todd and Chris were there, as were a few hundred others. Even though this wedding had no legal standing anywhere in the world, it was a marriage to us.

Ten years is a long time, and when I think back through those ten years, I realize what an achievement it has been for us. The time seems to have flown by so quickly, but that may have a lot to do with the segmentation of our lives as we went from visa to visa. For our first nine years living together, we could only plan as far ahead as the expiration date of the current visa. Some visas were for 18 months. Some were for three years. Some were renewable, others weren't. Not being able to plan ahead for more than three years ever at one time meant we were in a constant temporary state. We had an excuse not to buy new furniture--we might have to move to England. We had an excuse not to go back to school--that schooling might be interrupted and we might not be able to complete it. Sarah had an excuse not to look for a new and better job--she couldn't as her visa was tied to her job. I had an excuse not to look for a new job--why do that when we might have to move out of the country? There are so many things we really wanted to do but didn't because we were aware of the imminent threat of having to move out of the US. If Sarah was fired from her job, quit her job, or if her visa expired, she would have ten days to leave the US.

Now that we are in Canada, I still don't think I'm used to being able to plan far into the future. I spent so long in visa purgatory that sometimes the reality of my current situation seems just a nice dream.

When we were living visa to visa, the amount of stress on each of us was, at times, unbearable, and the rest of the time, crushing. When Sarah would apply for a visa and we would wait and wait and wait for word on it, there was this horrible feeling in our stomachs when we wondered what would happen if the visa was denied? One time, her visa application was denied (due to shoddy legal work)--I can't even begin to explain the heartache we both felt when we were informed of the denial. We had no idea what we would do, where we would go, how we would stay together, and we had no money--at the time of the denial, Sarah had been working at her US company without pay because she didn't have a visa and it would have been illegal for her company to pay her. But how else was she supposed to keep her job with the company? If she didn't do the work, they would have hired someone else. And any money we did have from my income went to paying for what turned out to be inept legal services. We had absolutely nothing but each other and our dog, and we didn't even know how the three of us could stay together. We both cried and cried for days.

Eventually after nine months back in England and a new application, she did get a three-year visa, but this only prolonged the misery of living visa to visa, and really only postponed the inevitable--a move out of the US.

It seems that whole periods of my life were consumed with stress about visas. I wonder how many of the rough times in our relationship were due at least partly to this constant stress. When the final application for a visa was abandoned, as much as I was dreading the work involved in moving and the unknowns of living in Canada, I felt a certain sense of relief that I was soon going to be living a life of permanence; we would be able to plan for our future in more than three-year increments.

Our relationship has survived so many obstacles--the stigma of being a same-sex couple, the financial hardships, Sarah's homesickness, lack of legal protections available to us as a couple, and in the end, the move to Canada. In our ten years of marriage, I think we've endured more strain than most couples endure in twenty years, and likely more strain than most relationships could handle.

The day after our anniversary, I was on the phone with my mother who is back in Michigan. I explained that we had just celebrated our ten year. Her response was, "Oh, I didn't realize. You will have to remind me again of your anniversary date. I never remember." I do tell her at least every year and any time she asks.

That night, we headed to a soccer teammate's house for an end-of-season barbeque. Our teammates and their husbands and kids were there. We were all having a wonderful time. Suddenly, the hostess brought out a large sheet cake. I got a bit choked up when I saw the writing on it--"Happy Ten Year Anniversary Mary and Sarah." I certainly didn't expect that. I thought about how something like this would have never happened in West Michigan, and therefore was able to identify two clear examples of just how our lives had changed for the better. Not only did we have a whole group of (straight) people recognizing our anniversary with no one experiencing any apparent discomfort, but a bakery in the area had actually agreed to write such a message on a cake!

Venting Some Frustration. . . .

2010-05-04T17:09:00.000-04:00

Browsing the Internet today, I stumbled upon the following article from the New York Times:

Suspect Was Citizen for Just a Year
May 4, 2010

The Pakistan-born man arrested in the failed Times Square car bombing had lived legally in the United States for most of the last 11 years and was naturalized as an American citizen in Bridgeport, Conn., last April, officials said on Tuesday.

Okay, how nice. So I read on a bit further and learned that

In January 2002, the authorities said, Mr. Shahzad got an H1-B visa for skilled workers. Mr. Shahzad married an American citizen named Huma Mian, and was granted a green card in January 2006. He was naturalized in a ceremony in Bridgeport on April 17 of last year . . .

Once again, I feel like I'm on Candid Camera and at any moment someone is going to appear to tell me that the last couple of years of my life have all been part of an elaborate joke.

But, on so many levels, it's not funny at all. I'm debating whether this whole situation with the traitorous Pakistani makes more of a mockery of the immigration rules in the United States or of the sanctity of marriage.

Hmmm, I think I'll go the immigration route. Let me re-write the above information with details from my own life.

My partner Sarah lived legally in the United States for nine years beginning in 1999. In August 2002, Sarah got an H1-B visa for skilled workers. Sarah was not allowed to marry me, and in fact, our then home state of Michigan passed a law in 2004 banning any recognition of same-sex partnerships ("To secure and preserve the benefits of marriage for our society and for future generations of children, the union of one man and one woman in marriage shall be the only agreement recognized as a marriage or similar union for any purpose.--Michigan Constitution, Article I, Section 25, approved by the electorate on November 2, 2004). Sarah was not able to get her green card as my partner nor through her employer. Her expert legal advice from her company's immigration lawyer was to "find a guy to marry." In 2008, we left the United States and moved to Canada.

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't add one small detail to this story--neither of us have ever had any ties to any terrorist groups nor have we ever plotted to harm anyone.

In summary, the citizen-elected governments of the United States throughout the past eight years preferred to naturalize heterosexually married terrorists over law-abiding and non-threatening homosexuals.

Keeping Score with Canadians

2010-04-01T00:34:00.001-04:00

My hockey league's annual end-of-season social was earlier this week. The cash bar was beckoning, and as I was buying a beer for myself, I noticed a teammate in line behind me. I seized the opportunity and told her I was buying her drink. I didn't think any explanation was necessary--after all, she was my hockey buddy! Besides, if I had a loonie for every time in our recently-ended season that she had made a perfectly placed and selfless pass to me that I flubbed up, I could have bought her a whole case of beer. What should have been a simple transaction, a straightforward gesture of appreciation, became an awkward situation where my offer was turned down more than the customary and half-hearted single declination I expected. In fact, in the amount of time we spent debating whether or not it was appropriate for me to buy her a beer, she would have been paid more than the cost of the beer in question had she been at work and getting paid by the hour. Eventually she gave in, but by that point, I felt more like a bully than a buddy.

This whole situation was not surprising to me, as one of my biggest struggles of late has been understanding what appears to me to be a cultural mindset that spurns acts of generosity. More specifically, Canadians seem to be obsessed with what I would call "keeping score." They do not want any favors unless they can repay you promptly and exactly.

I started noticing this trend about the same time I first started making friends in Canada. The first friend I made in Canada is my colleague Justyna. One morning, a few weeks after I had moved to Ontario and started my job, I stopped for coffee. I picked up coffee for her as well and brought it into the office. She immediately tried to pay me for it, but I insisted it wasn't a big deal--it wasn't. The next day, she came in with coffee for me. I wasn't used to having my unconditional gestures of friendship reciprocated so immediately, and I was almost insulted. It seemed to me as if she was indicating, "Yes, that is nice you got me coffee, but I don't want to owe any favors to anyone, so here is my repayment and now we're back to an even score."

Part of the problem may actually be me. I was raised by parents who are generous to a fault, and I've subconsciously adopted some of their behaviors. Yet, I can say with certainty that in my previous life in Michigan, I could go out with my soccer teammates and buy a beer for one of them and encounter, at most, one formality of a protest followed by a simple "thanks." That person then may or may not have bought me a beer at a later time--I don't know; I wasn't keeping score.

When Sarah and I lived in Michigan, we would sometimes go with friends to see plays, concerts, or sporting events. This usually involved one of the people in the group purchasing the tickets and we'd settle up later. If the tickets were $41.50 each, and I was paying a friend for my and Sarah's tickets, my friend would likely ask for $80, just for the sake of being simple. The first time we went to a sporting event with friends in Canada who had purchased all the tickets, we were told that we owed $126.47. There is nothing wrong with expecting to get repaid exactly what is owed, no more and no less, but it did seem to substantiate my belief that Canadians are very particular about making sure they are always even.

On another occasion, we decided to go to a Red Wings game with two of our closest friends in Canada. We bought four tickets and then began planning our trip to Detroit. I asked them what time we should leave, who would drive, etc., and was told that no details would be discussed until I told them what they owed me for the tickets. I responded that the tickets were Christmas presents for them and we were just glad they would be going with us. My friend then told me they absolutely would not be going at all unless we disclosed the exact amount they owed so they could repay us. Once again, I was a little baffled and unsure of how to interpret the situation. I felt as if my genuine and unconditional gesture of friendship was slammed back at me, as if to say, "We don't want to owe you anything, so we do not accept this gift."

My frustration with the "keeping-score" mentality reached its height just before Christmas. Two of my friends went on a trip to the Caribbean because one of them was celebrating a milestone birthday. I offered to pick them up from the airport on their return because I had the time and I knew it would make their lives easier. On the way from the airport to their house, we stopped for dinner--nothing expensive or fancy. At the end of the meal, I paid for dinner, because from my experience, most people are quite broke when returning from vacation. Besides, it was just before Christmas, and I was just grateful to be out with good friends at a time of year which can always feel lonely, but was especially lonely for me because Sarah was in England.

They were truly angry with me, and let me know it. In my mind, I was just being helpful. Unbeknownst to me, they had wanted to buy dinner--in their minds, that was a good way for them to repay me for the ride from the airport.

Two days after this incident, I went to Michigan for Christmas, and feeling lower than a snake's belly after my recent reprimand, had a lot of time to think on the six hour drive. Was I trying too hard in my efforts to make friends? Did I appear desperate? Was I making it too easy for others to take advantage of me? Was this really a MJB problem rather than a cultural difference? The next few days gave me a clear answer to that last question.

My first full day back, I went for burritos and beer with my friend Beth. She paid for lunch. That night, I went to dinner with several friends from my old company. They paid for dinner. The next morning, I went to drop-in soccer. I knew the cost was $5 per person, but when I tried to pay, the organizer told me that I was a guest and need not pay. After soccer, I went out for breakfast with my friend Connie. She paid.

In all cases, I did put up the customary protest and offered to pay, but in the end each time, I graciously accepted their generosity and was quick to thank them for it. Do I feel like I owe them? No. But within that very short time span, I began to reconsider whether the problems I was having in Canada were due to my own character flaws or due to a significant cultural difference.

Maybe Canadians just aren't used to getting something for nothing. The score-keeping mindset could be related to larger cultural conditions, such as the fact that everything is quite expensive in Canada. Not only are the prices on everything just higher in general, but so are the taxes. I've read that Americans donate more to charity, on average, than Canadians, and the speculated reason for this is that Canadians pay so much in taxes with a large portion of that tax revenue going to social programs that they don't feel as inclined to donate additional money to social causes.

The differences I've noticed go beyond pure monetary gestures. If I have an item that I am not using and don't foresee needing, I will happily give it to someone who can use it. Again, while in Michigan at Christmas, I was telling my friend Beth about how I was having trouble keeping the dogs in the back of the Jeep on the trip from Canada, and I was concerned about similar difficulties on the return trip. She immediately took me into her garage and offered me a special dog barrier designed for SUVs. I noticed it had a price tag of $15 from when she was trying to sell it at her garage sale. I offered to pay, but she insisted I just take it.

I remember once when a co-worker in Michigan was telling me that his mattress and box spring were on the floor of his room because he didn't have a bed frame, I gave him a bed frame I had and wasn't using. Why wouldn't I? Recently, a co-worker at my company here in Ontario was lamenting the same thing--mattress and box spring on the floor. I didn't have another spare bed frame to offer. However, someone else in the office did--she would sell it to him for $50.

I am not saying that Canadians are stingy with money any more than I am saying Americans are frivolous. And, to be honest, I'm still not convinced that my struggles aren't due more to an MJB vs. The World than a US vs. Canadian mindset. I do know that I am not one to keep score, and I should be able to buy a friend or a teammate a beer without having to feel like I've committed some social transgression. I also know that tomorrow morning, I'm planning to buy a coffee for Justyna. And, I also know that as sure as the sun will rise the following workday, she'll come in with a coffee for me, just to even the score.

Identity Crisis

2010-02-28T10:05:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-18T22:14:00.003-05:00

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!

Back in the Closet

2010-01-13T18:44:00.004-05:00

Living in the bible belt of Michigan was never easy for Sarah and me. The most difficult part of life there was that we had to be closeted about our relationship. If we spoke openly about it, we could have been discriminated against in our jobs, in healthcare, in housing, and we would have been plied with harsh and hateful condemnations. For these reasons, we decided that our best approach to life in West Michigan was to get to know people first, and then let the facts of our “lifestyle” surface gradually and naturally.

We found so many times that people got to know us and like us and even enjoy being friends with us before they found out we were a couple, and by the time they realized our relationship with each other, a friendship or other professional affinity had already been established that superseded and minimized any resulting discomfort or awkwardness. In fact, we have several good friends in the US who have told us that they didn’t ever have any gay friends before and very well might have shied away had they known we were gay before making our acquaintance. These same people are now among our biggest advocates and supporters. That we totally derailed their pre-conceived fears and opinions by disarming them in just being ourselves is a massive accomplishment of which we are quite proud. We opened and changed minds by not basing our identity on our orientation, refusing to be “gay Mary and Sarah.” Instead we were “Mary and Sarah (who, by the way, just happen to be gay).”

So, now here we are in Canada, and I find myself in the closet once again. “Why would someone have to be in the closet in Canada?” you ask in disbelief? Let me assure you, my new closet in Canada is very real and very deep, but it has nothing to do with my relationship with Sarah.

I have written previously about the Canadian attitudes towards Americans. I could actually write a new blog entry each day about this bizarre relationship between the citizens of the two neighboring countries. The cynicism and animosity that often lurks beneath the surface of Canadian’s polite exterior has me a bit paranoid.

It’s fascinating to me how often I overhear conversations about Americans in disapproving tones. Sometimes I even observe Canadians making quips about Americans as a way to entertain others, sometimes not realizing who I am and that I might be offended. And then there are the times when Canadians I know jokingly make derrogatory remarks about Americans in conversations with me. Whatever the stereotype used or the appearance of the comments being all in good fun, I can’t get the quote out of my head—“No one is ever really just kidding.” There is an element of truth in every joke, in every sarcastic remark, in every “just kidding.”

I’m frustrated with the Canadians’ insistence on grouping all Americans together. If they are complaining about George W. Bush and what he did in office, the Canadians comment they can’t believe he was elected—twice. They seem to forget that over 45% of Americans did not vote for him—twice. If the Canadians want to rail about the litigiousness of American society, they don’t seem to realize that the frivolous lawsuits that make the news are really concentrated in a couple of specific parts of the United States—not all Americans are out to get rich quick through lawsuits. When Canadians like to have a laugh about stupid Americans, they forget that in the US, just like any country, there are stupid people, educated people, and intelligent people. And when Canadians characterize Americans as gluttonous, wasteful, and overweight, they disregard the large numbers of US citizens who are socially-conscious and physically active.

Because I am fully aware of the chaos created by my fellow countrymen when they travel outside the borders of the US, I really have little ground to stand on in defending Americans. I can keep shouting, “Hey, don’t generalize. We’re not all stupid, whiny, rude, loud, and obnoxious!” but all that does is actually make me look loud, obnoxious, and whiny.

I have come to a point now where I’ve decided that I should lay down my sword and just retreat into the national origin closet. I can dress like typical Canadians, I can watch and attempt to play hockey, I can drive in the snow like a pro, I can navigate a Tim Horton’s drive through, I can avert my eyes or close my ears when I hear unfair generalizations. I can also say “washroom” when I mean “bathroom,” say “toque” when I mean “hat,” muddle my way through Celsius and centimeters, and even randomly tack an "eh?" on the end of sentences. What I can’t do yet is hide my accent.

Last week, I was presenting for work to a group of people I did not know. In the last six months, I have become MORE conscious and concerned about revealing my national identity. However, my presentation pretty much requires the use of words like “dollar,” “house,” and “out.” I don’t sound any different from Canadians except when I use certain words. When I hear myself say such words, and I do hear my own accent now, I cringe. I’m bracing for the inevitable smirks or apprehensive “Are you from The States?” The question rarely comes, though, because Canadians are too polite to ask. If someone starts asking questions that will clearly lead to the topic of my original home, I’m becoming quite skilled at diverting the conversation. Following my presentations to these groups, I had to be very alert and carefully guide the dialogue with participants who wanted to ask me questions.

Example
Canadian: “So, where did you work before you worked in your current job?”
Me: “Oh, at a small company about four hours from here. Hey, the Leafs might make the playoffs this year, eh?"

Unfortunately, I’ve developed a bit of a complex of self-consciousness. I’ve lost a lot of confidence in speaking. I’ve found that in situations where there are people I don’t know well, whether it’s work or personal, I now am not speaking much at all, which is quite contrary to my American nature of just loudly blurting out whatever comes to mind. . . just kidding. (Or, am I really just kidding???)

Anyway, writing has become another dead giveaway that I must monitor. I have always been a perfectionist in the mechanics of writing (which is evident only when I take the time to proofread). Spelling, punctuation, and grammar accuracy are extremely important to me. I can spell almost any word without having to think much about it. Well, now welcome to Canada where double Ls are single Ls and single Ls are double Ls and Os are followed by Us and the letter S is often a Z and a Z is known as Zed. UUGGGHH!

Last month, I was writing an exam for my insurance designation. About halfway through the 20 handwritten pages that I eventually completed, I discovered that I had been writing the words “offense,” “neighbor,” “jewelry,” “behavior,” "dependent," “kilometer,” and many others throughout the essay question answers. The US spelling comes naturally to me. I didn’t know who would be grading my exam, but I was pretty certain that they would be 1) Canadian, and 2) educated enough to realize I was not using Canadian English spelling. If they recognized the spelling as US spelling, I wondered how much that would affect my grade. I’ll never know—I won’t ever see the graded test; I’ll just be given my grade. Maybe this fear of discrimination seems irrational, but I’ve been in Canada long enough to just suspect it’s possible.

Sarah doesn’t have this problem—it’s my issue. Most Canadians seem to love the British, and they actually don’t have nearly as many strong opinions about the British as they do about Americans.

I'm nervous when I meet new people here, now. When I first moved here, I had no qualms about letting people know I was from Michigan--and why would I have? A normal part of the discourse between newly acquainted people involves discussion about the home city or state/province, if not country, of both parties. The deprecation and disdain I've felt at times has made me guarded. Lately I've been trying to hide the fact that I am from the US. I know it will be harder to build any type of a relationship with someone when they have immediate pre-conceived ideas about me.

I’ve found that my old technique of allowing people to get to know me first and then revealing that I am American is a good strategy to break down some of the stereotypes and barriers. I hope that Canadians can get to know me and like me and even enjoy being friends with me before they find out I am an American, and by the time they realize my national origin, a friendship or other professional relationship will already have been established that supersedes and minimizes any resulting discomfort or awkwardness. I feel I have the power to open and change minds by just being myself and refusing to be “that American Mary.” Instead I can be “Mary (who, by the way, just happens to be American).” I think I can succeed if I just learn to choose my words carefully.

My Hockey Moment

2010-01-08T06:54:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I look back and think about how I signed up to play in the women’s hockey league just weeks before I moved to Canada and can’t decide if that was really brave or really foolish—especially since I had never played a single minute of a hockey game in my life. However, playing hockey has had the biggest influence on my life since I moved to Canada because it has allowed me to feel more a part of Canadian culture; it has also provided an outlet for stress and a venue for meeting people.

I’ve played many sports in my lifetime, and as Sarah always says, I don’t do things by halves—if I take up something new, I put my heart and soul into it until I am good at it. I was in track in junior high and set records in the shot put and the 880. In high school, I was on the softball team and won games with one swing of the bat. In college, I played tennis and my name is on the fieldhouse wall for being named Academic All-American. In the many years I’ve been playing soccer, I’ve tied then won games with a couple of well-placed kicks. Anyone who plays any sport has these types of moments. I’ve been waiting for my hockey moment to come.

I play hockey year-round now that I am in Canada, sometimes in skills clinics, sometimes in co-ed rookie leagues, and sometimes at drop-in sessions, but mostly in the women’s league. My progress has been excruciatingly slow. There are two separate but completely interrelated skills that need to be mastered in hockey—the game itself (handling the stick and the puck, positioning and strategy on the ice) and skating. A person can be good at one or the other or both. I am not much good at either. The skating part has been particularly difficult. I can see that all these Canucks, despite what they say, are born with skates on. And, though women’s hockey is a relatively recent phenomenon in Canada, even girls who didn’t grow up playing hockey grew up skating or playing ringuette. As much as Michigan is a hockey state, the home of many NHL players and Olympians, women’s hockey there is almost non-existent. Check out the roster for the US Women’s Olympic team and you will see not a single person from Michigan, unlike the male counterpart. I literally had no chance while I was there.

Where was I going with this? . . . oh, right, my hockey moment. My point is that if you want to learn to play soccer, you can learn the game and focus on that because you already know how to run. If you want to learn basketball, you can learn to dribble the ball and shoot, but you already know how to run. With hockey, you can’t really focus on the game until you know how to skate, but you need to know the game to know how you should be skating. This is why learning hockey has been so difficult for me.

Sarah and I are clearly the most novice players on our women’s league team. We are more obstacles than assets to our teammates. By some miracle, I scored two goals in the whole of last season. Sarah had her first goal ever in December of 2009 this season. We were still buzzing and celebrating that when my first hockey moment came just a day later.

It was a Monday night game, and it was a late night game. Earlier that afternoon, the e-mail messages started coming in from teammates who were letting everyone know they wouldn’t be at the game for various reasons. The rest of us were still sore from the tournament that we finished playing just the day before. Sarah and I arrived at the arena about a half hour before face off, and much to our dismay, only two other members of our team were there. Over time, a few more showed up. Ideally, we would want at least ten players plus a goalie. As game time approached, we were only up to eight—two of the eight were Sarah and me, which is like less than one player, and two others were there but missing crucial equipment. One more person then showed up, and the two without hockey pants were working on getting some brought to the arena so they could play. About this time, I remembered that the other team’s jerseys were dark blue and ours were black, so I volunteered to go to our opponents’ locker room and see if they were willing to wear an alternate color.

I went down the hall to their dressing room. The door was open a crack and I could see all of the other team members in the dressing room in yellow jerseys—so one problem was solved. Then I noticed all the hockey sticks leaning on the wall outside the door—they clearly weren’t having trouble with their players showing up for the game. I went back to my own team’s dressing room, where chaos was still ruling as equipmentless players were panicking and everyone else was realizing our shorthandedness. I said, “Well, the good news is that they’re already wearing their yellow jerseys. The bad news is that there are a lot of sticks outside their door!”

In typical hockey-player style, everyone remarked on the amount of ice time we would get with so few subs, and those of us who had all of our equipment headed out to the ice for warm ups. As we were warming up, we had about six skaters and a goalie. The other team had about 15 players. I think they looked at our thin numbers and thought it would be a cake walk. Just before the game started, the other team’s coach came over and asked if we wanted to take some of their players just so we’d have more subs. While most of us were considering this option, our star player looked at him with a confident gaze and said, “Nah, we’ll be fine.” The unwritten, unspoken rule of rec sports that if you borrow players from another team you’re technically forfeiting was probably the reason she declined the help, and I was glad to see that someone on our team was confident.

The first period of the game was fairly uneventful. The play was surprisingly even. Our two pantless players had somehow managed to secure hockey pants and joined us. We had nine players plus a goalie. Again, remember that two of the nine were Sarah and me, so essentially, we had seven players plus a goalie.

With a minute left in the first half, the other team scored. We were down 0-1. I mentioned to someone nearby that the score line would certainly get worse for us before the game was over.

The second period started, and not too long after that, I found myself following up right behind our star player who was going in for a shot on goal. All of a sudden, the puck bounced off the goalie or the post, I don’t know which. The goalie was stretched out to the side and on the ice. The puck skipped across the crease and to my stick. I flipped it into the net and we were tied! My teammates went crazy. I was so excited. I had just tied us up in a game we should have been losing. I knew it was just a lucky fluke, but I was going to celebrate that moment.

After this, I was skating on pure adrenaline. I was determined to do everything in my power to help maintain that tie and was hoping we could, against all odds, score again. We were past the halfway point of the game, and as we neared the end of the second period, we were tired, still sore from the previous weekend’s tournament, breathing hard, but spirited and resolute.

With only a couple of minutes left in the second period, one of my teammates had the puck, saw that I was close to the blue line, and passed the puck into our offensive zone for me to chase. My adrenaline still pumping, I actually got to the puck before any of the opposing defenders, which was miraculous in itself. I could feel my heart racing as I had the puck on my stick and was heading towards the goal. I saw a defender coming in on me out of the corner of my eye and thought that I had better get rid of the puck before it was taken from me. I flipped the puck at the goal, hoping to just get it closer for one of my teammates. As I followed through on my swing, I completely lost my balance, in typical MJB hockey style, and ended up on my knees, on the ice, sliding, and facing the opposite direction. That’s when my REAL hockey moment happened. I heard all of my teammates cheering and going wild again. I thought that either one of my teammates had got to the puck and scored or that the opposing goalie had made an amazing save. All at once my teammates who were on the ice came skidding up to me, and they must have seen the confusion on my face because they were saying, “Mary! You just scored again!!!”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was unlikely enough that I had scored one goal. It was unlikely enough that our team wasn’t losing. But, now we were WINNING, and I had scored both goals? Yes! Sure enough, we were now winning 2-1. I never saw the goal or the puck go in, and I am betting it was another flukey goal, but two flukey goals in one period? Both off my stick? Now this was amazing.

We went into the third period up 2-1 with my teammates still buzzing and promising me all kinds of quantities and types of alcohol if I were to score a third goal—a hat trick. I was focusing on just maintaining our lead.

The third period got a bit wild, with some shoving and language between the teams that I wasn’t part of. One of our better players was ejected from the game. Another was put in the penalty box. Now we were down to seven players plus a goalie, and we still had about ten minutes to play. We were playing 4 on 5 for most of that period, due to the penalties. The other team pressed and pressed, but our defense was determined and seamless. When the buzzer finally sounded, we surely had won 2-1, and I was shaking with emotion.

I have always found sports to be a valuable part of my life for so many reasons, but one of the main reasons is that it helps to balance out some of the helplessness I feel in other areas of my life, such as at work. In soccer, if I score a goal, that is an accomplishment that no one can take away from me. No one can say, “Oh, we like this person better, so we are going to give her your goal.” On the field, or on the ice, unlike in the workplace, I have more control over my own destiny. If I work hard and do well, and especially if I score a goal, the ref writes it down, it goes on record, and that’s the end. It’s not like the workplace where I can work hard, accomplish much, and still be ignored, told I haven’t done a good enough job, or be denied a deserved promotion or raise.

There’s a feeling that goes through your mind when you have a car accident. As soon as you hear the sound of the metal crunching, you realize with horror that this moment is done and there is no going back, no matter how much you wish you could go back and look in your rear view mirror before reversing. The feeling of scoring a goal is similar but in a good way. Once that ball or puck hits the net and the ref signals the goal, there is no going back—nothing can take that accomplishment away from you.

Many more games and even seasons will undoubtedly pass before I score two goals in a hockey game again. But, until that time, at least now I have a special hockey moment I can remember that will inspire me to keep working to improve.

I also think that this hockey game combined with my torch relay experience should be enough to make me an honorary Canadian citizen. Alas, Citizenship and Immigration Canada won’t buy that argument. I still have two more years of residency to go. Bring it on!

My Olympic Moment

2009-12-31T14:08:00.003-05:00

For my last blog entry of 2009, I think it is appropriate to recount the details of my most memorable activity of the year—the Olympic Torch Relay.

I have said before that this blog is just as much a journal for me as it is a synopsis of my life in Canada for others to read. To that end, I want to relate as many details about the torch relay as I can put in writing. I’m not getting any younger, and I want to capture as much of the experience and emotion as possible so that, in the future, I can read this and remember everything about the special day.

Luckily, Sarah returned to North America the night before,as scheduled, but without her luggage. I picked her up from the airport in Buffalo on the night of Sunday, Dec. 27. We got home after midnight and went straight to bed as my segment of the torch relay was the next day.

We were less than pleased to see the deteriorating weather conditions out the window when we woke up on the morning of the 28th. The only person I had actually asked to come to the relay with me was my friend Justyna, and that was mainly because I wanted someone to be a backup to take photos just in case Sarah wasn’t back from England in time. I didn’t want anyone else to feel obligated to travel almost three hours on a holiday to see me run 300 meters. But, in the week prior to the relay, I discovered that some of my friends in Canada had been planning to come watch all along. As much as I had been wishing for true Canadian winter weather for the run, when Sarah and I saw the road conditions, we were a bit worried about what the drive would entail for everyone.

We left around 11 am as I had to be at the torchbearer meeting point in Kincardine by 2:30 pm. Justyna rode with Sarah and me, and we followed our friends Kathy and Monique. Unfortunately, there are no four-lane highways that go from Kitchener-Waterloo to Kincardine, and in fact, there aren’t even any highways that go partway. We were on two-lane roads through the countryside the entire way. By the time we were an hour out of KW, the weather was getting much worse and the roads icier. The sky was alternating between snow and hail, and the wind was blowing strong without a break. As we got closer and closer to the Lake Huron shore, the weather conditions deteriorated further. The roads were mainly snow-covered and icy, and at times it looked like we were two-tracking.

I was happy that Sarah agreed to drive, and Justyna navigated, so all I had to do was sit in the back seat lamenting that I would only be running 300 meters. I mentioned that I would run slowly to make the experience last as long as possible. I also began to wonder how the flame would hold up in the unyielding winds. Driving in winter weather stresses me out like nothing else, so I let Sarah stress and enjoyed the ride.

We finally arrived in Kincardine just before 2 and stopped at Tim Horton’s for coffee. I was too nervous to eat or drink anything. Despite the pleas from my traveling companions, I didn’t go in with my torchbearer outfit on. But, once inside Tim’s, we saw two other torchbearers there, in full regalia, with their families. So, I put on my outfit and we headed to the meeting point.

Tiverton is 8 miles away from Kincardine, so Sarah and the girls dropped me off at the meeting point, and they all headed to the point where we suspected I would be starting my run in Tiverton. All alone, I went into the library for the pre-relay meeting and saw that almost all the other torchbearers for the Kincardine-Tiverton segments were already there.

Ten people would be running with the torch in these two cities. Seven were in Kincardine and three were in Tiverton. As I sat down, Scott, the organizer, informed us that some of us would be running more than 300 meters, which was a pleasant surprise. He explained that 300 meters was the minimum, and since they couldn’t always be exact in the segment distances, some would be going further. He started going through the list of runners and named a couple of people who would go 400 meters. I was torchbearer 124, and I was thinking, “Please say 124 is going 400 meters!” He didn’t say my number. Instead, he said, “Okay, that’s all. It looks like the rest of you are doing 300 meters. . . .oh, wait. Who is number 124?” I sheepishly raised my hand. He then said, “Oh, you’ll be going 500 meters, the longest anyone is allowed to go in this relay!” I was so excited. I was going almost double the distance I was expecting to go.

The next part of the meeting involved learning about the relay itself. Then, we were each asked to explain how we were selected for the relay and what the experience means to us. I could feel myself starting to get nervous and I wondered how I could talk about any of this without crying. I heard the others speak about their experiences in organized sports, about disabled members of their families, about their military experience, about their involvement in youth sports, etc. When they came to me, what I said was something like this (it probably came out a little choppier, but this is what I was saying in my head):

“Yesterday I was talking to one of my friends who was adopted, and she said that when she was a kid and was told she was adopted, they said that she was extra special because she was chosen.

"I am not from Canada. I’m from the US. I had to move to Canada because my spouse was having immigration problems in the US. So, we chose Canada. We could have moved almost anywhere, but we chose Canada. I haven’t been in Canada a very long time, but it is now my home country, and it’s really important to me to be involved in the torch relay because it is something that is so valuable to the country. It’s a way for me to feel like I belong. I can’t say it makes me feel like I am giving back to Canada by doing this, because this is something that Canada has given to me, which is a great honor. But, it’s meaningful to me to be part of an event like this in my adopted country.

"The part of the US I’m from does not have a lot of opportunities for women’s hockey, so when I moved to Canada, one of the first things I did was sign up to play hockey. I’m not very good at it yet, but playing has been a great experience.”

I had to throw that last bit in there because everyone else in the room had been sure to mention details about their involvement with sports.

After this, we were given more details on the logistics of the relay, and in particular, how to hold the torch based on the direction of the wind. We were told that this was the snowiest and one of the windiest days of the relay so far.

We took a quick break before getting on the shuttle bus, and I went outside to call Sarah to tell her I was now going 500 meters. While I was making the call, I noticed the weather had become even worse. Tiny hail rocks and snowflakes were whipping past horizontally. Just a note on the weather—the low temperature that day was –9C (15 degrees for my Fahrenheit friends). The winds were gusting at 80 km/hour (50 mph for my non-metric readers). I can’t even find any info on what the wind chill was, but considering the average temperature of the day was around –5C (23F) and considering the speed of the wind, the wind chill could have easily been in negative double digits Celsius (below 0 F).

Next, all ten of us torchbearers boarded the shuttle and were given our own numbered torches. As soon as we were on the bus and ready to go, we noticed that a fairly large crowd had gathered outside the bus, so we all went back out with our torches and posed for pictures for about ten minutes. Then it was back on the bus to travel to the start of the route in Kincardine where the first torchbearer would be dropped off.

We arrived at the beginning of the route and had to wait for about 10 minutes for the rest of the torch convoy to arrive. During this time, another crowd had gathered around. The first torchbearer disembarked from the shuttle only to be swarmed by people wanting their pictures with her and the opportunity to hold a torch.

Before long, the rest of us were on our way, driving slowly through the main streets of Kincardine. The population of this town is only about 12,000, but I would expect that well over half of the residents were there lining the streets. I’ve been in parades before, but this was different. The spectators were not there to casually watch and be entertained by floats or politicians, or to try to catch candy. They were there with their Canadian flags and their patriotic clothing, and they were genuinely excited to see the actual Olympic flame. Our shuttle was stopping approximately every 300 meters to drop off the next torchbearer, who would then wait about five minutes for the prior torchbearer to pass the flame on. The slow drive down the street really drove home the significance of the event.

What made an impression on me the most was the reaction of the people on the side of the streets. Because our shuttle was going so slowly, any remaining torchbearers on the shuttle were waving at the spectators as we went past. The look of excitement on people’s faces when they realized that the waving red-mittened hands on the bus were those of other torchbearers was overwhelming. I tried my best to wave and make eye contact with as many people as possible. I didn’t have to try to smile—that just came naturally. But, every time that my eyes locked with people’s on the street, their eyes would light up and they would start waving frantically. I will never forget the thrill that was apparent in those faces. I was overcome with emotion because I had never in my life had such power to make others so happy with so little effort.

In time, we dropped off the last Kincardine torchbearer, and the driver, the organizer, me, and the other two remaining torchbearers headed towards Tiverton at a much higher speed. We arrived in Tiverton to the same sort of reception as we had in Kincardine, just on a slightly smaller scale as Tiverton only has a population of about 1000. Still, I think there were well over 1000 people out to watch on the main streets of that town.

It wasn’t long before I was the last torchbearer on the bus. We were going through the center of town and I started running up and down the aisle of the shuttle. Scott the organizer said to me, “Mary, are you excited?” I said, “Yes, I’m too excited to sit down so I thought I’d get warmed up!”

He asked if I had any family attending. I told him that no, my family lived to far away to travel to this. But I did say, “You know, I have only been in Canada about a year and a half, but there are nine people who traveled the 2.5 hours here today to watch me. I am really, really lucky to have such friends.”

He replied, “Yeah, those are really good friends. I’m happy to hear that. What a great story.”

He then got out of his seat and was looking out the open door of the shuttle, and suddenly I heard him shout to the crowd outside, “Hey! You guys must know this girl in here!” I ran over to look out and saw the whole group of my friends running along the side of the bus shouting. That was definitely one of the most emotional moments of the day for me. The bus stopped and the driver started blasting the Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling.” I jumped out and was immediately swarmed by my friends. I was so nervous and excited, I could hardly talk to anyone, and the next five minutes are kind of a blur in my mind. I do remember a few of the townspeople coming up to ask for a photo with me. I was extremely flattered and obliged. Also, whenever anyone approached me for a photo, I extended the torch and offered it to them to hold. They were kind of astonished and hesitated, but then they were really excited, grasped the torch and had more photos taken. Again, I was making people really happy with almost no effort.

Soon enough, the torchbearer preceding me was in sight. I was ushered by an attendant to the middle of the snowpacked road and positioned for the media cameras as he used his key to turn on the gas cylinder in my torch. There was a hush as the flame was transferred to my torch, and I experienced that brief moment of fear that my torch would not light. It did light, the flame appeared, and the wind almost extinguished it immediately. But, the flame prevailed. I paused for just a second to take in the momentousness, and then something I can’t explain took over my body and I took off running, holding the torch as high as I could while keeping my balance. I don’t even think I made a conscious decision to start running. It was like the energy of the flame went down through the torch, through my arm, and into my heart and took over my body.

I suddenly became aware of the torch relay escorts running beside me. I said to them, “Wow, you guys certainly get your exercise, don’t you?” They just looked at me and didn’t respond. I don’t think they had much breath available for speaking. Then I said, “Well, that’s good. You can eat whatever you want tonight!” When I am nervous, I often say stupid things.

I was trying my best to remember to wave at the people lining the streets to watch when a commotion on the right side of the road got my attention. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing out of my peripheral vision—it was my “pack” of nine friends running along the sidewalk trying to keep up. My friend Sue yelled out, “Mary, slow down! Savor the moment!” Whatever energy had taken over my muscle motor control was not aware of my intentions to run slowly to make the moment last. I was running fairly quickly and I tried to ease the pace but couldn’t! I shouted back, “I can’t slow down! It’s the adrenaline!!”

I took as many mental snapshots as I could, in between checking the flame to make sure the gusty wind hadn’t blown it out. I saw whole kids’ hockey teams in their jerseys. I saw elderly people struggling just to stand. I saw all kinds of people with bright red faces, all bundled up in their warmest (or at least their warmest patriotic) winter outerwear. I saw the group holding the “Welcome to Tiverton” sign. I saw whole families huddled together. I heard another commotion, which turned out to be a group of kids who wanted to run behind me in the road the whole way. Someone in my entourage yelled out, “Mary is like the Pied Piper of the torch relay!” The police quickly diverted the kids to the side of the road as no one else was allowed to be so close to the procession.

I felt my arm getting tired and switched hands. The torch weighed almost 4 pounds. I tried to slow down again but couldn’t. I looked up at the flame during one particularly hard gust of wind and saw it blow out, or so I thought. I cried “Nooooooo!” and then held the torch with both hands, willing it back to life, and thankfully saw the flame come back. The return of the flame gave me an extra burst of energy, which was needed as I could feel my lungs, which do not operate properly in very cold conditions, starting to seize up. I looked ahead beyond the crowds of people and saw farm fields and realized I was nearing the end. One of the escorts told me to follow him to the side of the road, where I knew my job would be to light the flame in the lantern in the convoy vehicle that carries the flame from one town to the next. I stopped running and did my job. My torch was then turned off by one of the escorts and I was quickly conducted to the pickup shuttle.

I collapsed into one of the seats on the shuttle and realized how exhausted I was. My face was numb from cold, and I was wheezing. The other torchbearers were apparently already rested up and sharing tales of their moments, but I had no breath for speaking. I couldn’t believe it was over. I know this is not possible, but it really felt like the whole experience had lasted about 20 seconds.

All of us torchbearers were all dropped off back in Kincardine at our meeting point. Because I was the last torchbearer in this segment, my entourage was not there to pick me up yet. One by one, the other torchbearers left with their families. Soon I was by myself, sitting in front of the library in the chilling wind. It was now getting quite dark as it was after 5 pm on one of the shortest days of the year. I didn’t really feel the cold. I just sat there reflecting on my day. I suddenly recognized that I was only about 200 yards from the edge of Lake Huron, something I had not noticed earlier that day because the blowing snow had so diminished visibility. I grew up very close to Lake Michigan, and I feel a strong connection with all the Great Lakes. I looked out over Lake Huron as far as I could see and thought about how my home state of Michigan was only 50 miles over that water. I had just finished the most notable experience of my life in Canada so far, and I was peering across the water towards my former homeland. I thought about all of my Canadian friends who had travelled such a long way to support me, I thought about the sense of pride and patriotism that I was feeling for Canada, and I concluded that I had come a long way in 16 months—certainly more than 500 meters or even 50 miles.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of my pack in their own convoy. We had a special photo session so I could get my picture with all of them. We decided that as it was now dark and the weather was not improving, we would go back to KW and have a dinner celebration there.

Ah, if only it was that easy. I thought the ride to Kincardine was dicey. The ride back was three times as bad. Because it was dark and the snow was blowing to hard across the farm fields and the roads in between, most of the trip was in a complete whiteout. Luckily we weren’t in a hurry, so we took our time. Almost three hours later, we arrived at Moose Winooski’s in Kitchener. I asked my friends if they expected me to wear my torchbearer outfit into the restaurant. I was pretty much told I had no choice. I was worried that everyone would think I was showing off or trying to get attention, but I reluctantly entered the building in my outfit and with my torch in hand.

I couldn’t believe what happened next. Almost immediately, people started coming up to me and asking me about the relay and requesting to have their photos with me. I was very happy to do that, because again, I was humbled to be in a situation where I could make people happy with minimal effort. I encouraged people to hold the torch and get their photos with it. One group of people at the restaurant were there for a lady’s 60th birthday. That lady had several photos with me and the torch and then said to me, “You know, today is my 60th birthday, and you have just made my day!”

Eventually I was able to settle down and have a drink with my friends, but occasionally other people would come by and ask for a photo. I was so honored to think that people wanted their photo with me, there was no way I was declining those requests. Some people just wanted their picture on their own with the torch, and that was great too.

Sarah said she was surprised that I was so relaxed about letting people handle the torch. I said, “Well, why wouldn’t I be? It makes people happy. Besides, I really feel like it doesn’t belong to me—it belongs to all Canadians.”

As I am writing this now, it is three days after the actual torch relay. I still am on a high and am having trouble focusing on anything. What a way to end my year!

Home for the Holidays

2009-12-25T23:32:00.002-05:00

Sarah went off to England on her own this Christmas, and being apart during the holidays was not something either of us really wanted. But, we couldn’t afford for us both to go, and Sarah really had to see her family so she could meet her new niece. This meant that I had to make a decision—sit around by myself in Cambridge on Christmas or drive six hours to stay with my parents in West Michigan. I opted for what I figured would just barely be the lesser of two evils and would involve family dramas, food pushing, church attendance, the cost of gas, and a significant amount of snow—I left on Dec. 21 for the long drive to Michigan.

I realized almost immediately how much I rely on Sarah emotionally, especially since the most trying emotional ordeals seem to take place around my family. But, without her around, I was able to pay much more attention to my surroundings and observe the many ways in which the place I still refer to as “home” out of habit is now more a surreal place that I no longer belong.

One of the most shocking revelations of my trip was that I was having a slight amount of difficulty finding my way around parts of town I used to know really well. I almost missed turns, ended up in the wrong lanes, and stumbled upon roads I had forgotten. I don’t think I’m old enough to be that forgetful, and I’ve only been away for less than a year and a half.

I was still pondering the unlikelihood of forgetting something that used to come so naturally when I met up with my friend Tony. I went with him to run some errands. We went to a store in the absolute opposite end of Grand Rapids from where I used to live—about 20 miles away. As we were walking in through the busy parking lot, I half-jokingly remarked to him, “Hey, I wonder who I’ll see here that I know!” We were only in the store for about a half hour. It was packed with holiday shoppers. We ran into someone we both knew and stopped to talk to her for a minute. While we were conversing, someone else I know walked by and said hello. We moved on and I was laughing with Tony about how I had seen TWO people I know when we came across someone else I knew who said ever so nonchalantly, “Hi, Tony. Hi, Mary.” Shortly after that, I saw someone else I knew who remarked about how much she hated shopping during the holidays. Contrary to my feelings after my poor attempts to find my way around town, I was now feeling as if I had never left. Indeed, some of the people we saw at the store, who I’m sure knew that I had moved to Canada, seemed to forget that I was a bit out of place. I thought I was starting to feel more at home in Canada, but this shopping trip was a subtle reminder of just how far behind I still am in Canada.

On Christmas Eve yesterday, I accompanied my mother to a small gourmet store in downtown Grand Haven, where she likes to pick up chocolates and other items for stocking stuffers. Grand Haven is a small lakeshore town that is touristy in the summer and as insular as can be during the rest of the year. It’s also very white, Republican, and “Christian.” I spent a good portion of my teenage years cruising the strip there along the Lake, shopping at the local stores, etc. Back then, it seemed an idyllic place—a place with no crime; a place where everyone knows everyone; a place where no one ever has to lock their doors; a place where if you lose your wallet, you will get it back with all the money still there 99 times out of 100. So, here I am with my mother in the store that is the epitome of everything small-town-West-Michigan watching everyone interact in their superficial Pleasantville way. And just like Pleasantville, underlying all this wholesome “Christian” goodwill is something sinister.

Sure enough, my mother knows the shop owner from church and is chatting with her as she pays for her items. They discussed some of the finer points of Midnight Mass, and my mom commented on how much she does not like some of the current Pope’s initiatives that are an effort to restore some of the more traditional aspects of the Catholic Church. I watched the shop owner’s reaction and listened to her respond and realized that she is the archetype of almost every adult I had ever encountered growing up in small-town-West-Michigan. “Well,” she loudly proclaims with a confident smirk, “I like the Pope. We’ve gotten too far away from tradition. I always tell people that I don’t think I have a liberal bone in my entire body!” This is the exact type of conservative condescension I witnessed my entire life, proclaimed loudly and proudly by people who live in an area where they encounter no dissention.

A couple of teenagers who work at the store were listening to the exchange, and I thought about how they, like I, had only been exposed to this type of haughty righteousness and don’t realize how damaging it is. I wanted to tap my mom on the shoulder, interrupt the conversation, and say, “You see, people like her are the reason I can’t live in the US anymore. People like her vote against equal rights and would just as soon see me go through government-mandated shock therapy.”

Instead, I walked out of the store, thought about shoplifting some items on the way out, thought better of that, and went out onto the sidewalk. It was getting to be dusk, but I could see very clearly the gigantic manger scene displayed on the sand dune on the waterfront, the focal point of this town at Christmas. I found solace in the fact that I was no longer working in the US, paying taxes that would go to support the shop owner’s way of life or the city-sponsored overt displays of religion.

Later that night, I went to Christmas Eve Mass with my parents. When I was a kid living at home, we went to Mass every weekend, and that one hour was always the most stressful of my week. I wasn’t very social in elementary, junior high, or high school, and in fact, I was endlessly on the receiving end of classmates’ ridicule. Going to church with my parents and sitting in the front row meant that a variety of my classmates (most of whom made no secret of their contempt of me) who went to my church were out of my visual range, behind my back, and in my mind, they were laughing at me and critiquing me the whole time. I was conscious of what I wore, how I sat, how I walked to and from communion. I went to great lengths to avoid making eye contact with anyone. To this day, I frequently have bad dreams that are set in my hometown church. On the few occasions I’ve been back to church with my parents since I moved away from home, I’ve been terrified that one of these people from my past will attempt to approach me and chat with me as if we are old friends. In recent years, Sarah has been there with me, and at least when I’m with her, I feel a bit more confident, as if someone has my back.

Last night, though, I was without my security blanket. It was just me, my mom, my dad, and my brother. My parents, who never seemed to understand the social climate I endured as a kid, were eagerly pointing out all of my former classmates who were also attending mass that night. I could feel my anxiety growing as I watched some of the people who used to torment me playing musical instruments or singing with the choir. But, during the long pauses, prayers, and ceremonial processions, I had a little bit of time to think and ask myself some questions. Where was I? Was I home? Was I somewhere I wanted to be? Was I somewhere I’d return to? Why did I care what anyone in this place thought about me? Was I actually hearing an accent every time the priest or the lector said the word “God”? Why did I allow these people to intimidate me so?

Eventually, I experienced a feeling of calm, and I think a beam from heaven may have even shown down on me in conjunction with an angelic chord. I realized that I didn’t care about these people, what they thought of me, what they thought about my lifestyle, what they thought about my wardrobe. I thought to myself, “I’m not OF this place anymore. I live in Canada now. I live in a completely different country, which I will be returning to shortly, and I don’t NEED to care about, talk to, or even think about these people. I live in a place where people are less outwardly judgmental and where I can just be myself. If I'm confident in being myself in Canada, then I sure as hell should have some confidence in West Michigan, too.”

I’m not exactly sure that I feel like Canada is my home, but I have now come to the conclusion that West Michigan is NOT my home. If anything, coming to this conclusion has made the whole 12-hour roundtrip drive worth the trouble.

Toad the Wet Sprocket summed it up pretty well in the lyrics, “You can show me your home, not the place where you live but the place where you belong.” I’m not certain I know where I belong, but with absolute certainty, I know where I don’t belong.

Torch Envy

2009-11-24T22:59:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-18T18:13:00.005-05:00

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.

Happy to Be Living in # 4!

2009-10-07T17:23:00.003-04:00

Earlier this month, the United Nations Development Program released its annual Human Development Index. This index is based on statistics for various countries’ average life expectancy, literacy rates, school enrollment, and per capita gross domestic product.

Some feel the report is skewed as it is based mainly on data from 2007, before the global recession was at its worst. Many have pointed out that Iceland would not be as high as third on the list if this index was created with more recent data. I would point out that the USA might be even lower on the list than thirteenth if the data used was more recent.

This year’s report paid special attention to migration of people from one country to another—the effects on the migrants as well as on the countries most affected by migration.

The report stated, "Most migrants, internal and international, reap gains in the form of higher incomes, better access to education and health and improved prospects for their children."

Likewise, the report implied that countries where the workforce is aging can benefit from an influx of skilled workers from other lands. I would like to think that Canada has already benefited from the arrival and settlement of same-sex couples who cannot live together in their own countries. I would also think that the US has had a bit of a brain drain, as couples from the US moving to Canada will only be able to move to Canada if they qualify based on education, health, and job skills (and more).

Some people are critical of the Human Development Index because they don’t feel it is an accurate way to measure the quality of life . However, there’s no doubt that this UN measurement is based on actual statistics from many facets of life in those countries. Show me a measurement this more comprehensive, based on just as many statistics, and assesses the quality of life of the average citizen, and I’ll take that into consideration as well. Until then, I am pretty certain that the grass really has been greener here for me. I feel happier and healthier than when I lived in the US.

Top 20 countries on the Human Development Index:
1. Norway
2. Australia
3. Iceland
4. Canada
5. Ireland
6. Netherlands
7. Sweden
8. France
9. Switzerland
10. Japan
11. Luxembourg
12. Finland
13. United States
14. Austria
15. Spain
16. Denmark
17. Belgium
18. Italy
19. Liechtenstein
20. New Zealand

Here is a link to the 229 page report: http://hdr.undp.org/en/media/HDR_2009_EN_Complete.pdf

Canada Inside vs. Outside, Part 1

2009-09-30T23:49:00.000-04:00

The United States has a definite bumper sticker culture. You can easily entertain yourself on long road trips in the US by learning intimate personal details about those fellow travelers with whom you share the road for only a tenth of a mile, or however long it takes to pass or be passed. The guy in the GMC Jimmy supports the troops and the Denver Broncos. The girl in the Chevy Cavalier listens to 104.1 Country Classic and brakes for garage sales. The old man in the Buick LeSabre believes that “You Can’t Be Catholic AND Pro-Choice.” The lady in the Ford Expedition says that if I’m out of a job, it’s because I’m buying foreign products. The guy in the Jeep Cherokee voted for George W. Bush and then, probably regretting that decision, was unsuccessful in removing the entire sticker. The old couple in the Ford Escort believe that marriage equals a male symbol plus a female symbol. The young guy in the Dodge Ram is a SCUBA diver and thinks that “vegetarian” is an old Indian word for “bad hunter.” The couple in the Toyota Sienna have a daughter who is on the honor roll, a son who was student of the month, and love their Cocker Spaniel. The young man driving the Cadillac has a last name of Ramirez and wants everyone to remember his friend Diego Juarez who died on December 8, 2006. The couple driving the Mazda 626 believes that Darwin is a fish who eats other fishes. And, the guy driving the Ford F150 endorses NASCAR, the National Rifle Association, and little boys urinating on Chevy logos.

I don’t know if Americans have always been quite so enthusiastic about broadcasting their beliefs to all others on the roadways. I can remember, when I was quite young, the first time I saw a chrome fish symbol on a car. I asked my mom what that was, and she said, “I don’t know. They are probably a minister.” Well, certainly, if the numbers of fish symbols on cars in the US now are any indication, there is a significant proportion of the population who are ministers.

I’ve always found it puzzling why people in the US are so anxious to express their (often controversial) views on their vehicles. Maybe they think that others will let them cut in during heavy traffic if they indicate on their vehicle that they are Christian or because they voted Bush Cheney 2004. Perhaps it was the political climate of where I lived in Michigan, but I always was a bit afraid of putting any political bumper stickers on my car for fear that someone who disagreed would vandalize my car. While I was still in the US, I did affix a Canadian flag, a St. George flag, and a Red Wings decal to my car—all of which were not controversial in the US.

When you drive to Canada from the US, one of the most notable differences after you cross the border (other than speed limits in KM per hour and bilingual signs) is the lack of billboards. The countryside seems so much more beautiful and vast, but that may be due to the lack of billboards. The other notable difference is the lack of bumper stickers. My car, still sporting its three decals, is quite gaudily decorated by Canadian standards.

I’ve found that I experience a significantly lower amount of stress when driving in Canada because I don’t have to sort through emotional baggage. Let me explain. When driving in the US, if another driver cut me off, I would get mad. But then I would get even more angry when I saw the McCain for President bumper sticker. My sister once even lost her temper when she pulled up to a stoplight--she rolled down her window and angrily chastised the couple in the car next to her for their anti-gay bumper sticker.

This whole element of the driving experience si pretty much missing from the Canadian roadways. You hardly see any bumper stickers, and those you do see are always innocuous—usually something like “Gimme My Timmie’s and No One Gets Hurt” or a Canadian flag.

After a few months of considering this striking difference in the cultures, I have concluded that it is actually the result of a much larger cultural identity, something I can only describe generally as Inside vs. Outside.

With a few notable exceptions, Canadians generally keep what’s important to them, whether it’s their opinions, beliefs, their decorating expertise, or their personal mementos on the inside. This characteristic is in direct opposition to the general tendency of Americans to show their opinions, beliefs, decorating expertise, and personal mementos on the outside.

Over the first few months I was in Canada, I began to gradually notice that Canadians do express their political, cultural, and religious beliefs on the road—they don’t use bumper stickers; instead they hang a variety of objects from their rear-view mirrors! While some Americans will have items hanging on the rear-view mirrors, it seems a really large percentage of Canadians do. If you look carefully, because you do have to look inside cars, you’ll see miniature soccer balls, rosaries, icons of religious figures, flags and banners of countries, flags and banners of sports teams, and crystals and other jewelry dangling and swaying with the movement of the vehicle.

A couple of friends from Michigan were visiting us in Ontario recently, and we were on highway 401 near Toronto. We were discussing the lack of bumper stickers, and I told them that the Canadians more than make up for what’s not on their bumpers with what hangs from their rear-view mirrors. As soon as the words left my mouth, we were passed by a mini-van with what appeared to be a moderately-sized chandelier hanging from the rear-view mirror. There are times when I wonder how some drivers has an unobstructed view of the road because of all the things hanging in their front window.

In some ways, Canadians are probably smarter than Americans with their auto decorations. I know that personally, when I lived in the US, if someone was trying to merge into traffic in front of me and he had a Bush Cheney bumper sticker on their car, I wasn’t giving an inch. Here, I have no reason to resent Canadian drivers unless they are just bad drivers. Why Americans feel that everyone on the road should know their intimate personal feelings has always been beyond me. But, the lack of in-your-face political and religious expression on the road in Canada is part of the reason my stress levels have fallen dramatically over the past year.

Just this past weekend, Sarah and I were walking into the ice arena and walked by a van with an Ontario license plate, an anti-abortion bumper sticker, AND an anti-abortion license plate frame. Back in Michigan, this type of expression would have been the norm. But, walking by the vehicle that day, we were quite surprised to see this. I even commented loudly enough for the driver, who was approaching her vehicle, to hear, “Wow, it’s like being back in West Michigan!” The significance of this remark was lost on the vehicle’s owner, but it was a reminder to Sarah and me of one of the most noticeable differences between our old life and new. Back in Michigan, I might have resented this vehicle owner for her in-your-face politics, but in Ontario, I actually thought it was curious, and slightly foolish, that she was so bold to proclaim her controversial beliefs to the world.

Canadians are known for being more tolerant of others' beliefs, but I wonder if this tolerance is at least partially due to the fact that they are less likely to hear others audaciously broadcasting their feelings to strangers.

No Introductions Necessary

2009-09-26T08:57:00.005-04:00

When I first moved to Canada just over a year ago, I started my new job within two weeks. I negotiated the terms of my new employment over the phone while I was still in the US with someone I thought was from the Human Resource department. After all, the person calling and offering me a job was not one of the people who had interviewed me when I had been in Ontario for my interview a few weeks earlier. I spoke with her about salary, and I also asked her about benefits. She said, “Well, you know, there’s a pension plan, and things like that.” I thought that was a pretty odd answer from a HR representative.

Shortly after moving Canada, a few days before I started at the new company, I met with this HR rep to sign papers and fill out various forms. I asked her about vacation days, sick days, hours of work, and any other perk that came to mind. The answers I got were vague and general.

I cannot understate my horror when I reported to work on the first day only to find that the person I thought was from HR was actually my boss. I was extremely embarrassed—I realized that, to her, I must have appeared to only care about the pay and benefits rather than any other aspects of the job. During our form-filling-out meeting, every time she said, “What other questions do you have?” I responded with more questions about benefits. A couple of months later, I ended up apologizing for coming across as uninterested in the actual function of the job when I first started.

Thinking about the whole thing later, I wondered what ever gave me the impression that my boss was an HR rep. Apparently it was a natural conclusion on my part because my boss had never explained when she called to offer me the job that she would be my manager. I’m not sure what else I would have been left to think.

Looking back now, over a year later, I see that this incident was only indicative of a larger pattern that I have encountered in Canada—Canadians don’t bother with introductions. They rarely introduce themselves to you, and even worse, they don’t introduce mutual acquaintances to each other. (Of course, this could just be something at my company or something in Southwest Ontario or something with the Canadian insurance industry, but I suspect it’s deeper.)

This issue has been additionally complicated for me, as I was one who was poor at introductions while I was still living in Michigan. While there, co-workers and family members would chide me for forgetting to introduce people to each other at work and social gatherings, and it was always a nerve-racking effort to properly introduce myself to others if such a self-introduction was needed. Well, wouldn’t you know it, I am the absolute specialist on introductions in Canada.

I’m not even going to recount the details of the numerous business meetings where I’ve had conversations with people who I had no idea who they were. I could have had lunch with the CEO of the company and not known it. Social functions have been little better, and again, I’ve found myself in heated hour-long discussions about Sidney Crosby vs. Alex Ovechkin with people who could as easily have been a famous actor or a hardened criminal. (And going back to one of my most fundamental observations about the difference between Canadians and Americans, I’ve learned that it appears nosy and rude to ask someone personal questions such as “Who ARE you, anyway?”)

I’ve tried to determine the cause for this apparent lack of what I always considered a common courtesy in both business and social situations. I can’t imagine what makes it so difficult for Canadians to remember to introduce someone new to others. Of course, there are exceptions, and a few of the Canadians I work with are great about introducing me to others. Where I am from, it was ingrained that it is downright inconsiderate to not immediately introduce someone that you know to others you encounter. In fact, in most of my business and social interactions in the US, introductions were completed with immediacy, even to the point of interrupting to make the introduction so that the unknown party would not have to stand there feeling uncomfortable during a conversation. Even I, with my poor introduction skills, had to make this the first item of any personal interaction involving someone new. As well, in the US, I NEVER had to introduce myself to someone when a mutual acquaintance was present.

Knowing that stereotypes of Americans being loud and brash abound in Canada, I can get away with some behaviors that Canadians can’t. (More on that in a future post.) One of these allowances is introducing myself to others in business environments. Introducing yourself to others in the US, especially in business situations, is somewhat of a faux pas because it draws attention to another’s failure to introduce you. I’ve stopped worrying whether this is inappropriate in Canada because if I hesitate, the meeting starts, and no one knows who the heck I am—I can see it in their eyes when I first speak up.

I’ve decided that I can accentuate my US accent and introduce myself in a loud and friendly American way as soon as I realize no one else is going to make the effort. As uncomfortable and unnatural as that seems to me, I’m going to have to get used to it because otherwise I will continue to be that anonymous person who says “about,” “tomorrow,” and “dollar” funny. Polite Canadians won’t ask me, “Who ARE you, anyway?”

Seeking Margaret Atwood

2009-09-16T09:54:00.006-04:00

My first attempt to become a cultured Canadian has been an utter failure. The local newspapers were reporting that Margaret Atwood, the famous Canadian author, would be appearing and reading a part of her new book at the local library. Tickets would be limited and given out on a first-come, first-served basis starting at 9 am on Saturday morning.

I had known, since approximately 2001, that chances were fairly good that Sarah would not be able to secure a visa in the United States and that if we were going to stay together, we’d either be moving to Canada or the United Kingdom. We worked on securing our Canadian residency as a backup plan knowing full well that it would most likely be needed. So, I began my quest to learn as much about Canada as I could. I subscribed to MacLean’s magazine, despite the expensive foreign subscription rate, and read it diligently. I set my homepage on my work and home computers to Yahoo.ca so I could keep up on the Canadian top stories. And, because I was an English major in college and had never read any Canadian literature, I started buying classic books by Canadian authors. I discovered a list of the so-called 100 Most Influential Books in Canadian History and bought and read several. As any Canadian knows, if you research Canadian Literature, Margaret Atwood’s name will be mentioned very frequently.

In the four years prior to moving to Canada, I also took a year of French at a local college, and Sarah and I visited various cities in Canada as often as we could in order to get a better sense of the country and to determine exactly which locales appealed to us if we should have to move. My goal was to be very informed about Canadian culture, history, geography, and politics before I moved—I didn’t want to contribute to the mostly true image of Americans as being only interested in what happens in the US and oblivious to other countries’ plights, even countries that share a border. And I knew this was the prevailing Canadian perception of Americans because I read about it so much online, in magazines, and in books.

I believe I achived at least a minimum level of familiarity with Canadian culture by the time I moved, but I have also been avidly continuing my research. I record every documentary about Canadian history I can find and I have continued reading the books I purchased. I really wan tto show the Canadians that Canada isn’t just a place I escaped to and am living as a second-best option, but that I have an interest and appreciation for their country.

So, when I saw that Margaret Atwood would be at the library, I thought, “What an opportunity!” Something told me that tickets would be hard to come by, so I decided to get in line at the library well before 9. I figured either there would be no one there, or there would be hundreds of people clamoring for tickets.

I left home about 8:15 and headed to the library. After getting stopped by every red light on the 12 mile journey, I arrived at the library about 8:50. I figured the library wouldn’t open until 9 am, so I guessed I’d have to line up outside the door. Well, so did about three hundred other people! As I walked past the people already in line on my way to the end of the line, I tried not to look at them because I could sense their smug expressions of “Well, I’m glad WE were in line early enough!” I did see, out of the corner of my eye, that some people had even brought lawn chairs, evidence of exactly how early they had lined up.

I fought off the feeling of futility and stood in line with the little old ladies, professor types, and students thinking, “Don’t they know I’m only here to become as Canadian as possible?” believing that if I thought that hard enough, someone might actually read my thoughts and allow me to move ahead in the line. No such luck. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, we realized that the library had run of out of tickets about one-quarter of the way through the line and were now just handing out flyers for an online videoconference.

I went back home empty-handed and dejected. So now, I’m looking out for my next opportunity for the quintessential immersion in Canadian culture. Perhaps I will secure tickets to a Neil Young concert or have lunch with Don Cherry. Once I did see Jim Balsille walking through RIM park and talking on his cell phone, but still, I don’t think that tops a live Margaret Atwood reading.

Rollin' with the Locals

2009-08-25T19:31:00.004-04:00

Last night, Sarah and I were out walking our dogs. Because it was nice weather, sunny and warm, we went a bit further afield from our house than we would normally. We traversed the cricket ground at a local park and then came across a group of people who had clearly just completed a long run. I think it was some sort of joggers’ support group.

As we passed by them, I heard some guy say hello to us. I just kind of ignored it, assuming it was either a friendly guy or someone wanting to hit on two girls walking their beautiful dogs. Much to my surprise, I heard Sarah respond, “Hey, Mike, how’s it goin’?” I looked to see that she was speaking to a friend of ours who we know because we play soccer with his wife.

In my previous life, I would have been surprised to come across a group of people and not see someone I knew or at least recognized.

This incident got me thinking about something that has changed significantly since my post of April 29 earlier this year.

As I explained in that post, I was having a very difficult time adjusting to the fact that when I was out and about in town, I felt very lonely because I never saw people I knew when I was at the mall, the park, the grocery store, out to dinner, etc. I am feeling more settled and more like the Kitchener/Waterloo/Cambridge is my home because I am starting to see acquaintances around.

Over the past few months, I have run into several people I know all around the tri-cities area. I am always excited to see someone I know because it shows how much things have changed for me since my feelings of lonliness whenever I was out. I've even run into Gi, my soccer teammate, twice!

Maybe after almost a year, I am no longer a stranger in a strange land. (Actually, I still think Canada is a bit of a strange land, but that's a topic for a different day.)

I have noticed that even the most seemingly insignificant events such as these continually remind me of how much my life has changed in the past twelve months. August 30 will be the one-year anniversary of the day I finished moving my stuff to Canada to stay for good. I’m sure that ten years from now, many of the day-to-day events that seem so unusual to me now as I compare to the day-to-day events of my past life in the US, will no longer seem noteworthy. As much as I like this blog to be a way to document my observations on the differences between the US and Canada, it’s also therapeutic for me, and someday I will be able to use this as a gauge to remind me of how I was able to adapt to overcome challenges.

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman!

2009-08-18T06:16:00.002-04:00

While this blog is a great place for me to vent, I also hope that some of the information I provide will be useful to Americans who have just moved to Canada or who are planning to move to Canada. This post should serve both purposes.

I’m kind of a mail-order junkie. I always have been. I started sending cash through the mail to order items from catalogs when I was only 12. (Yes, I know you’re not supposed to send cash through the mail, but what 12 year old has a check book or wants to ask her parents to write a check for silly bumper stickers, key chains, etc.?) My mother is obsessed with the QVC shopping channel, so my fascination with mail order must be in the genes. But, being more technically proficient than my mother, the Internet is my weapon of choice.

I even went though a period where I had, what I would call, an eBay addiction. There was a stretch of about two years where I was getting 2-3 packages in the mail each week. It was usually some worthless junk, but the thrill of winning an auction (shopping victoriously) and getting packages in the mail was irresistable. I did not go though a twelve-step program to overcome this addiction; it really was brought to an end by Sarah threatening to break up with me because of all the money I was spending

With that affliction behind me (well, sort of), I did also discover that you can save so much time by ordering things you really do need from the Internet. They are often easier to find and cheaper. For example, if I went shopping at the mall, I certainly wouldn’t find a Phoenix Coyotes snowglobe for sale. But I can find one for sale online in a matter of seconds. Likewise, I use a lot of athletic tape for my ankles when I play soccer and go through about two rolls a week. If I went to any store in town to buy a roll of tape, it would cost me about $3.50. Since I play soccer year-round, this cost adds up. I am able to buy a case of tape online with 32 rolls for $60.

So, I have become somewhat dependent on certain items arriving regularly for me though the mail. In Canada, this has been a constant frustration for many reasons.

First, most online retailers I patronize are in the United States. True, they will all ship to Canada, but remember that box of 32 rolls of tape I was talking about? It costs $10 for shipping within in the US. To ship to Canada--$40.

The second problem is tax. The Canadian government expects to receive sales tax for items purchased from abroad and brought to Canada. This includes items arriving through the mail.
I don’t have all the details, but what I have been told from various sources is that if an item purchased from abroad is listed as valued at less than $20 CDN on the customs form on the package, the government will not charge tax. I have also been told that if an item arrives from out of the country and is marked as a gift and is labelled as worth less than $60 CDN, the government will not charge tax.

These are things I wish I would have known a long time ago.

This past winter, when Sarah broke her arm and had a hard time putting on coats, my mother in Michigan bought her a lovely cape. She carefully packaged it up and sent it through the US Postal Service. The package did not arrive. Instead, we had a not e from Canada Post saying that we could pick up the package when we showed up at their office with $20 tax.

I was very confused because my mom said she got such a good deal on the cape at a department store. She paid under $60. But, in an apparent attempt to impress the postal clerk, the Canadian customs officials, the Canadian postal carrier, Sarah, Jesus, and me, she put the original retail price of the cape on the customs form--$120.

While this incident was frustrating, it was my mother’s fault, and I told her she needed to be careful what she wrote on customs forms. (A few months later, I accidentally left my soccer shin guards in Michigan and asked my brother to mail them to me. After he sent them off, I realized I never warned him about the value on the form. My old, scary shinguards probably have a negative value, and I wasn’t about to pay tax to receive those through the mail. Luckily, he put the value at $0, which was probably generous.)

I did find myself quite angry with a recent incident involving shipping from the US. My hockey helmet was cracked, so I bought a new one here in Canada. It is plain, and I like to put fun stickers on my helmet, so I looked--where else--online to find Phoenix Coyotes helmet stickers. Sure enough, all kinds of US businesses have them for sale online. They cost US $10 per sheet. I ordered two sheets, and then had to pay $15 for shipping to Canada. I was already a bit miffed at paying 75% of the cost of the items on shipping, but it was still easier than trying to find the same thing in stores here.

About a week later, I arrived home to find a love note from UPS on my door. It said that it was a COD delivery and that I needed to pony up $21 as a “brokerage fee” to receive the package. I was livid. I did some research online and found that this is not unusual. UPS feels that they deserve extra pay for escorting packages through Canadian customs. The actual breakdown of the $21 was about $3 in taxes to the Canadian government and $18 for UPS!

I was not about to pay a mysterious “brokerage fee” that cost about the same amount as the items I ordered and more than the shipping cost. And, even though the value of the items was US $19.98, under the $20 threshold, the value in Canadian dollars was over $20. But, the tax wasn’t my beef. It was the UPS fee.

The company that sent the stickers was told by UPS that I had refused the shipment, so the company promptly sent out more stickers, but this time through the US Postal Service, and they don’t charge such a fee. (Completely off the subject, but I was happy to be the recipient of such great US customer service from SportStar Athletics.)

My parents are coming to visit me next month, so I have been having all of my packages sent to their house, and they can bring those when they come. But, shipping to my home in Canada is going to be an ongoing issue.

Here are my tips for those in Canada receiving packages from outside the country:

1) Do not buy from anyone who ships UPS, FedEx, DHL, etc. Request that they use their own country’s postal service.

2) If what you are being sent is a gift, make sure the person mailing it marks “gift” on the customs form.

3) The value of an item is not always the same as the price paid for it, but they are essentially the same thing. Have the sender use the lower amount of the two.

4) I don’t have a lot of details about this, but apparently, if something you buy or are being given was made in the US, Mexico, or Canada, it can be mailed within these countries without a tax penalty as part of NAFTA. I don’t even know if this is true, but earlier this year, I bought a hockey jersey online from a seller in the US. The jersey was made in Canada. He was given a special customs form for attaching to the package, and I was not charged any tax on its arrival, even though the value was within the taxable range.

If you have any other suggestions to make international mailing any easier, leave me a comment and I can add it to a future post!

Accent Update!

2009-08-14T17:22:00.003-04:00

Just a note to add to my previous post about how my hearing and my speech is starting to assimilate to the Canadian accent.

Last week, I was watching my favorite show, The Soup on E!, and one of the segments seemed to be making fun of a Canadian accent. They showed a clip of the current Bachelorette (who is Canadian) speaking a sentence with the word “about” in it several times. After the clip, the host made some comment, and I think he was trying to imitate a Canadian accent. The funny part was, I didn’t hear any accent at all! The studio audience was laughing, so I looked at Sarah and said, “I don’t get it. What’s so funny? Are they making fun of her accent because I don’t hear an accent?!”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized the significance.

The next day I e-mailed my brother in Michigan, who always watches The Soup. He confirmed that, yes, they were making fun of her accent, particularly the way she says “about.”

Sorey abowt tomowhrow's doehler, eh?

2009-07-30T23:25:00.001-04:00

Okay, so now it’s time for the inevitable entry about accents. Canadians think Americans have accents, Americans think Canadians have accents, etc., etc., but in reality, we all have accents.

What has surprised me is how much has surprised me over the last 11 months in this regard. To begin with, I was astonished at how strong and stereotypical the Canadian accents sounded when I first moved to Cambridge. I could always recognize a Canadian accent, and I knew I would hear those accents when I arrived, I just didn’t realize how much listening to them would catch my ears off guard. The thing is, not all words spoken by Canadians sounded different to me. I could be listening to someone at work talking, and I would be lulled into a false sense that I was not in a foreign country, hours away from where I grew up, when suddenly, a word would hit my ears and startle me. Basically, any words that have an “o” followed by either a “u” or a double consonant really strike me.

Here is my best attempt at writing online what a Canadian sounds like to me, keeping in mind that most words sound the same in Michiganese as they do in Canadian, so the ones that sound different really stand out.

“So, Mary, I was thinking aBOUWt going OUWt to a movie toMOHro night. Do you want to go with me? SORE-EE, I should have asked you aBOUWt it sooner. I think it only costs eight DOEHlers. We can just meet up at my HOUWse, eh?”

I found the accent to be very distracting to me, especially during the first three months. I’d catch myself involuntarily smiling as if I was listening to a five-year-old say something cute. At that time, I don’t think I realized that the Canadians were noticing my accent just as much. The difference? The Canadians are generally way too polite to comment on your accent until they know you very well. (It took my hockey teammates about three months to feel comfortable making fun of my accent, and it’s taken my soccer teammates about eight months!)

This past spring, after I had been in Canada about seven months, I realized that I wasn’t actually hearing the Canadians’ accents as much anymore. I figured that I was just getting used to hearing it.

What I didn’t account for was what would happen to me when I visited Michigan this past June for the first time in several months. People I’ve known for many years and people I just met were telling me I had picked up a Canadian accent. Was it just people’s imaginations, influenced by the knowledge that I am living in Canada? Doesn’t matter, actually, because the most shocking revelation to me of all was noticing a Michigan accent when I listened to my friends talk!

You can’t imagine how disconcerting it is to listen to people you’ve known for years and suddenly hear them speaking with an accent. For now, there are only a very few words that my Michigan friends and relatives say that sound different to me, but I expect those will increase over time.

So, I really am in an interesting spot now. People in Michigan think I have a Canadian accent. Okay, fine. But, the Canadians still think I have a Michigan accent. Just today I was speaking with some Canadians during an all-day meeting at an insurance brokerage in Windsor. Towards the very end of the day, one of the participants blurted out, “Where are you FROM?” I chuckled and replied, “Well, I’m from Michigan.” And someone else at the meeting said to her, “Yeah, Michigan, couldn’t you tell?”

I must have my own bizarre hybrid accent. I guess that will make me unique. I do know I’ll get a lot more feedback about it when I’m in Michigan than in Canada as the Canadians aren’t as quick to call attention to someone’s accent. (If the roles were reversed in the meeting I attended today and a Canadian was presenting in a meeting full of Michiganders, it would have taken probably less than 30 seconds for someone to make a comment about the Canadian’s accent. It took the Canucks approximately six hours of listening to me present before they would comment on mine.)

When Sarah goes back to England, the English tell her she has an American accent. Of course, everyone in the US and Canada thinks she has a strong British accent. She always says that there must be some island in the middle of the Atlantic where people have the same accent as she does. If that’s the case, then there must be an island somewhere in the middle of Lake Huron where people sound like me!

The Only Time Canada Gets Mentioned in the US News. . .

2009-07-21T18:03:00.010-04:00

Canada bashing has been becoming increasingly popular in the US lately due to the ongoing debate about what to do with the US healthcare system. The conservatives in the US have managed to track down every person they can find from Canada who has had a bad experience with the healthcare system in Canada.

I know I’ve addressed this topic in some previous posts (see here and here), but I wanted to revisit the subject in light of the distorted information being circulated in the US.

I don’t want anyone to think that I believe the Canadian healthcare system is that great, but I am starting to believe that, even though the US and Canadian system have different problems, there are actually more problems with the US system.

What I really can’t figure out is why the US government and media is spending so much time talking about Canada’s healthcare system. I don’t believe Obama plans to have the Canadian government administer a new US system. I also don’t believe that Obama’s plan includes remedies for the Canadian system. Really, Americans should be focusing on the problems with their own system.

My co-worker in Canada was telling me about her mother’s experience with breast cancer. Her mother went in for a routine mammogram. Within two days of the mammogram, she was called back to the hospital for other tests, including a biopsy. When the biopsy showed cancer, the lump and some lymph nodes were surgically removed within two weeks.

So, when you hear some disgruntled Canadian lady who had to wait for an important surgery, know that in most cases, when a medical procedure is urgently needed, that individual is seen to quickly in Canada. For every Canadian who has had to wait longer than she should have for proper medical treatment, there are probably hundreds of Americans who have postponed necessary treatments due to lack of funds or insurance.

When Sarah moved to the US from England, she got very tired of people telling her how horrible the English (socialized) healthcare system is. She wondered how these Michiganders, many of whom had never even left the state, knew so much about the system in the UK. Sarah’s philosophy then, and my adopted philosophy, is that no one should make any comments about another country’s healthcare system unless they have personally experienced it. I’m seriously doubting whether the congressman from Texas who called the Canadian system “a socialized piece of crap” has ever lived in Canada and been served by the Canadian system. Doubtful. (But somewhere along the line, someone at conservative politician school taught him how to scare others with the word “socialism.”)

Ask 100 Canadians what they think of their healthcare system, and a good percentage will complain about wait times. Another good percentage will talk about how it is one of the best things about living in Canada because it ensures that everyone receives equal treatment. Ask 100 Americans what they think about their healthcare system and my bet is that none of them will have any positive things to say.

Anyway, below is the full text of an e-mail I sent today to some of my friends and family in the US. It describes more of my own opinions about the healthcare system in Canada, as well as contains something written to me, unsolicited, by one of my friends here.

E-MAIL SENT BY MJB TO FRIENDS AND FAMILY IN U.S. ON JULY 21, 2009:
My fellow Americans,

In Canada, most of us get ABC, NBC, CBS, and Fox news channels from the US, so we get a decent amount of exposure to the US news and US advertising.

I got this e-mail (below in italics) from one of my friends here in Canada, who is a police officer and has lived in Ontario her whole life. Her two-year-old daughter has some kind of brain condition that requires ongoing care. I was really surprised at how passionately she defended the system here and thought this might be useful information to you as you encounter "Canadian healthcare horror stories" that are propogated by the Republicans you know.

My own two cents are that

1) for every "Canadian healthcare horror story" there is AT LEAST one "US healthcare horror story" with varying plots and details. As you may know, when I went to the ER in Canada on Easter Sunday with a kidney stone, I received pain killers sooner than I did when I had been to the ER in Grand Rapids for the same thing a year earlier. I was also treated MUCH better in Canada by the hospital staff than I had been at Blodgett (Spectrum). The quality of care, from the medication administered to the follow-up tests ordered, was essentially identical. One other notable difference was that the total out-of-pocket cost for the kidney stone in Canada was less than a dollar (for my prescription painkillers). My cost for the same thing in the US a year earlier was over $350 (co-payments, coinsurance, deductibles, etc.) even though I had insurance through my employer.

2) I don't know what Obama plans to do with the healthcare system in the US, but the best thing about the Canadian system is that everyone gets the same healthcare regardless of their financial situation. If you are a wealthy Canadian, you cannot buy private healthcare treatment in Canada. You get what the regular working-class individual gets. It's very fair to everyone. Maybe that's why the Republicans hate it so much. (Some wealthy Canadians will leave the country to pay for healthcare elsewhere to avoid the wait lists, similar to how Richard Devos bought a heart transplant in England rather than wait on the list in the US.)

3) Just for fun, type "man dies in hospital waiting room" into a Yahoo search. Check out the results. You'll see results of stories from Seattle, North Carolina, New York City, Texas, Australia. There is a result with a story about a guy who dies while waiting in a Winnipeg hospital. Still, seems my odds of living are about proportionate with the population of each country, perhaps even better in Canada. All kinds of information is out there. Do the reasearch and consider the sources.

Anyway, here's what my friend had to say.

It seems the health care thing is a "hot topic" in the USA now. My understanding is that Obama wants to implement a similar style system to that of Canada. I saw an ad on TV that "bashed" our health care system (spoke about long wait times, inability to get a procedure done in a timely fashion etc). I was reminded of the birth of my daughter. I required an emergency C-section (therefore a longer hospital stay) and our daughter required Neonatal care at our local hospital. She was then transferred to Sick Kids hospital in Toronto for 5 days. She requires regular visits to three different doctors. I stress that this condition is relatively minor in the grand scheme of things and very manageable by medication. What if I were an "average family" making $10 an hour or less? Could I pay my bill? Should I then not have children because I can't afford the health care. What about ongoing doctor visits, how will I pay? This could be a life long condition. I walked away with a pat on the back and a "don't worry, everything will be fine". It will be too. I don't even think about the cost involved. I've essentially already paid.

All I can say is, I pay taxes so that we can live a good, healthy life. I also pay taxes into that system because I believe everyone, no matter what your social status, background, etc deserves to be healthy. That is what our health care system allows for. It's truly something that is a gift. I hope it is successful in the USA. The conservative party here has been pushing for health care privatization for a while now. I swear I will fight that to my last breath!