The Turn of the Screw

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

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

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

Then came my move to Canada.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in the Closet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canada Inside vs. Outside, Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this next photo, you can see my workspace.