The World Cup through Canadian Eyes

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

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?

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. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Turn of the Screw

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

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

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

Then came my move to Canada.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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