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.

Happy to Be Living in # 4!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canada Inside vs. Outside, Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Introductions Necessary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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