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!

Back in the Closet

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

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our relationship with each other, a friendship or other professional affinity had already been established that superseded and minimized any resulting discomfort or awkwardness.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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