on Canadian identity

So I was sitting at the Thompsons’ yesterday watching Ottawa lose game 2 and wondering why it meant so much to me. The obvious answer is that Ottawa is in Canada, and Anaheim is not (though it would be a hoot if it were a Sens-Capitals final). Upon a closer look, the answer is not so obvious. Sentimentally, most fans hardly consider the Senators “Canada’s team,” though I do believe that some of the rampant Sens-bashing kind of stupid. In actuality, Anaheim’s roster is 84% Canadian, so if any team was “Canada’s team,” the Ducks would be it. They’ve got the Niedermayers, Pronger, J.S. Giguere and emerging star Ryan Getzlaf. But I don’t think it’s wrong to want the cup to go to a Canadian team, especially since both Calgary and Edmonton lost in seven games for the last two finals. But enough with the hockey rant; if by chance people are reading this, your eyes are glazing over right about now.

I think the answer more has to do with Canadian identity. People have written countless articles and books and made documentaries and beer commercials about the subject. The more I think about it, the more I think that it’s not just Americans that are clueless about their northern neighbours—Canadians themselves have no idea what defines them. They speak mostly in context of what makes them not American—especially guilty is Joe’s Rant, which I do enjoy. In fact, there is a book I would quite like to read: Andrew Cohen’s “The Unfinished Canadian.” While I do have my love story with Canada, it is silly and dangerously ignorant to blindly love one’s country (as history as so often proven). I moved to the United States at the beginning of high school—though I am well-aware of the scores of problems that plague America, I’ve missed all Canadian elections and I am only vaguely versed in my country’s history and government. And while I still have that citizenship card, I acknowledge my own responsibility to get my ass up to date.

So while I am doing that, here are two portraits of Canada: what most Americans regard as the 51st state (and no, they are not completely wrong), and what most patriotic Canadians see themselves as: a nation of social progress, cleaner air, free thinking, multiculturalism, superlative healthcare and safety, chock-full of peacekeepers, and much more cosmopolitan than their southern cousins. The reality is somewhere in the middle, though sometimes I find that condescending attitude hypocritical, lazy and rather mean-spirited, especially if there’s whiskey involved. (I’m reflecting on a particular memory of last year’s college visits when I met up with some of my father’s old college friends in Toronto.) Nations are the way they are for a reason, often by chance or a coincidence of geography, social values or extentuating circumstances, not moral superiority. Canada just so happened to be a nation of evolution, not revolution. One kid tried to tell me that Canada was a better country because that was the destination of escape for the slaves back in the early 1800’s. Oh, young’un, how much you don’t know.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my country. I grew up in some of the most idyllic places in the world (Fredericton had ONE factory when I lived there, and it was a shoe factory). There was no Sunday shopping in Halifax. In the Maritimes, people actually yielded to you on the streets, and voluntarily at that. I don’t know how much has changed.

I guess why we cling so hard to hockey has something to do with that. Hockey is the national sport of only two nations: Finland and Canada (along with lacrosse), and to know that good ol’ capitalism has left us with only six Canadian NHL teams out of 30, yet not even having the Stanley Cup final air on any of the major channels as well as not having won a cup since the Habs in ‘92—well, that hurts a little bit. It’s one thing I know for sure that has to do with Canadian identity. Maybe a small fraction. I’ll let you know once I have the rest figured out.

Maybe that’s why I care so much about the cup. But I promise I won’t be upset if the Ducks win. Not at all.

my mother

My mother has always been the prettiest person I’ve known. Right now, she looks like she’s in her mid-thirties, though strangers have often mistaken her for my sister. (However, I did not inherit her doe-shaped eyes nor her perfectly clear skin, quite unfortunately.) She has never had a grey hair in her life (and much to my chagrin, not a pimple either) though she’s turning 46 this year. She uses no makeup, no beauty products and no anti-aging techniques, though I suspect my mother was more lazy than thrifty in this department. I introduced her to tweezing eyebrows just last year. “Spa” and “waxing” are not words in her vocabulary. She’s never had a haircut in a salon, and she also has never bought an item of clothing at full price here. At first I thought this was some cheap trick to make me feel guilty about all the money I spend on clothes, but when I asked her she said, “I sit in a cubicle all day. Who am I going to impress?”

A lot of my relatives made comments about her weight when she visited China last year. My mother has never been fat in her life. She put on a few pounds as a result of her arthritis medication a couple of years ago, but since she came back, she’s been going to the gym every day. I see this as a good sign, in an effort to stay active, though I have (and my father moreso) been asked several times in the past few months, “Do I look fat in this shirt?”

Ughh. No, Mom. You don’t.

She’s shed at least twenty pounds, and I know she feels better about herself. I’ve always relied on my hair, clothing and makeup to flatter my appearance, especially at the start of the pustule era, something my mom didn’t really understand since she has a lot of natural beauty. But now she’s paying more attention to herself, trying different shapes of lipstick and that sort of thing. I think it’s fun for her, since she’s never done that before. And now that she has her Work Authorization Card and getting called in for several job interviews, the unbelievable has happened:

My mother has finally turned to me for fashion advice. I thought the day would never come. The other day she tried to wear a polka dot blouse with a skirt of the same pattern, and I almost had a coronary. I told her clothes should complement each other, and not match perfectly, to avoid looking like a granny. And she should never wear ankle-length skirts, since she’s shorter than I am. And I’ve come to the conclusion that, really, she shouldn’t buy clothing without consulting me first. Can I just say how weird this feels?