Life as a Canadian

Visibly, no one would ever mark me as a Canadian. I have long black hair and a small dark stature. My nose is as flat as a button and my eyes, while big, still taper off into that undeniable oriental slant that brands all Asians. But I am Canadian. I was born and raised in what all Canadians know as the centre of the universe, Toronto.

So what does it mean to be Canadian? Around the world we are reputed to be nice, polite people (as opposed to our neighbours just south of the border). In my mind that equates to boring. Are we boring? Canada is never one of those countries that tends to stand out in people's minds. We come second in everything. Second largest country. Home to the second tallest free standing building in the world. We like to stand outside and distance ourselves from everyone. We were "non-belligerent" in the Vietnam war. We refused to participate in the war in Iraq. So what defines us as Canadians other than our love of hockey and production of maple syrup?

Last summer I spent some time in Central America trying to discover what it was to NOT be Canadian. It was actually kind of nice. When I came back, the first thing I noticed was how straight everyone's lawn was. How symmetrical the houses were. How every piece of property fit into its own neat little plot. And I was reminded of that song by Malvina Reynolds... "Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes, all the same."

As much as I love my country, I believe we've traded off our last little ounce of personality for freedom, security, and the right to be our own person (all things that I value to the utmost degree). We are trained that to be successful we need to go to school. Get a degree. Enter the workforce. Make good money. Everybody can do it. We have become so "tolerant" of differences that everything has become "unPC" (politically incorrect).  There is no such thing as eskimo and Indians are not those people who first owned our stolen land (they are most commonly First Nations people, Inuit, native Americans). And never do we utter the word n****r. Unless it's after a big meal and we're all a little sleepy. And even then we say "itis". (Google that if you don't get it.)

But why am I complaining. Depsite the frigid winters. And the frigid people. (I don't get the hand shake. A kiss on the cheek. Or even two. That's much more simple than the awkward stick out your hand while the other person goes in for the hug.) And the rep of being doormats for other countries (ahem, U.S.A.) to step on and wipe their crap all over. (Am I a little bitter? No. Of course not!) I love my country! I am Canadian.

So here. I can tell you at least one thing about what it is to be Canadian: never being ashamed of professing your nationality. (Unless someone brings up Jim Carey, Cable Guy, or the likes.)