Making Fun of Canadians


Colbert does it.  South Park does it.  Heck, I have even done it.  And let me tell you, Canadians may chuckle politely at their own expense, but they don’t like it much.  I was reminded of this last week when I ran across an article in the Globe and Mail about the latest Canadian bashing efforts of Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the creators of South Park.  When I first started watching South Park, I was confused by baby Ike’s flapping head. Even his being adopted didn’t adequately explain the fact that he looked like a cut-out.  A really badly done cut-out.  Then, of course, it was revealed that Ike was Canadian and combine that with the (flatulent) Canadian actors, Terrance and Philip, who showed up from time to time (with flapping heads) and it all made sense.  No Canadians I know (I haven’t been to Quebec yet) are similarly afflicted, although the one I live with is a bit windy, and it seems not very nice of South Park to characterize them this way.  My Canadian (windy and all) is very nice (with a nice bum).  And that is the problem.  Canadians are very nice and polite and, as we all learned on the playground, this makes one a target for harrassment and ridicule.

The latest South Park offering has Canadians going on strike and no one in the States really noticing.  Which makes sense as Americans view Canada as a future territory (though when peak oil becomes a real bitch in another decade – the U.S. is going to find itself having to show a little respect if it wants to continue its oil-soaked ways).

When I mentioned South Park and its take on Canadians to Rob, I got the ultra polite response that one will get from a Canadian who is maintaining the Canuck version of the “stiff upper lip” while composing lyrical French curses within the recesses behind that very nice smile.  South Park employs all the usual Canadian stereotypes – hockey players, lumberjacks, Quebeckers.  I don’t really understand them.  In the Midwest I come from, hockey is also a big deal.  I haven’t seen a single lumberjack after being here almost a year, and the French speakers I have met don’t seem the least bit xenophobic or secessionist.  The American take on Canada is that our northern neighbors are just American wanna-be’s.  This couldn’t be further from the truth.  Canadians have a somewhat low opinion of the States, mainly due to its politics, and they see themselves and their country and culture as on par or even excelling that of America.

I wonder what the average American would think if they knew how they were portrayed in foreign media or talked about by people of other countries.  While the U.S. is a place that many people from other countries would like to live, it seems to me that their reasons for that are more about money than anything else.  No one seems to envy us our culture.  Our culture is kind of viewed as vacuous.

Just another side-effect of living “abroad”.

The Snows of April


When I first moved here I encountered many natives who were concerned that I might have difficulty dealing with the harsh Canadian winters. Frigid temps. Elk high mounds of snow. Dark depressing months that saw less sunlight than the toes of a very fat man. But I did rather well. I ventured out when Canadians were cowering in their homes. I didn’t don long-johns until November and had them off a month or more ago. I come from the Midwest people, not California. As the snow began to melt and the weather warmed, I was ready for my first Canadian winter to melt into spring, a clear victory for me.

The weekend before last was a beatific example of spring. Warming winds and sun. Jacket doffing, capri and short weather. This last Saturday it started to snow. A lot. This morning it stopped. There is now more snow on the ground than accumulated all winter long. 

I survived winter quite well, thank you very much. Winter is nothing here in Canada. It is the spring that is a bitch in heels. She will take some getting used to.

A Widow’s New Address Book


There is a saying over at the YWBB that widowhood rewrites your address book. It’s based on the very real fact that many of the family and friends you thought you could count on to be there for you when tragedy strikes will not be.  Or at least they will not be there in the ways you want, expect or need, and very often these people who meant so much to you disappear from your life completely.  Sometimes this happens gradually, and other times it seems to transpire overnight, but they go and usually never come back.

Widows love to indulge in the outrage of this.  It’s wonderfully cathartic to spew venom at those people we loved and needed whom abandoned us in our most wretched hour.  What we don’t do, nor do we want to hear, is acknowledge that often we play a role in our own abandonment.  What’s that howling?  It’s the shrieking of outraged widowed people undoubtedly.  However, I just can’t buy into the idea that we are entirely innocent victims anymore, and the reason is that I know better.  The tendency to push people away by not asking for help, by not answering the phone or letters or email, by not returning calls, or by not accepting invitations, all in the name of grieving is a pretty strong one that is not helped by the idea that is propagated among the grieving that anything done in the name of mourning is okay.  While conversing anything someone else does while caught in the same grief or simply in the ripples of our grief is heinous.  I am being over-simplistic but, in hindsight, I realize now that being widowed was not a pass for me.  I still had a level of responsibility in my relationships, great and small, that my hurting state didn’t excuse.  And I know grieving has to be done.  It just wasn’t meant to be a part-time profession or even a hobby.  We are the masters of our lives, actions and reactions, and if we emerge from the black crepe days friendless – we should take a closer look at the fingers pointing back at us rather than exhausting too much energy calling attention to those at the end of the one finger pointing out.

This last Christmas Rob and I sent out one of those obnoxious holiday chain letters.  The “hey, this is my wonderful year and family” kind of missive that makes most people wish they’d been sent fruitcake instead.  I tried to be as low-key Sgt. Friday (“just the facts, ma’am”) as possible and then decided that I would send it to just about everyone in my address book, including those people I hadn’t heard from since before Will died – and even further back than that in a couple of instances.  Why?  Because some of the reason I had this address book chock full of phantom numbers, addresses and emails was due to my own lack of initiative.  I simply let some of these people slip away through lack of attention.  I didn’t call or write or email, so what did I think would happen?  Why did I expect them to carry the relationship?  One of the worst things I ever learned as a widow was that anything I had to do to survive was okay.  It was an effort to call or write for a lot of reasons, so I didn’t.

One friend called regularly in the early months of Will’s illness.  She really was in over her depth and I think a bit frightened because when a close friend’s husband is really dying, it brings too many scary thoughts about your own world and – what if – into play.  I have to admit it was hard to just talk about nothing in those days and anything that was immediate to Will and what the hell I was going to do now (aside from teaching) was immaterial to me.  She tried to carry on our phone conversations as though nothing had changed.  Eventually, I screened her calls and stopped returning them.  What I should have done was been honest and said, “I appreciate what you are trying to do but I need to talk about me and Will and our options because talking through them helps me think and focus.  I don’t need forever to do this, but I do need right now.  Can you just listen to me?”  I was afraid I would hurt her feelings, so I ducked her.  She got the hint and took to calling every couple of months and as time stretched it become every six months.  I resented the calls.  I felt they were burdens.  What was really going on was that I knew I was being rotten and resented her reminding me of it.

She was hardly the only one.  I pulled away from many people.  And then I wondered why no one helped.  Of course, the reality was that I needed far too much help and people were as frightened by this as I was.  I blamed them and I shouldn’t have.  My reality was that I was too far from my own family and stuck with in-laws whose family dynamics left them poor substitutes.  I could have remedied some of this had I taken control and focused my efforts out but being raised to care-take and be “the strong one” my instincts took over and I did much of everything myself.  I was fortunate that a few of my friends and family pushed and insisted on helping, but I could have done a better job.

This friend was one of the recipients of the Obnoxious Christmas Letter back in December.  I got an email from her today thanking me for the pictures of Katy, reminding me that she had tried to stay in touch and could we not let so much time go by again?  I wrote her back and agreed.

When we are in crisis we expect so much and never stop to think that the people we are expecting things from are being tested too and that often they will not be capable of meeting the demands.  We will encounter worthless souls who slink off or implode or explode all over us and then leave, but it’s our reaction only that we have control over.  Most people in our lives are good people who are just as lost as we are in a tragedy.  We should be more accepting. Our address books are ours to write and no one else’s.