Why Doesn’t the Rest of the World Get How Great Canada is?
Recently, the legendary Canadian comedian, Mike Meyers wrote a book called Canada, and when you crack open the spine the first thing you’ll see is an anecdote about another legend, John Candy—the man who brought to life the loveable Uncle Buck, among other colorful characters. And it made me think, Canada has produced so many amazing people in media, but what requires them to write about the meaning of being a Canadian? I mean, does Donald Trump need to write a book justifying himself as an American? (Actually don’t answer that…) It made me think, above all other things, why do we need to explain what it means to be a Canadian to other people? We know who we are… don’t we?
And then I remembered some frequent questions that I’ve received when I’ve gone across the border (Keep in mind, these are actual questions that seemingly intelligent individuals have asked me): Do you guys play hockey all year-round or do you guys, like, play other sports? Wait up, you guys have a girl’s hockey team? Oh yeah, you come from the place where that mayor smoked crack, right? And I’ve had to begrudgingly reply, yes we play we other sports, yes it’s a natural thing for girls to play the same sports as boys, and yeah, that was our mayor.
So maybe people need to learn a thing or two about our glorious country. But we can’t just turn around and say “Listen to us, were just as important as you are!” to a country that was built on doing what they wanted, without dispute. And before we can even think about going around telling the rest of the world who we are, we have to get it ourselves. For centuries, Canada has had an identity problem. We were British. And then we thought: Are we still British, even though, legally, we are independent? And now we think we’re America’s shadow. Great, but never as great. And I think it’s time to stop. People need to write books about being Canadian, because, while we’ve been growing up in the shadow of the overbearing United States of America, we’ve forgotten about all the good things that we stand for. Maple Syrup! Alanis Morrisette! Lacrosse! Free healthcare! Rush! Multiculturalism! French! Poutine! Hockey, for God’s sake!
So what does it mean to be Canadian, for a Canadian? Such a cliché, I know, but really, what do you think when someone asks you that question?
I don’t know about you, but for me? I think of a few things. But the most prominent one took place six years ago. I’m going to bring you back to the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, Men’s Hockey Gold Medal Game.
Throughout the whole of the Olympics, I was so proud that Canada was hosting one of the world’s biggest sports events. So I found an old watercolour paint kit, and took it upon myself to create a mural for our athletes. Using my poor art skills, I made simple paintings of skates and skis and gold medals and in the middle, the Canadian flag itself. I was almost as proud of my mural as I was of Canada itself. And now, I was in my basement sitting with my dad, watching the Gold Medal game. I’m buzzing with excitement while my dad was more focused than I’d ever seen him. He was also so superstitious that when I bounded down the stairs before the game started with a shirt from Hollister that said California on it, I was sent back upstairs immediately to go change into my Canada shirt because it might’ve jinxed the game. Now finding ourselves in overtime, and scared we would do something to mess with the Gods of Hockey, my dad and I didn’t dare speak a word. And then it happened. Sidney Crosby scores the winning goal after 7 minutes and 40 seconds of overtime. We won the Gold Medal! And as I cheered with my dad, I felt an infinite amount of pride for my country.
And six years, and another gold medal later, I still feel that pride pulse through me whenever I do something, or experience something positively Canadian. Whether it be when we win the World Cup of Hockey after nearly loosing, or when the Blue Jays makes it to the next round (and even when they don’t, as long as they play a hell of a game), or, what I think is my personal favourite, when, after a day of skiing, I sit in the back seat of my dad’s car and drink a Tim Horton’s hot chocolate, and feel the warmth seep into my cold bones.
These things remind me that: I am proud to be Canadian. I’m proud to come from a country with free healthcare, where our animal is a beaver and where we play hockey. A place that produced Rush and the Tragically Hip. A place where we don’t rage wars, but keep the peace. And a place where we have a Prime Minister with nice hair and a Queen with even nicer hair.
And hell, we’re not perfect. No one can say that Canada was a country without flaws. We have a Jane & Finch and a Jian Gomeshi.
But we’re okay. And when we start to feel like every little nook and corner of this great country is filled with something amazing, the rest of the world might catch on. And even if they don’t, who’s to tell us that we aren’t just as amazing as we feel we are? Our neighbours to the south who might just elect a bigoted orange or a shriveled prune for their president? Yeah... okay.