What I Mean to Say Is

I know I've written about the Governor-General and the Queen before last Saturday.

What I don't seem to be able to "get over, already!" relates more to what I was talking about last Saturday.

People in Canada walk around internally okay with someone they didn't elect (or at least have the opportunity to vote against) representing them internationally as their head of state. They're OKAY WITH IT. It's status quo. Normal. NORMAL.

Not that they generally think about that kind of thing. Americans don't, either. But if you scratch the surface of your average American, she or he would say, quickly, that we-all want our official representatives to be elected. (Insert offhand reference to W's first term here.) It's the default assumption: we may not vote, we may not believe that our vote matters, but hey, we believe in the concept of voting. (Also Botox and gun ownership.) (Not me, so much, about either of those.)

Anyway. That's what I mean when I say that the default settings in each country are different, and the default settings of Americans are more familiar to me than those of Canadians.

All of which are the kinds of ideas and questions one ponders at times like these:

and these:

Ahhhhh.

East or West...Up or Down...Where am I, Again?

In an interview on a podcast that I swear I heard but can't find now, Native American writer and storyteller Sherman Alexie said that people who travel between two cultures eventually end up at home in neither one.

I will likely write more about that idea, especially when I run across that darn podcast again. And no, I have not read any of Sherman Alexie's work, because I am at heart an intellectual lightweight. Although my stack of "to be read" impresses even me.

After two trips into the U.S. in the past two weeks, and some touring around amongst Americans, I recognize what he means.

Sometimes it feels easier to be in the U.S. It's not that I understand "the people" or "the culture" better. I have a long history of feeling out of place in the U.S. However, I think I share some of their mental default settings (probably also their mental defects, but that's another issue).

Here's an example. When politicians do something boneheaded in the U.S., well, some cadre of morons somewhere elected that bonehead and perhaps his or her days in office will be numbered.

But Canadians have a queen. A local stand-in (the Governor General) represents Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II in matters of state. I'm not completely sure what this means except that the GG has a literary award and she walks up and down rows of uniformed soldiers. (The GG has been female since I've lived in Canada, but we're due for a new guy in the fall.) In terms of actual matters of state, the Prime Minister, Parliament, and civil servants still seem to do the war-declaring and ongoing allocation of soldiers.

The GG is appointed by the Prime Minster, and thus We the People of Canada have little to no say in who it is. The person in this office has some kind of responsibility that used to be exercised by the Queen, whose claim to office is...being born.

Nothing against Her Majesty, of course. Just that my mental default is that people in positions of power are elected. Or they are celebrities, and thus are essentially unexplainable fireworks that will eventually fizzle out.

So where is home? Canada. But where do I fit culturally? Hmmm.

Spelling as a Political Act

Lately, I've been having what I have come to think of as Sherman Alexie moments. That is, those moments in which I feel "between cultures."

One of those between-culture moments has to do with language, perhaps not surprisingly, given what I do. As you might expect from an American living in Canada and working with words, I have had to create some mental rules around spelling.

When I write something, I use the spelling that the audience expects. American clients expect "color," and Canadians expect "colour." Great. That's easy. Usually, with the guidance of MS Word's language default setting and my own reading of Canadian periodicals, I can get it right. This rule works even in the creative work I'm writing more of nowadays: if it's designed for Canadian audiences, it gets Canadian spelling.

On Facebook, I've adopted some practices, mostly to see how they work. For example, I celebrated "Labour Day" this year because I celebrated it in Canada. When I converse online with American friends, I tend to "type American"; for Canadians, I "type Canadian."

You've seen me use parentheses on the blog here for things like
"favo(u)rite." It's a way to type "between cultures." Hey, we're an inclusive place here.

But then I wondered: when I'm just me, writing just for me, what do I use?

And THEN I wondered: when on earth do I write "just for me"?

The answer is, I don't. Even the journaling I do will be read by someone other than the writer. Even if that "someone" is some future version of me--well, that version of me won't be the same person that I am at the "now" in which I write.

This also ties in with something I first heard discussed in graduate school: writing is a powerful act. One of my professors said his favorite (he was American) students were those he taught in a penitentiary. They were extremely motivated to learn. Learning to read and write effective arguments could help with their appeals and help them gain parole. For them, writing was highly personal, political, powerful.

I was more recently reminded when listening to CBC's Sunday morning news program, which featured a panel discussion about language issues, that even spelling is political. Someone on the panel mentioned Noah Webster, who of course is famous for changing the spellings of words such as "center," "defense," and "traveler." He did it for unashamedly ideological reasons: American English should be different from British English.

So, I am tempted to say, "Oh for crying out loud, this is not a big deal." Except that it is. Language and identity are so closely related as to be inseparable. It gets to Sherman Alexie's statement that whoever lives between cultures eventually is at home in neither.

Is spelling going to be my measuring stick? (Notice how I avoided using "yardstick"?)

If so, I guess it's time to take a baseline measurement. At present, the default setting for my spelling is still American. I wonder how much longer that will be true.

Incon-ceeeeevable

For a long time--more than forty years, to be more precise yet still coy--I knew this place only in the summer. I had seen a few pictures of northwestern Ontario in the winter, but basically, winter here was an intellectual construct. It was something I knew existed, but it was not real to me.

Sort of like firing a weapon in self-defense. Opening a retail store and selling things to customers who want them. Winning the lottery.

Here we are at the beginning of August, the time when my family traditionally showed up for our three weeks of camp life. It's this time of year, the explosion of summer at its most full, that is "normal" to me. And other times of year now seem, as the subject line suggests, inconceivable.

Yet the rest of the seasons, and the transition times, have been fully real in the years that I have lived them. They were real at the time, but seem less so now. How does that work? Looking at yesterday's picture of snow, paging through my stored photos of the other seasons--even pictures of May and June this year or previous years I've been here--I see scenes that I recognize. If I try hard enough, I can remember things about them.

But, even though I lived them, those seasons don't exist for me in the same way that this place, today, does.

These are the days when you know why "growing like a weed" is so true that it became cliche. When new growth on the trees stops and all the greens deepen from lime and celery to forest (and there's a reason they call it "forest" green) and mallard. When ducklings and goslings become harder and harder to distinguish from their parents.

Other seasons feel different. I do remember telling my husband, back in February or March, that summer was inconceivable. Wrapping in layer upon layer to go outside, choosing which mittens I needed, wishing for more pairs of wool socks--those activities were "normal." It seemed impossible that I would soon (in the grand scheme of things, "a few months" is equivalent to "soon") sit in a tank top and shorts in a rowboat.

But, probably because of those forty-odd years, summer remains more essentially real than winter, even though it's shorter. Like the academic calendar I use to organize my internal "new year," it's imprinted at a deep level.

I have spent a lot of my so-called adulthood considering aspects of my upbringing. Some I save; some I discard with relief.

I wonder if my internal sense of this place will eventually change its default setting, so that winter is the "normal" season and summer is the glorious aberration. If it does, it will happen at a level beyond my control. I don't think I can create a process analogous to "overcoming my upbringing."

I don't necessarily want to try--but I do want to pay attention. Because this setting, these few weeks, are a glorious time. And if they lose their default status, I'd like to say goodbye.

Change of Mind(set)

I'm not a big fan of biz-speak but it is useful at times. "Mindset" is one of those words I suspect originated in a boardroom somewhere, but I like it. It describes that part of me that is hard to change. It's not so hard for me to change my mind. But my mind's default setting--that's something else again.

For those who remember the loon socks and issues of "hanging on too long," changing my mindset is a related-but-different phenomenon.

Recently, I was asked to appear in black slacks/skirt and white blouse. (Yes, this example is also about clothing. Deal.) Piece of cake. I have lots of white blouses from...from...huh. From back in the 90s, when I used to work in an office--and even then wore business casual and kept a couple of white blouses hanging around only because "they're a necessity." So said both Mr. Dress for Success and my mother, independently. Therefore, when I looked recently, I found a couple. One had yellowed. One had never fit. One was waaaaaay not something I would ever wear. So they've been disposed of.

Decades have passed since a white blouse was actually a necessity in my life. They're also not necessary now--I rarely am asked to wear white and this just request happened to fall at the wrong time of the laundry cycle to haul out a sweater.

So my point is this: It's one thing to live for decades and change your life circumstances several times. It's something else again to change your mindset, and, with it, all the crap you tote around with you.

And because the personal is political, I'll ask these questions:

• Is it time for the people in a country to the south to change their mindset around health care? New legislation is one thing--how about doing the mental work necessary to understand that people should not receive health care based on how much money they make? Imagine all the energy that would free up, all the risk and growth, if entrepreneurs knew that they could get sick without requiring an employer for health insurance.
• Is it time for a church to change itse mindset around fear? Perhaps the Catholic church could stop being so defensive about the wrongs its leaders have committed (and perpetuate). (Hey, I can dream.) Perhaps local congregations could focus on the best ways to particpate in defining and fulfilling their missions in the community, instead of being afraid the institution itself won't survive.
• Is it time for the government in this country to stop being afraid of losing power? Hint: The Catholic church may yet understand that hiding information only exacerbates any crimes from the past. Learn from their example. Be open. Try aiming for respect from Canadians instead of popularity. You may be pleasantly surprised.
• Is it time for a city government to change its mindset and approach to economic development? How about putting resources into creating a city that's safe, pretty, and clean? People will enjoy living here. They will create and attract companies--and perhaps, eventually, tourists. Because stalking tourists doesn't make anybody very happy and doesn't appear to be successful.

Now that I've prescribed changed mindsets for the world, I feel better. As if I've cleaned out a closet--perhaps even a mental one.

Ponderables

A few observations, unrelated to anything much or even each other.

Goslings are cute, but not after a few months. Then they're just geese, like their parents, drooling green slime behind them.

Fawns are really cute. They stay cute as they age. Even when they eat our lilies, they're cute. Even when they're older and pregnant with fawns of their own, they're cute. Sometimes they're beautiful, but they're always at least cute.

Better to be a fawn than a gosling, huh?

Marriage between two adults, regardless of gender, is legal in Canada. Some people don't like it. Some churches don't consecrate these marriages. But the marriages remain legal--even ultra-conservative/ultra-political Stephen Harper (Americans: he's the Prime Minister) won't reopen debate about it. And yet, Canadian society has not broken down. The yawning gates of hell have not appeared, ready to engulf us all, either--and no handbaskets (or handcarts) are in evidence. Take note, California and the rest of you moronic states lagging behind.

It shouldn't take someone's death (or a national holiday) to make people get together to share stories and honor people who have been important to us. (No, I'm not planning to attend any reunions anytime soon. This is one of those Great Ideas for Other People (TM).)

Now that I don't have to peer over a snowbank to see the lake from my office, it's hard to believe it was ever that snowy. That's because summer is my default season. I know this, yet I still marvel.

Even when you live in paradise, you have to do the laundry. And it's never completely done unless everything is washed, dried, folded, put away--and you're naked. You can't even be wrapped in a towel. And the sheets on the bed, all the beds, have to be clean. THEN it's completely done. Which makes then never.

OK, I didn't say any of these were particularly deep. Just random thoughts at the end of the month of May.