American/Canadian: My Essential Differences

Apparently there's a book that posits something important about the Essential Difference between male and female brains. I am not touching that discussion with a ten-foot piece of softwood lumber.

I'm also not talking today about a way to tell Canadians from USA-ians. The world is more nuanced and subtle than that, thank goodness.

No, because it's all about me here, this is about how I am essentially different from both Americans and Canadians.

Before we start: yes, I know I'm using stereotypes for the "American" and "Canadian" roles, and I know I'm not unique in being different from those norms.

So. The essential difference between me and "Americans": the whole gun thing. As a Canadian said recently, "I don't get how 'guns equals freedom.'" Me neither. I don't own weapons; I've never shot a weapon (unless you count archery in Grade 8 for four weeks, and that was shooting at targets). I don't get it. I will say I also don't know that the equation "gun control equals increased safety" is true, either. I am all for studies that examine the efficacy of gun control legislation. And I won't be owning a gun while they're going on, either, and I do not feel un-free about it.

The essential difference between me and "Canadians": I LOoooooove elections. Love love love.

For the Americans reading this, some background: Canada's Conservative Prime Minister is loathed by many and merely tolerated by most (the man has apparently NO FANS), but evidently the prospect of an election is far more frightening than allowing a man who disdains science to run the country.

Nothing makes me feel more American than listening to this week's political discussions up here (and note that criticism comes to him from both sides): "We hate Harper and everything he stands for. For the past five years, he has shown time and again how irresponsible he is [in spending so much money to end the recession] [in callously disregarding the real needs of the people in favour of his conservative social agenda] [in continuing to sing and play the piano in public] [insert your favourite Harper egregiousness here]. But, gasp, we don't want an election. The Canadian people don't want an election."

WHY NOT???? I love elections. Okay, no, I haven't voted in every single election I was eligible to vote in--when I lived in the U.S., I let some of the city council elections slide. And nowadays I don't vote in Oklahoma-specific elections, because I don't live there and it's not fair for me to inflict my opinion on those who do. (Also because it's a big waste of time, since I'm so far out of synch with the state.) And I'm sad that I now no longer vote every two years (representatives) and every six years (senators).

Because in the US, Canadians, we get to vote every two years. Two years!! And senators--well, first, unlike you, we get to vote them in. Then, yes, six years later, we get to vote them out, if we want. We know when. We can start countdown clocks to election day.

And the president, the big guy, the commander-in-chief--four years. That's all he gets. Sadly, Americans gave Bush 8 years, but the point is, they were given the opportunity to come to their senses. You know how? Through an ELECTION.

Canadians, if you dislike elections because (in the words of the wise yet mythical Leo McGarry, as scripted by the genius Aaron Sorkin) you're sick of voting for the lesser of who cares, I hear you. If you look at the leadership of opposition parties and shudder or say "meh," I get it.

But that's not the fault of the ELECTION. That's a cultural thing. If I were going to be mean, I would say it's your own fault, for accepting crappy leaders. For not expecting more from politicians, and for not holding them accountable for their actions. For imagining that the status quo is all you can hope for, that the unknown is necessarily frightening.

So I'm not saying that, because I'm Canadian enough to not want to be mean.

I'm also not saying that frequent elections sometimes don't result in mistakes. In 1980, the people of Arkansas elected Frank White as governor because a young and gifted politician named Bill Clinton had irritated them by raising the cost of car registration. (I could not make this up.) For two years, Arkansans endured idiocy, but they managed to survive it, and so did Mr. Clinton. And several Arkansans recognized that hey, their votes counted, so maybe they want to vote FOR candidates instead of "teaching a candidate a lesson" by voting AGAINST him. (Plus they were so chastened they changed the state Constitution to give governors four-year terms, like most states did in the 1800s.)

In conclusion, I urge Canadians to embrace elections, and that starts at home. Raise your argumentative, intellectually curious, and caring children to become politicians or at least civil servants. Your government could use a few more of your best and brightest.

For Americans--I don't know what to say, because I don't want to talk about guns. I have the right to not talk about guns because my freedom of speech is guaranteed. And isn't that true freedom?

Finally, in our "we're more alike than we are different," kum-ba-yah moment, I will demonstrate how truly Canadian AND American I am by complaining about the weather: Brr.

What's it All About?

As other attacks (Moscow) and shootings (Florida) take over the news internationally and in the U.S., Tucson is getting a bit of a reprieve from the spotlight.

It's been interesting to hear what Canadians tend to discuss in relation to the shooting, as opposed to what the discussion seems to be about in the U.S.

Canadians tend to want to talk about gun control. To a lesser extent, Canadians relate the Tucson shootings to mental health care, which (as with the rest of the U.S. healthcare system) is bewilderingly different and obviously inferior to Canada's.

The most public exception to this perspective is an opinion "writer" for Maclean's who I prefer not to name out of respect to those who actually write well-thought-out opinion pieces for that publication (even though I frequently disagree with them). This "writer" actually believes that if someone else in the Safeway parking lot had had a gun, fewer people would have been shot. (Aside from the other obviously ridiculous aspects of that statement, here's a question: How does she know no one else in that parking lot was carrying a gun?)

This is a storyline I've heard around the wires in the U.S. as well, which is as close as Americans can come to addressing issues of gun control. Because in the U.S., this event is not about gun control. It can't be. No discussion can be had about gun control, because a discussion that is a hollering match across a divide as wide as the Grand Canyon is not a real discussion.

Instead, the event in the U.S. has apparently become part of the storyline of the new, Republican-"led" Congress, what President Obama will say tonight in the State of the Union address, and whether he will win re-election in 21 months. It's all about the winning and the losing, folks.

Even the attempt to foster better communication (or appear to) by encouraging Democrats and Republicans to sit together, instead of in partisan groups, for tonight's speech has become all about "who's sitting by whom." Politics as high school.

Meanwhile, in Tucson, people are quietly trying to go about their lives. They are paying attention to their own mental health. Regular folks, along with political and religious leaders, are reclaiming the space in which the shootings occurred. The "I know someone who was there" and "I was across the street" and "an injured person is my neighbor" stories are working themselves out in their telling and re-telling.

As days become weeks and months, each person will make choices. They'll change, or not, based on what happened that day. Some may choose to continue to discuss guns, ethnicity, citizenship, mental health, public service, engagement, community.

But one thing Tucsonans know: the shooting is not even remotely about winning and losing. In Tucson, that small city, everyone is connected in some way to that event. They know all too well that real people lost their lives that day; their community lost a measure of innocence. A respected, vibrant Congresswoman struggles to recover. And no one--no one--won.

Sip, Sip: Hooray!

From the department of pronunciation, this just in.

A local TV personality has a pronunciation quirk that makes my husband nuts. (No, I'm not getting specific; she does a fine job otherwise and frankly I find this kinda entertaining.)

There's this local golf course. It's the "municipal" golf course. That's "myoo-ni-SIP-pul." (I can't explain it; I just report it.)

Everything else in town follows the standard pronunciation of "myoo-NIH-sip-pul," which you can also find in genuine International Phonetic Alphabet and sound clips if you google, as I did.

I have never heard this "SIP-pul" pronunciation elsewhere for anything, other than the golf course here. It's certainly not Canadian, except in this little teeny tiny pocket of Canada.

Sure, every place has similar litmus tests. When I lived in Arkansas, new weather broadcasters pronounced El Dorado as "El Dough-RAH-dough" until someone told them it was actually "El Duh-RAY-duh." Also, the town of Blytheville drops consonants when pronounced: "BLY-vul" is correct.

So: "myoo-NIH-sip-pul" elections. Which is not what the local news anchor says. To her, everything municipal is "myoo-nih-SIP-pul."

My husband has a smaller-than-average share of pet peeves. (Yes, I recognize that I'm an overachiever in this area and should not be construed as "average.") As a peeve-deprived individual, he is not one to talk to the television. In contrast, on any given night, I'm usually muttering at someone on there about something. It's a habit I picked up from my father during the Nixon years, when I was impressionable and he was annoyed. A lot.

However, for this one pronunciation, my normally easygoing husband makes an exception. He always breathes a heavy sigh and nearly always groans. Sometimes he smacks his forehead and rolls his eyes, but I think that's just to impress me.

The only other thing I can count on to increase his drama quotient is when people (and lots of them do it) say "FEB-yoo-air-ee." He will occasionally over-enunciate "FEB-ROO-AIR-EE" for the benefit of the offender. (Yes, we know no one can hear us through the glass, but we choose not to believe.)

My husband also is not a big fan of "s" becoming "sh," as when Tyra Banks pronounces "strength" as "schtrenth." (C'mon, Tyra, what's next: "feersh"?) Not that my husband has ever seen America's Next Top Model or knows who Tyra Banks is. More and more people, especially in the US, use that pronunciation (*cough* Michelle Obama *cough*) and he dislikes it. But it's only a teeth-gritter, not a forehead-smacker.

Thankfully, the myoo-NIH-sip-pul elections are over. However, FEB-roo-air-ee is on the horizon. My prediction: It's gonna be loud during the news at 6 around here for the next couple of months.

Two Word-Related Pleas: Please!

1. Now that we're officially in the "dead of winter," could we all agree to avoid the phrase "the white stuff"???

It's SNOW, people. Snow. Or something else, which might be "sleet" or "mixed rain and snow," depending on your country. It's not heroin or cocaine, it's not cotton balls, it's not wool, it's not printer paper, it's not milk--any or all of which could also be called "white stuff" (based on what I see on TV about drugs).

Calling it "the white stuff" doesn't make the snow, or you, any cuter. It's snow.

2. After events like the shooting in Tucson last Saturday, use of the phrase "in the wake of" spikes. For example, "In the wake of the Tucson shootings, pundits are falling all over each other to distance themselves from the event."

Just stop. The event, whether it's the Tucson shooting or Columbine or some other sudden violent event, is horrific, and what you say will not in any way be as important as the event itself. So stop borrowing drama. The word "after" conveys the same timeframe. If you want to make the case that what you're saying is related in some way to the event, make that case--don't assume it.

Okay, end of lecture. Just: please?

What it Takes to Really Learn Something

Since moving to Canada, I have learned that if I wear a coat with Velcro fastenings, I should avoid wearing knit scarves (meaning the muffler variety of scarf, a use of the term "muffler" which is apparently out of fashion). Knit scarves invariably get caught in the hook side of the velcro.

That's two rabbit trails in two sentences. "Muffler" is something you read about in books, but most people (around here) tend not to say anymore. "Hook-and-loop fastener" is the generic way to refer to Velcro. Sheesh.

MY POINT is that I should have learned this sometime in the early 1990s, when I moved to the mountains of Northern New Mexico and got to buy serious coats. Failing that, you'd think it would have become part of my explicit learning at some point during the ten years I lived in Colorado.

But no. Now, some five-plus years into living here, I finally can verbalize that the fleece muffler (crap) scarf goes with my black Velcro (crap) hook-and-loop fastened coat.

This is really about the shootings in Tucson on Saturday. (Trust me.) I have known for some time that I am grateful to be away from the relentless political rhetoric in the US. I am no more a fan of Keith Olbermann than I am of any of those on the right who also shriek and froth at the mouth. I have a low tolerance for people shouting past each other. So I am glad to have missed so much of it.

My heart is heavy from the shooting, in part because I've spent significant time in Tucson--in fact, at the Safeway and the bird food store and the La Salsa restaurant in that shopping center. Tucson is a lovely community, where many kinds of people make lives together. So the shootings there are not much farther from my thoughts than is my brother, his physicians, his family, his blood cells.

And, as is true with "knit mufflers don't go with Velcro," I am finally able to say, explicitly about politics and rhetoric, "I know all I need to; now I move on." I'm so very glad to live here, where I am away from the relentness ugly rhetoric.

This morning, while running errands, I was in the car during a CBC newscast. CBC calmly reported actual news of Tucson: arraignment, suspect, a recap count of injured and killed. Nothing breathless. No "breaking news" that isn't actually NEW. CBC reports that people are searching for blame, but it's a ten-second summary, not a rehash of "he said, she said." And then we return to regular programming: a gardening show.

And for me, for now, that's what I need: regular life. I can drop off a box of books at the library, take papers to a lawyer, go to meetings. I can prep for other meetings, do laundry, and review drafts of written stuff. At some point, I may even be able to research and revise policies, and tease out creative writing, with the focused attention they require (and deserve).

Later, when I have run out of "little things" and "regular life," ha ha, I will look again at the "big picture" and apply what I have learned. Specifically, when I have the opportunity to vote again, I will pay attention to more than political party, campaign promises, and voting record. I will look at how the candidate ran for office, and I will not reward flamethrowers.

To recap what I have (finally) learned: Wear fleece scarves with coats that have that hook-and-loop closure.

After you find out the facts, return to regular life as much as possible.

Oh, and: Deliberately incendiary rhetoric is vulgar at best and destructive at worst.

Let's hope many in the US have learned that last lesson.

Wondering When This Happened

Since a recent birthday (that ends in zero), I have found myself wondering about a few things.

Like: When did I become the person who, with (ahem) relative ease and competence, throws together a turkey dinner for the holidays? (I used to be the "next generation" person, a daughter or in-law, who helped the family matriarch get everything together.)

Like: When did I become someone who inspects every bit of barnacle skin that has recently begun appearing on various appendages, just to be sure that the barnacles are harmless? (I used to "lay out" in the sun in pursuit of a tan, positive that wrinkles and skin cancer would never come my way.)

Today I found myself wondering something slightly different, yet ultimately related: Why does the house smell like sweet-and-sour takeout?

The answer is that at some point, my husband accepted that he is the person who is responsible for ensuring that our home maintains some humidity in the driest time of the year. This means he fills and maintains the humidifier. Our well water is calcific (calceous? calciferous?) (contains lots of calcium) and that builds up and creates clogs. So he's running the humidifier with vinegar, which makes the house smell like sweet-and-sour sauce (to me).

All of which, taken together, indicates that at some point I crossed a boundary into adulthood. Which you would think wouldn't be news to someone whose recent birthday was not, alas, her 40th. Whose parents, as my nephew points out, now celebrate their birthdays in heaven. Whose keychain includes not only a plastic thingy for a gym membership and the library but also a CARP membership.

However, as I've said about moving to a new country, it's the little things about your journey into new territory that trip you up.

Aha! So that's what this is--culture shock. Okay. (Is it too late to go back? It's just that, like that Sherman Alexie quote about being at home in neither culture, I'm not always sure I belong here.)

Not Now? Then When?

I noticed an incremental lightening of the sky at 7:15 this morning, but the stars were still vivid against the pacific blue/liz-eyes/sky-blue progression.

I'm telling you this because, true to form, the January sky is usually clear. As in, devoid of clouds. Which means it's also cold. And this morning was no exception: -5F, so -20+C.

It's warmed up since. I got out for a very trundly walk and remembered why I need sunscreen and sunglasses in January. But after my shower, I put on my flannel-lined jeans, speaking of not particularly flattering.

Aside from not being something I'd wear to town (OK maybe to Safeway) (the shouting is Clinton and Stacy telling me that people can see me at the grocery store, too), the jeans feel a little like overkill.

"What if it gets colder?" my Oklahoma-born self asks. "What else is there to put on? Does it make me obviously American, or southern, or anyway un-Canadian, to resort to flannel-lined jeans?" She ramps up the angst. "Does wearing flannel-lined jeans make me WEAK?"

My sensible, seasoned-Canadian-living self answers, "Wearing flannel-lined jeans doesn't make you weak: it makes you warm." And then asks me the $2 question (that's $1.98 Canadian these days, go loonie!): "What are you saving them for??"

Which isn't a bad question to ask one's self often in this coming year: "Not now? Okay, then when?" And, bonus: I get to be warm while asking.