I grew up in rural Georgia (where they serve gravy and biscuits, not the country that Russia invaded) and as of today I am a Canadian citizen.
Like everyone else with an accent in this great country, I ended up here the usual way. I met a girl while travelling…blah,blah,blah, and the next thing you know you’re ice fishing and drinking beer with waaaaay more alcohol in it.
Since moving to Canada, I am repeatedly asked how I think ‘we’ compare to the U.S. My first answer is, why compare? It is true that we are similar in a lot of ways.
However, the U.S. population is 10 times greater than Canada’s, and they are squeezed into a country only slightly larger than Canada (just making sure you’re paying attention). This makes it tough to truly compare apples to apples. If we define ourselves as simply not being the U.S. we never truly define what it means to be Canadian.
Canada rocks in unique ways that need no comparison.
First, and most importantly in my mind, is space. If you must take an extra tank of gas and bag of beef jerky when you head down a dirt road, it’s a good day.
Second, although it could always be better, our health care is pretty awesome from my experience.
To immigrate, you must have a blood test. The nurse actually winced when she informed me she would need to charge me. “How much?” I asked nervously. “Nine dollars and fifty cents,” she whispered. I laughed, gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
Next, hockey, hockey and more hockey. It is football on ice with no game stoppage, smaller playing surface, weapons, a gladiator code of ethics and fans that would rival the craziest in the world (not including the idiots who rioted).
It is true most Americans can’t appreciate hockey, but Canadians can’t grow pineapple either, so who cares. Lastly, like my southern cohorts, Canadians are funny as mess. (FYI: Yankee is a cuss word where I grew up.)
Once my friends here in B.C. found out I was going for my citizenship test they made me nervous and prepared me for the worst.
As I entered the unmarked room, I was ready for almost anything.
If I had to clap out all the drum solos from the entire Rush catalogue, I was ready. If I had to differentiate between the three grades of maple syrup by taste, viscosity or tint, I was ready. My only fear was the skating time trial, but I was confident I would wow them with the leg-hold trap assignment.
In the end, it was only a test that covered Canada’s history, political system and the rights and responsibilities of being a citizen. For the record, I doubled my Canadian wife’s score.
We live in a land where we are fortunate enough to worry if our eggs are free range, shade grown and organic.
I have the luxury to be irritated when my frappuccino latte is delayed five minutes as city workers bust their butts to deliver potable water to my house.
These are high-class problems in a high-class country.
—Nathan Weathington is the publisher of The Morning Star
