It’s impossible to define what it means to be Canadian. Thirty-four million of us and counting and we don’t share a language, place of birth, or, national perogie. So, what is a Canadian? Pierre Berton said:
“A Canadian is someone who knows how to make love in a canoe.”
I guess I’m not Canadian, cause I capsized. Good thing I was alone wearing a lifejacket. That could have been dangerous.
The following is dedicated to Sandy47, whose posting in my Comment’s section inspired it.
Also, I’m a bad Canadian cause I cut out all the u’s in my words: color, favorite, neighbor. I save a lot of time, hours every year just cutting down on my u’s. Why do you hold on to them? They’re empty calories. I get so much more done in the day. Stop writing them, you’ll have the time to write that book you have kicking around in your head.
I think thirty-four million Canadians would define what it means to be Canadian thirty-four million ways. A couple weeks ago when I asked my friend, Nikos, what he thinks of my favorite poet, William Blake, Nikos responded: “Poetry’s all Greek to me.”
“I said, Nikos, you’re Greek. Your father’s from Crete.” Nikos forgot he’s Greek.
Like I forgot I’m an American. My Mom’s American, which makes me American, but, sometimes I forget. Like when I was crossing the border a few years ago to move to New York City, got the car all packed up, stopped at the border, border guard asks: What’s your nationality? Canadian, I say. What is the purpose of your visit to The United States? I’m moving down to New York to live. You’re going to have to step out of the car, sir. Then I remember how I can speed things up. Wait! wait! I’m an American! Sorry, I forgot I’m American. The guard is stunned. What do you mean you forgot you are an American citizen? I never use it, I say, showing him my American passport. The guard shakes his head and waves me through.