Excerpt #2 - From my book

 What do you think? Am I too harsh?
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I moved to the Great Canadian North about four and half years ago.  The expected annual shock  of winter to my system still creeps in on me like a thief once a year threatening to kill joy, even though every Fall I try to prepare for it.  I hate that I don’t always appreciate things until they’ve slipped from my hands.  However, I never appreciated the magic of the sun living in the Southern United States until I left it behind for Canada.  The way you wake up in the morning knowing the weather was one of two ways: hot or hotter.  I used to slip out the door on my way to school after just having a shower and sweat would start its immediate leakage into every awkward, unwanted nook and cranny on my body.  That was just the way it was growing up. Funny what becomes romantic when you no longer deal with it.

What I did not expect with the transition, was myself feeling a lostness, homelessness if you will.  After making the move to Canada, for the first year, I felt I was still working through ambiguous culture shock.  Communication was approached with a more indirect and diplomatic style than where I grew up.  Reigning in my tongue to seek diplomacy has never been a gift I can boast about. It still takes intentionality on my part to be “diluted” in my speech (that’s probably an unfair word to use).  I was also surprised to find that there wasn’t a Christian Bible Study that met in every Starbucks on Thursday mornings.  And a very, very small part of me missed the comfort of seeing the “In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned” bumper stickers.  But probably the biggest thing I miss is the risk factor that the American culture generates. Americans are unafraid to try something new, be bold about it and then the whole world knows when a mistake is made. I appreciate that. Probably because I still seem to have a frustrating compulsion to operate under those premises.

I used to run into the occasional Canadian who, with too much enjoyment and bliss would recall back to me all the stupid, insipid things Americans do as tourists. They’d laugh, give a snort here and there, and slap my arm to rally my own humour. I would remain unamused.  It is not entertaining to hear those same stories of the Americans coming to the Canadian border in July with their snow suits asking where the closest ski hill is.  I didn’t find that funny the first time I heard it and I didn’t find it funny the 32nd time I heard it. 
Ok, to be fair - now, four and half years later, I don’t hear those dumb American stories much anymore. Most people have forgotten that I’m one of “them” from the other side of the imaginary line.  And well, to be honest, I like these Canadians, despite their un-funny sense of humour. And (at the risk of being disowned by my family) I am slowly becoming more Canadian in my mannerisms and ways.  I prefer to think of myself as morphing into the perfect, appealing blend accepting only the finest and best from both cultures.