I remember in 2007 reading the reviews of Elizabeth Gilbert's hot sensation Eat, Pray, Love. I had been hearing some buzz in the news, mostly quiet murmurs at that time, that this was a whiny book about mid-life angst and ennui for privileged middle-class WASPS. Only those with the luxury of having enough time to experience a life crisis could appreciate such a book. How quaint to struggle over whether one's choices of food and lovers were intriguing enough, how cute to spend one's days playing at meditation and spiritual enlightenment. Okay, I get that. Fair enough.
I'll be honest with you, though, those weren't my thoughts as I read Gilbert's quest for contentment, fulfillment, and spiritual insight. I thought, could I do this? Could I shrug off my life to take a pilgrimage back to myself? It seemed a beautiful idea, one perhaps we did not all have the means or nerve to do. It took moving to Canada to truly understand both the irritation, and in some cases the ire, of Elizabeth Gilbert's critics.
Moving to Canada from the United States is not at all what I expected. I thought, English-speaking, North American Capitalist country: it will be just like home, only much colder, and on the surface level, this is true. (I must be careful here as to not invite similar criticism upon myself as Gilbert did.) Since moving here, I have encountered immigrants from around the world--many coming from refugee camps in war-ravaged nations, others from Eastern Europe, Asia, Latin America--and I am constantly amazed at how well they are able to navigate this country despite significant language and cultural barriers. When I begin to pity myself and my immigration troubles, or my culture clashes, I conjure up memories of these true immigrants--men who were revered physicians in their native country find themselves emptying trash bins at the Calgary airport, highly-educated women languor as housewives because the language proficiency issues and educational differences sometimes prove to be nearly insurmountable obstacles. Many of these immigrants humble me by their ability to blossom and thrive in Canada despite the odds.
My experiences are pale shades of what these immigrants have endured. The loneliness I experience at being so far from home and the familiar is just a drop of what they must feel. However, what I want to say for myself, and to the critics of Elizabeth Gilbert, is that our truths are also valid. Our struggles in life are legitimate ones, and we have the right to tell our stories.
Here is what moving to Canada was like for me. Remember those Sci-Fi books we read as children--those riveting tales of alternate universes in which doubles of ourselves were living out their own lives, reshaped just slightly by circumstances in that other world? That is what coming to Canada has been like. It's as if I have stepped into another world that's almost identical to my own, but just rotated slightly to the left like the lens of a camera so that the image looks recognizable but somehow unfamiliar. I'll be sitting in a high school gymnasium, banners proclaiming the basketball and volleyball team' decades of success. The high-polished floors reflect back the harsh glow of the bright lights. It's as all-American as you can get. . . until the crowd rises in a respectful hush and breaks into a perfectly harmonized Canadian national anthem or "God Save the Queen." Flags decorate the perimeter--not the Stars and Stripes or the blazing sun rays of Arizona state flag, but the bright hues of Prince Edward Island, British Columbia, or Saskatchewan.
Sometimes it's the ever-so-slight language differences that will strike me. "You'd better take care of that, or you'll be HOOPED!" a good-natured Canadian friend might say to me over beers and Beef Wellington. "They'll TEAR A STRIP OFF YOU!" Or perhaps my husband and I will be touring a home for sale, and the unfailingly friendly real estate agent will begin to tell us about the "en suite options" (aka master bath), and the "forced air" (air conditioning), or my favorite "the garburator" (garbage disposal). Of course, these differences are only cause for amusement.
Some of the language differences, however, have been a small source of irritation. We are still uncertain of the purpose of a purolator versus, say, a Fex Ex man in terms of shipping and receiving goods, not to mention the baffling purpose or authority of commissionaires and mounties. These differences, too, are minor. What they add up to, though, is just a vague feeling of not quite feeling at home, not quite fitting in.
The immigration process has compounded this feeling of outsider-ness. The instructions and paperwork are both confusing and contradictory. Finding clear answers is near impossible, and the cost of a mistake--for example, traveling out of country while one's work permit is in the process of being renewed--can be dire. At the first whiff of my own self-pity, however, I think of the families who come here with little or no command of the language and wonder how they manage, despite the blessed Canadian socialists with their immigration support networks and guides.
As a teacher, the certification process has been equally daunting--finding an approved physician for a medical exam, taking additional university courses, calling my previous universities and begging the registrars to write personal letters to the Alberta Education authorities explaining the nature of my course of studies. The hoops have been many.
Some of the differences we have encountered, as one might imagine, have been delightful. Despite the high cost of living, wages for teachers and professors in Alberta are nearly double what they are in some states in the U.S. Maternity benefits--a year of paid leave and fully paid medical bills--would astound an American mother who is lucky to receive six weeks paid time off and a guarantee of a job when she returns. Long-term illness benefits are equally impressive. Canadians don't go bankrupt if they get cancer or leukemia. They are even given pay if they must miss work for the "compassionate care" needs of a family member who is ill. These are just a few examples of ways in which Canadians take care of those who cannot care for themselves. Americans have a lot to learn from them.
Perhaps the most difficult part of being American in Canada is the feeling, just below the surface, that I am hated. Canadians are fiercely proud. The steps they take to ensure that their culture survives and thrives could rival any gun-toting flag-waving Texan in the States (in terms of exuberance). Most often, the nature of Canadian pride is pure and positive--raising one another up in order to make themselves strong as a whole. Perhaps as a natural part of that pride is a sense of superiority, and that is what bubbles up now and again in conversation. This experience has been a powerful one for me. I have never been that obnoxious gun-toting flag-waving Texan who trots out my American pride at every opportunity. I have a strong sense of America's faults and failings as well as its strengths, but to see America from Canadians' eyes gives me just a glimpse of what the rest of the world sees when it looks upon my great and wondrous country, and it both humbles and frightens me.
I'll be honest with you, though, those weren't my thoughts as I read Gilbert's quest for contentment, fulfillment, and spiritual insight. I thought, could I do this? Could I shrug off my life to take a pilgrimage back to myself? It seemed a beautiful idea, one perhaps we did not all have the means or nerve to do. It took moving to Canada to truly understand both the irritation, and in some cases the ire, of Elizabeth Gilbert's critics.
Moving to Canada from the United States is not at all what I expected. I thought, English-speaking, North American Capitalist country: it will be just like home, only much colder, and on the surface level, this is true. (I must be careful here as to not invite similar criticism upon myself as Gilbert did.) Since moving here, I have encountered immigrants from around the world--many coming from refugee camps in war-ravaged nations, others from Eastern Europe, Asia, Latin America--and I am constantly amazed at how well they are able to navigate this country despite significant language and cultural barriers. When I begin to pity myself and my immigration troubles, or my culture clashes, I conjure up memories of these true immigrants--men who were revered physicians in their native country find themselves emptying trash bins at the Calgary airport, highly-educated women languor as housewives because the language proficiency issues and educational differences sometimes prove to be nearly insurmountable obstacles. Many of these immigrants humble me by their ability to blossom and thrive in Canada despite the odds.
My experiences are pale shades of what these immigrants have endured. The loneliness I experience at being so far from home and the familiar is just a drop of what they must feel. However, what I want to say for myself, and to the critics of Elizabeth Gilbert, is that our truths are also valid. Our struggles in life are legitimate ones, and we have the right to tell our stories.
Here is what moving to Canada was like for me. Remember those Sci-Fi books we read as children--those riveting tales of alternate universes in which doubles of ourselves were living out their own lives, reshaped just slightly by circumstances in that other world? That is what coming to Canada has been like. It's as if I have stepped into another world that's almost identical to my own, but just rotated slightly to the left like the lens of a camera so that the image looks recognizable but somehow unfamiliar. I'll be sitting in a high school gymnasium, banners proclaiming the basketball and volleyball team' decades of success. The high-polished floors reflect back the harsh glow of the bright lights. It's as all-American as you can get. . . until the crowd rises in a respectful hush and breaks into a perfectly harmonized Canadian national anthem or "God Save the Queen." Flags decorate the perimeter--not the Stars and Stripes or the blazing sun rays of Arizona state flag, but the bright hues of Prince Edward Island, British Columbia, or Saskatchewan.
Sometimes it's the ever-so-slight language differences that will strike me. "You'd better take care of that, or you'll be HOOPED!" a good-natured Canadian friend might say to me over beers and Beef Wellington. "They'll TEAR A STRIP OFF YOU!" Or perhaps my husband and I will be touring a home for sale, and the unfailingly friendly real estate agent will begin to tell us about the "en suite options" (aka master bath), and the "forced air" (air conditioning), or my favorite "the garburator" (garbage disposal). Of course, these differences are only cause for amusement.
Some of the language differences, however, have been a small source of irritation. We are still uncertain of the purpose of a purolator versus, say, a Fex Ex man in terms of shipping and receiving goods, not to mention the baffling purpose or authority of commissionaires and mounties. These differences, too, are minor. What they add up to, though, is just a vague feeling of not quite feeling at home, not quite fitting in.
The immigration process has compounded this feeling of outsider-ness. The instructions and paperwork are both confusing and contradictory. Finding clear answers is near impossible, and the cost of a mistake--for example, traveling out of country while one's work permit is in the process of being renewed--can be dire. At the first whiff of my own self-pity, however, I think of the families who come here with little or no command of the language and wonder how they manage, despite the blessed Canadian socialists with their immigration support networks and guides.
As a teacher, the certification process has been equally daunting--finding an approved physician for a medical exam, taking additional university courses, calling my previous universities and begging the registrars to write personal letters to the Alberta Education authorities explaining the nature of my course of studies. The hoops have been many.
Some of the differences we have encountered, as one might imagine, have been delightful. Despite the high cost of living, wages for teachers and professors in Alberta are nearly double what they are in some states in the U.S. Maternity benefits--a year of paid leave and fully paid medical bills--would astound an American mother who is lucky to receive six weeks paid time off and a guarantee of a job when she returns. Long-term illness benefits are equally impressive. Canadians don't go bankrupt if they get cancer or leukemia. They are even given pay if they must miss work for the "compassionate care" needs of a family member who is ill. These are just a few examples of ways in which Canadians take care of those who cannot care for themselves. Americans have a lot to learn from them.
Perhaps the most difficult part of being American in Canada is the feeling, just below the surface, that I am hated. Canadians are fiercely proud. The steps they take to ensure that their culture survives and thrives could rival any gun-toting flag-waving Texan in the States (in terms of exuberance). Most often, the nature of Canadian pride is pure and positive--raising one another up in order to make themselves strong as a whole. Perhaps as a natural part of that pride is a sense of superiority, and that is what bubbles up now and again in conversation. This experience has been a powerful one for me. I have never been that obnoxious gun-toting flag-waving Texan who trots out my American pride at every opportunity. I have a strong sense of America's faults and failings as well as its strengths, but to see America from Canadians' eyes gives me just a glimpse of what the rest of the world sees when it looks upon my great and wondrous country, and it both humbles and frightens me.
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