On my last day of college, I slung a bag over my shoulder, grabbed an oversized suitcase and dragged it with a box of books to a car bound for Montreal, Canada. Other than a summer internship at a Canadian hospital, I had never lived in Canada. I was twenty-one years old, armed with a college degree and a dream of working in psychology in a place where I could speak French. With the ongoing Vietnam War and Nixon in the White House, what Canada had to offer sounded pretty good.
I also had no idea who I was or what mattered most to me. I was just looking for home. Several years later I returned to the United States much wiser.
The Journey North
Surrounding me these days are airwaves full of angst, confusion, and a desire to go elsewhere to escape chaos and mean spiritedness. More than a few have researched immigration laws for countries outside the U.S. where they hope things will be safer and kinder. They might be right, at least for now. Settling in another country is exciting, frustrating, and a catalyst for growth. Whether the move produces long term happiness is another thing and very individualistic.
I moved to Canada on a one-way ticket and no exit plan. I dived into life there, worked in psychiatric hospitals and attended graduate school. I also made many friends, including French Canadians who educated me about the Quebec Separatist movement. As an American I wasn’t expected to take sides. Instead, I learned to live in a multi-cultural community and discover how people from other cultures think.
The Driving Force of Culture
As time went by, I felt an increasing disconnect between my normal behavior and that of those around me. It started when Bell Canada stood me up for a phone installation three times in a row. When I expressed my disappointment, I received a noncommittal response in a “you’re out of line” tone of voice and a tepid promise to reschedule.
After several similar incidents I grew confused. Why was telling someone I had a problem with something not a good thing? I generally behave myself (except with my siblings) and speak politely. I finally asked a Canadian friend what she thought. She assured me that I wasn’t intentionally being impolite, but I needed to realize that in Canada, complaining was considered rude.
“Really?” I asked. “Always? Well, what do you do if you don’t like a politician’s position on an issue you think is important? Do you say nothing because it’s rude?”
“Yes, but I don’t vote for them in the next election,” she replied.
Yikes. That’s a long time to wait, I thought. While the internet might have changed that tempo, given the culture at that time I needed to pay more attention to what was expected in Canada.
Canada is not the 51st state or even close to it. They are a nation of solid, generous people, many of whom were born elsewhere and established a life in Canada centered on their families, communities, and a sense of order. The Canadian constitution enshrines their core values of “peace, order and good government.” Canadians live that creed. It shows up throughout their culture. Having interacted with them throughout my career, I appreciate their organized, courteous manner and wry sense of humor.
Compare Canadian core values to the fundamental principles of “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” and the accompanying freedoms of speech, religion, press, assembly, and petition embodied in the United States founding documents. Until I lived in Canada, I never thought about those words, much less how my behavior was influenced by the assertive culture they inspire.
Epiphany Arrives in an Ice Cream Cone
One day, after traipsing around downtown Montreal, I decided ice cream was in order. I stepped up to the ice cream counter at the central train station and asked the man behind it for a butterscotch ripple ice cream cone. He nodded and leaned over a tub filled with vanilla ice cream and one lonely stripe of butterscotch. Instead of heading his scoop toward the butterscotch, he started to fill it with vanilla ice cream.
Seeing that, I leaned toward him and said with a smile, “And mind you, I’d like lots of butterscotch.” He stopped, peered up at me and said, “Are you American?” “Well, yes,” I replied. “What makes you think that?” “Only an American would even THINK of saying that!” he said, matter of factly. I laughed and he redirected the scoop straight into the butterscotch stripe.
I walked away holding a large, satisfying ice cream cone that had also become food for thought. I realized that the disconnects I’d been having were not me being rude but rather doing what I was brought up to do. To achieve the life I wanted, I was expected to say out loud what I needed and act accordingly. For the first time in my life, I grasped how engrained my country’s values were in my upbringing. It took living in another country to understand how much they defined me.
Returning to Base Camp
I returned to the United States seven years after leaving it. Much had changed. The Vietnam War was over. The Watergate hearings ended a presidency and the streets pulsed with noisy, opinionated people working to make a difference. I loved it. I also appreciated it in a way I hadn’t before. It felt like I had returned home.
I immediately put that to the test during a security clearance interview required by my job. I found myself in a featureless, low-lit room sitting opposite a man wearing a heavily starched white shirt and a serious expression on his face. He started by asking me numerous questions about my social life. I was new to town and didn’t have much to report. I also thought the questions were stupid. Finally, I asked, “What is the purpose of this interview?”
“Ma’am,” he barked, “We want to make sure you won’t embarrass the United States of America.”
“Well,” I responded, “I wish the United States of America would quit embarrassing me.” It being post-Watergate, I thought that was a fair comment, albeit ill-advised in a job interview. The man looked down at his papers and turned to the next page. I passed the interview and knew I had indeed arrived home.
I treasure the American culture, although I cringe when in a foreign country I hear an American tourist bellow to a buddy across a historic plaza, “Dude! So where are we going to buy beer?” I am not a super patriot. I will not defend bad policy or behavior. Climbing over others and pushing them down is never acceptable. What I learned from my Canadian multi-cultural journey is that there are many ideas and ways of living. Everyone has something to teach us, if we just shut up and listen.
What I love about our country is its drive and compulsion to speak up. These days, however, exercising these traits carry a risk of heightened negative consequences. Veterans of the Civil Rights movement know this threat well. Whether someone has seen it before or it is new, needing to be cautious about speaking one’s truth and acting on it is alarming. It’s also wrong, because that is not who we are. Something has to change.
Finding Home
Home is not a country, community or apartment. Home is what lies inside of us that gives us meaning. In these charged, scary times, we have to dig deep and reconnect with the fundamental values that define us. Crystallizing them in the face of a barrage of crazy events sucks up a lot of energy. Peering inward to find personal navigation lights requires time and honest reflection. Factored into the equation are the internalized values that form building blocks of identity gained from growing up in our national culture.
I understand the allure of moving to another country. Living outside the U.S. expanded my horizons in ways I didn’t expect, including discovering the underlying strength of my American identity. It allowed me to give my country a second chance. Each person must make their own decision. I can only share my experience.
As I grit my teeth and watch the news each night, I focus on what gives me meaning. Creating a healthy human environment where people strive to uplift each other fuels my core. That dream gives me fortitude to open my mouth and hold conversations that are both caring and difficult, then find ways to make things better. That is what I call home.
My hope for our country is that we will find our voices and do the hard work of improving life for everyone. In the words of a Parkland School parent who fights for gun control, “Always do what is not easy.”
It’s not easy, but we are worth it.