An American in Canada

Being Alien

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 18:33:00 +0000

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.

The Wedding--Take Three--Game Day

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 19:56:00 +0000

I'm a nervous Nellie. It doesn't take much to send me into a fix of anxiety, so I had many stern talks with myself before this day. My guests will not enjoy themselves if I'm a mess, I lectured, and no one wants to see you crying your face off,so suck it up, Sister. My lectures must have stuck, because I woke up calm the morning of my wedding. Granted, I was not a blushing 21 year-old bride. I was 35, but still.

My guests stumbled, some hungover, some jet-lagged down to the kitchen for a bit of breakfast and coffee before the first event of the day. We did not look pretty, but we were smiling. At 8:00 our yoga instructor arrived, arms bearing brightly-colored mats and just the right amount of energy. For some of our guests, this was their first yoga class, so our instructor guided us through some gentle poses, and throughout our hour wove in just a bit of the spiritual to set our intentions for the day. David and I aren't religious folk, but we often hunger for a spiritual life, and we certainly wanted our day to have an aspect of holiness. There couldn't have been a more perfect way to invite the sacred in than this.

The day didn't remain so serene, however. Promptly after breakfast, the boys were off to set up chairs and such on the mountain. They would be dressing amongst the trees. Meanwhile, the girls cranked the stereo, popped the champagne, and took our mimosas to our respective rooms to prepare ourselves.

It didn't take us long to get ready. In retrospect, perhaps I should have curled and pinned my hair into some respectable contortion appropriate for such a momentous occasion. Perhaps I could have had my make-up done. Maybe I should have engaged in a six-month wedding work-out regimen, but I didn't, and while I might not be movie-star beautiful in my wedding portraits, I had a blissful two hours to myself to soak in the tub, smell the pine air, and think about the importance of the day. At the end of it, I looked like myself. A refreshed and happy version of myself, and I'll not be sorry for that.

Fresh and readied, the girls and I made our way to the base of the mountain, where we joined my father, and up we went on the precipitous climb in the ski lift. Under our fancy dresses, we had popped on our tennis shoes to prepare for the rocky terrain at the summit. We gripped the safety bar as our lift gently swung us up the mountain. Without the many feet of snow that covered this mountain most of the year, the distance between us and the ground seemed endless, and my nerves were jangling. My father joked and encouraged, distracting me with his endless talk of moose and bears. Ruddy-faced bikers passed our lift on the way down. Their legs swung freely, safety bars unfastened, while their bikes dangled behind them. They waved and congratulated us, surely amused by these strangely-dressed creatures in their wilderness.

Somehow our guests had managed to assemble themselves in Falling Star Meadow down the path from where we landed on the ski lift platform. Sounds of the Spanish guitar drifted faintly into the clearing where we waited for the ceremony to commence. It was here in the clearing during the last-minute fastening and straightening of our dresses that we realized we had no flowers. Not a one. Needless to say, panic ensued. My brother and a kind guest volunteered to make the thirty minute journey back to the Timbers to retrieve them. Meanwhile, my poor guests sweltered in the intense mountain sun. The girls and I tried our best to entertain them from our hiding place--shouting little cheers and bits of songs. Eventually someone began a sing-a-long and all seemed content for the moment, if a bit sunburned.

The ceremony was glorious and imperfect. The ring bearer, our little nephew, got a bit of stage fright before his big moment and had to be pacified. When we saw him lilting down the aisle wearing the moose-shaped binoculars swinging from his neck, we knew his mother had improvised. That wasn't our only hiccup. My lace train snagged an unforgiving twig from which my quick-thinking bridesmaid freed me, and a dozen other moments didn't go quite as planned, but there was magic as well.

Despite my initial reticence, my husband decided to write a song for the ceremony. My family and I are shy people. We do not sing in public. Ever. But David and his family are not so shy, so he and his sisters, along with the groomsmen, led the guests in song. Something happened, though, about mid-way through the second stanza. David, overcome by emotion, and nerves and the stunning beauty of the place, began to cry. He couldn't seem to get the words out. Somehow the terrifying thought of singing in front of this crowd fell away, and all I could think to do was join him. Then my train snagged once again, and my poor shy bridesmaid found herself rescuing me and joining me by my side. Somehow it was alright. Somehow my beautiful guests, many of whom I know would rather have not been asked to sing along, sang anyway, and smiled back at us. It was powerful.

The rest of the ceremony felt much like that moment. As each of our guests read, or spoke or prayed, I was overcome by the feeling that these people were pulling for us, that David and I were going to make it because we had so many people wanting our happiness.

The rest of the day is just what you might imagine. I'll spare you all of the details. I've already shared too much, but as a storm bloomed on the horizon, we made our way back down the mountain, gathering several miles away for some breathtaking photographs, and headed back to town for an evening of great food, unabashed dancing and one more strained but marvelous sing-a-long. Just as we folded our silk and lace into the car to begin the rest of our evening, and the rest of our lives, the heavens opened up, and the rains came. Marriage has been much like that day, moments of warm sun broken up by storms. While I can't say that our plans and lists made for a perfect day, I can say that it was perfect for us. It was messy and beautiful, just like life.

Here is what I will take from these few days in Fernie that marked the beginning of my married life. These amazing friends and family paused their busy lives and traveled hundreds and even thousands of miles to be with us, really BE with us, so forgive me while I thank them. They were all such important components of the wedding that it not only would not have been so magical but would simply not have been at all had it not been for them. Michael, our favorite neuroscientist/clergyman, created a moving and lovely ceremony for us. His wife, Teresa, groomswoman extraordinaire, graciously joined the guys in the hot alpine sun to haul chairs and then somehow make herself gorgeous despite having to dress on the ski run. Our dear friends Mary and Dee, who cater for a living and spend their days cooking for others, slavishly worked to set up meals without even being asked to, all the while making us laugh. The best man, Doug, warmed our hearts by taking care of every detail left unattended while simultaneously charming the guests. My brother, not one for seeking attention, scurried behind the scenes to keep the wine bar stocked while somehow documenting the weekend with awesome film and photos. Also not one to call attention to himself, my darling father kept me grounded and sane, telling me jokes to keep me from crying and reassuring me every five minutes that everything was perfect. Dana, despite some trials happening in her life at the time, made a perfect matron of honor, beaming at me as if her heart would burst at our happy day. Most trusted best friend and bridesmaid used her knack for diffusing tense and awkward moments to keep the guests happy and entertained while reminding me to cut loose and enjoy myself, just as she always has. Joyce and Paul, Erin and Jon--thank you for your heartfelt readings, your help and your joyfulness. Curt, Ann, Kim, Dawn and Kimberly, thank you for leading our guests in our dorky songs with so much pep and panache. To David's parents, your readings were also beautiful, as were your blessings for us. We will never forget them. Little Ben, Chase and Josh, you were the most amazing ushers and ring bearers ever. I'm so proud of you. Charles and Cecelia, your Brazilian energy and spirit added something special, and the wedding would have been the same with out it. To all of you, my deepest thanks.

The Wedding--Take Two--The Pre-Game Show

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 05:14:00 +0000

Our wedding day was a fantastic metaphor for our relationship. Perhaps this is true for all couples. David and I are thinkers and planners, over-thinkers and over-planners if I'm being honest. And we're talkers. We never met a problem that couldn't be solved by talking it to death. In our minds, the best path to our dream wedding was one paved with lists, how-to books and lots and lots of talking. This was never more clear to me than when, during the reception, David's gregarious Brazilian uncle happily clapped us on our backs and said he'd seen a hundred weddings of two hearts but never a wedding of two minds. Not exactly the stuff of Hollywood romance, but terribly romantic to us.

The night before Wedding Eve we were, of course, running late. At close to ten that evening, we were jamming the SUV full of baguettes and cheeses, ribbons and wedding finery, all squeezed in amongst six sloshing buckets of flowers. The last vestiges of light in the summer sky had long drained away, leaving slivers of dusky blues on the prairie horizon that cloaked the Canadian Rockies in the distance. Soon we were heading west toward Fernie, B.C., a quirky and stunning little ski town just over two hours away. We arrived, exhausted but exhilarated, at the beautiful Timbers ski chalet, a sprawling log home tucked snugly into the pines.

The next day was packed with logistics of picking up and dropping off, arranging and discussing, but we took a moment first to fling open the doors and curtains to enjoy our coffee in the mountain air. Just outside the great room's picture window, mountain bikers glided past on the ski lift, their feet dangling just inches away.

Slowly the guests began to descend upon the little town. They came from everywhere--Missouri, Oregon, California, Arizona, Brazil and Alberta. We, made introductions, caught up after months, or even years, of being apart, and sipped our wine. Everyone pitched in--snipping and arranging bright simple bouquets of flowers for the tables, tossing salads, warming pans of lasagna. Faint sounds of music drifted in from the front lawn where a handful of friends and family practiced their songs for the big day. A few extra guests overheard them and decided to wander outside and join in. It was lovely.

Just before sitting down to our meal, a quick rehearsal of the ceremony on the back porch helped us prepare for the day. Despite the awkwardness of being the center of attention and the anxiety of having our friends and family together for the first time, I took a moment to look around at our small group--just twenty-some people--who had traveled so far and made such an effort to join us. Our dream for them was that they would leave Fernie feeling they had been a crucial part of something wonderful. Could the carefully-crafted and overly-orchestrated itinerary slipped under each of their bedroom doors somehow make it happen? All we could do now was laugh a little and pray.

The Wedding--Take One

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 20:34:00 +0000

Tucson, AZ

It was a year ago today, actually, that we two slow-pokes finally committed. The beauty of waiting was that we didn't have the wedding jitters of, say, two kids with the proverbial shotgun at their backs, but there were downsides to marrying in my thirties (and he in his forties). First, we had no illusions about what marriage was like--the ugly and the lovely. We did not have the dewy-eyed bliss that young lovers do, thinking that nothing could tear them asunder and that they had finally become somehow complete (having wandered the earth lacking the other half of themselves until this moment). What we did have was a beautiful knowing--a knowing that love is an act and a choice not luck and fairy dust, a knowing that we had the power within us to create the relationship we wanted.

There was another downside/upside of having waited to marry: we had been to A LOT of weddings. We had seen the outdoor, the indoor, the orthodox and the unorthodox. We had sat next to Bill Nye, the Science Guy, and watched break-dancers during the salad course atop the Yale Club in New York City. We had seen a Catholic, agnostic, Protestant, lesbian and even a neuroscientist officiate every kind of ceremony imaginable. There were weddings in libraries, back yards, tiny chapels and cathedrals. One bride danced down the aisle to Iggy Pop and another proceeded down the aisle flanked by her loyal dogs. We had kneeled, stood, prayed and blessed so many times. How in the world, we wondered, would we ever have a special day that didn't feel like everyone else's special day?

At first, I'll confess, I didn't think it could be done. I pushed hard for the elopement plan. After a few tearful pleas from those who wanted to witness this miraculous moment, elopement was out. Okay. Back to scratch. We needed a vision. What we decided was we wanted an event that everyone felt a part of. How much money and time had we spent at these many weddings only to glimpse the bride and groom from afar, greet them briefly in the receiving line before popping back on a plane? Was there a way, we wondered, to make the wedding be an event for everyone?

View from Mt. Lemmon, AZ

The first time we planned the wedding, we were living in the desert of Tucson and wanted our guests to experience the beauty of that landscape. It would have been a spectacular if not exhausting day. The nuptials were to take place in the early morning hours at Windy Point atop Mount Lemmon amongst the pines and smooth rocks, looking out over the sunrise and the vast desert floor. It would have been a casual affair. Guests would be invited to wear shorts, bring along their dogs, or even bike to the ceremony if they were so inclined. After a breakfast picnic and some afternoon rest, we'd convene far across town along the twisty desert roads through Gates Pass, amongst the saguaro and prickly pear, to the Sonoran Desert Museum. http://www.desertmuseum.org/ We'd celebrate to the sounds of Spanish guitar and dine on the exquisite cuisine of the Ironwood Terrace while we listened to the calls of the coyotes in the distance and watched the sun go down.

Alas, this plan was not to be. Just a few months before the invitations (featuring, of course, a photograph of a heart-shaped cactus), my now husband's grand Canadian job offer fell into our laps. After much panic, chaos, and excitement, we pulled up stakes on our desert wedding, and decided to wait.

Sabino Canyon, AZ

Winter Magic

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 22:31:00 +0000

Sometimes the universe gives you gifts. Mine came in the form of a magical winter night. For three days I was snowbound in our third-floor condominium. My husband was away at a conference in the States , so I was left to watch the snowfall with my three mesmerized cats. These were Arizona girls and not at all familiar with the white sparkling powder covering their world. Accustomed to daily sunbaths on the balcony, they ventured confidently outside one of these snowy mornings, stepping gingerly along the small swath of porch least drifted upon. Cricket shook one paw at a time, frantically trying to somehow remove the cold. All three were wide-eyed and puzzled. They didn't last long. The windchill was -25 Fahrenheit.

I didn't mind being snowed in. The pantry was full, the heater pleasantly ticked away, and the house was lit with that clean white light that only comes from sunbeams bouncing on snow. The only sounds not dampened by the the weather were the geese, arranging themselves in floating V's overhead.

The magic came on the first night of the storm. The streets and sidewalks, having been warmed by the recent Chinook winds, resisted the snowfall, and for a few hours on that first evening, when the full moon peeked above the horizon, I had a clear path before me into the glowing white landscape. Tucked at the base of the coulees at the edge of the Oldman River are the rolling grassy knolls of the golf course on which we live. In winter, golf carts are locked away and the land becomes uninterrupted slopes of white, dotted here and there by simple tracks of deer and jackrabbit.

It was unfailingly beautiful, but on this night, as I mentioned, it was magic. Walking along the river, stark bare trees silhouetted by the moonlight, I had the strangest sense of having slipped into an Ansel Adams photograph--black and white, silent and haunting, stillness captured. Hundreds of geese cawed as they bobbed amongst the floating ice in the river. A gaggle, they'd be called, but I'd prefer words used for other flocks--"a bellowing", perhaps, for the sounds or a "drift" for their bobbing bodies. Even more fitting, "a convocation" or "exaltation" for the prayer and joy they invited in me.

This was a short-lived span of peaceful days amongst months of long and hard hours of work and bouts of loneliness. I hold them like smooth stones in my hand, treasures to comfort me on the darkest days. I do not see ravens here, nor swans, but on the afternoons when the sky darkens early and I trudge up the stairs after another long day, I think of the words used for flocks of these birds, an "unkindness," a "lamentation," and I imagine the sky swirling with them, my loneliness and heavy thoughts manifesting themselves in avian forms above me.

A Thanksgiving in Canada

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 05:42:00 +0000

Thanksgiving came and went yesterday with not much fanfare. I loped in from work in time for a nap before I commenced what has become a daily grind of marking papers and lesson planning in the evening. My husband arrived not much later, equally tired, and we sat down for an unremarkable dinner that punctuated our loneliness on a day we both treasure as one filled with feasts, family and friends. Last year we hosted 15 in our bright and airy home in Tucson, Arizona. The long table, dressed in crisp white linens was decorated with tall bright bougainvillea blooms from the yard. Some guests took their cocktails out on the back patio, where the year before it was warm enough to dine. The kitchen was crammed with guests arriving with steaming dishes or people just enjoying the familiar scents of our childhood holidays.

Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October, and while it's similar--grocery store shelves brim with ingredients for cookies and pies, hams and turkeys--it's not the weighty holiday it is in the States. It's a brief pause in the week to enjoy one's families, but it's back to work on Friday, turkey sandwiches in hand.

We just couldn't bring ourselves to celebrate the harvest season before Halloween even rolled around. It was too much of a reminder that home was far away.

We made up for our missed holiday, though, with a belated celebration of gathered expatriates. While it wasn't quite the same spending Thanksgiving with coworkers we've barely gotten to know, I think we were all grateful for a slice of home in the form of green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and cranberry relish.

Getting Schooled Canadian Style

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 17:32:00 +0000

It's a Sunday morning in mid-September. The weather is so grand that even though it's morning, the windows and doors are open and the husband, cats and I take our breakfast on the balcony. Two Canadian flags wave gently on this rare day without high winds. I take this moment to soak in the quiet and the sun. For the first time in weeks I feel refreshed.

School started two weeks ago, and I'm in the throes of navigating a new school. This year there's the added bonus of learning the secret inner workings of the Canadian educational system.. How different can it be, you ask? On the surface, it looks like any other high school, terrified and underdeveloped freshmen (oh, and they don't call them freshmen--they're grade 9's) staring frantically at their schedules in overcrowded halls. Couples groping each other in dark corners. The loud hum of laughter and talk, the click of chalk on a chalkboard.

The differences are subtle. I began the first day of school, as I always do, talking through the syllabus, explaining the in's and out's of surviving my class. Mid-way through, a tiny boy in the back raises his hand and asks, "What are points? Is that like marks?" Oh dear, I think. I've got to master this Canadian vernacular. Evidently "marks" are the same as points, but they are also "grades." No one says grades around here. Teachers spend the weekend "marking," and mid-term "marks" are due in October. I'm an old dog, and this is a new trick, but I'm working on it. I still say "points," but bless their hearts, they usually don't say a word.

In about hour eleven of one of my many twelve hour days these last two weeks, I make another startling discovery. In an attempt to discern exactly where my students are in terms of skills and abilities, something I always do at the beginning of the year, I'm researching students' previous English grades. To my great surprise and alarm, I find the majority of my students have been earning grades in the 50th and 60th percent range since middle school. I'll confess that my first assumption was that Canadians were just as relaxed about their educational standards as they were about everything else, but really? I shared this with my husband, and we both shook our heads at what seemed a blatant example of social promotion gone wild.

I'm an ignorant American. I'll just admit that now. Turns out the Canadian grading system is COMPLETELY different from the American system. A fifty percent in a course is passing. Really, it's the equivalent of a C-. Sixty percent--a respectable C. When I was corrected by an empathetic coworker, she politely told me, "Canadians don't have those inflated grades like they do in the States." You go passing out eighty percents around here, and it's DISASTER." DISASTER?
Point taken. This was the first of many moments as the American outsider.

The first back-to-school assembly brought another such outsider moment as the packed gymnasium stood for the Canadian national anthem. The room literally reverberated with voices in absolute harmony as they passionately joined in "O' Canada." Lining the walls were vibrant flags of the provinces flanking the red maple leaf. I've rarely felt more moved. Canadians love their country. It permeates everything.

Even though my (sometimes painful, always awkward and interesting) assimilation into the Canadian educational system continues, I also feel very much at home. Canadians are nothing if not welcoming and polite. Even my misbehaviors in class do so in an ever-so-slightly less offensive way. My grade 11 students, a rather cynical and snarky bunch, are unfailingly sweet. "She can call us Seniors if she wants to. Shut up!" one of them announces. "You guys know what she means by 'points.' It's not a big deal what she calls them," another one defends. After yanking a pair of boys into the hallway after asking them to quiet down and listen for the fifth time, I start to launch into a lecture about their wrongdoings when one interrupted me: "We need to just shut our traps, hey?" "No worries," the other one assures. O' Canada.

The polite and welcoming Canadians aren't above a little rib-poking when it comes to my home country, though. When a guest speaker from California began his motivational address during our back-to-school assembly, he joked that he was an American like none they'd ever met or would ever meet again. "I know you aren't going to believe this," he said, "but I don't know everything." The crowd of teachers clapped and erupted in laughter.

My neighboring teacher tells me her kids always ask who that new teacher is next door who they can hear through the thick walls. "Oh, she's an American," she tells them, and I imagine them all nodding.

It's okay. I feel it's almost my duty to endure the ribbing for my fellow ethnocentric countrymen. We sort of deserve it.

The Curious Case of the Duotang and the Washroom

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 21:20:00 +0000

I spent eight years studying French, four delightful years with the stern but wonderful Mme Sunderland learning to have strange and stilted conversations we'd never use and never forget. "Aie! La moustique a me pique!" We shyly sang along with her as we learned beautiful Christmas songs. We'll never use those either, but I wouldn't trade those lessons for anything. College French was much more serious but equally delightful. While I drove my poor professor crazy by my constant gazing out of the tall open windows in old Jewell Hall, I was an enthusiastic conversationalist who often nudged my sleepy classmates into discussions about whatever French novel we were reading. I became a master of French vocabulary, filing away each new word after rolling its new sounds in my mouth like a marble. I may not have been the most gifted at proper syntax, but my vocabulary was superb! But once those eight years of French language and literature had ended, I never expected to be back in the classroom again learning those lists of new words and trotting them out in stilted practice conversations.

I find myself back in the classroom, now at the front of the class as the teacher, but still rolling around new words and finding ways to trot them out and show my skill. Who knew Canadians spoke a foreign language? Almost daily, I encounter a new word and never fail to be surprised by how foreign it feels. Here I am in a place that looks an smells like an old high school in the rural American Midwest, but I am constantly reminded that I'm in a completely different world. Bathrooms are "washrooms." I've made the mistake of asking for a "restroom" and been sent on a confusing goose chase to a "restauRANT."

Students earn "marks" not grades, and instead of taking a test, they "write a test" or "sit for exams." My poor students had to adjust to their teacher's strange references to "points" and "grades."

Folders with brads in them to hold papers in place are referred to as "duotangs." This particularly exotic marble of a word still delights me. I've given up on referring to them as "folders" to avoid the puzzled look from my freshmen (called grade 9's by everyone but me).

The spelling differences, while expected, still take some getting used to. Thankfully, my reliable Canadian spell checker just discreetly changes my spelling as I type, saving me from sticking out as an American sore thumb as I communicate with parents or write tests for my students.

Seniors, or "grade twelves" become "graduands" at the end of the year (God willing) and go on to either college or university, which are not interchangeable terms. On the day of graduation, they'll line up "side by each" to receive their diplomas.

On the whole, these differences are refreshing, placing me on the outside of "my own" language and reminding me that American English is actually not what is spoken by others around the world, that we Yankees are not the norm we like to think we are.

You Eat What?

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 01:56:00 +0000

Okay, don't get me wrong. I'm smitten with Canada in many ways, but come on, Cannucks, what's up with the grocery stores?

I was so relieved to find a familiar store just down the street from me. When everything seemed so unfamiliar and new, a small reminder of home was a breath of fresh air. (I know--I didn't move to rural China. It's not like I'm really suffering here, so I promise to keep my whining mostly in check, and I won't expect you to feel any kind of sympathy for me.)

Turns out, though, that I wasn't in Tucson anymore, and this was no American Safeway.

I go to get my cart upon this first visit to my friendly neighborhood Canadian grocery store only to find said cart locked to a long chain of others. Is there a secret password? Do I have to do a Canadian handshake or hum "O' Canada" to prove my worthiness? I wait long enough to watch a veteran shopper pop a coin in a little slot on the handle. Okay. We pay for our carts here. After digging through my coin purse, dropping cards and cash in the process, I try various coins until I find one that fits--a quarter! A loonie, they call it, or is it a toonie? I can't seem to keep them straight. Alright then.

I then begin making my way around the perimeter of the store, stopping for fruit and vegetables. In the midst of putting a head of lettuce in my cart, I notice the sign: "Green Leaf Lettuce--Product of the U.S." I figure this is early summer, perhaps Canadians have a later growing season; maybe this is just an exception. Item after item, though, I find the same, all imported from the U.S. and all expensive. It's puzzling. Here I am, surrounded by lush farmland in a province known for its farming. Why are these items being imported?

We would later learn the trick to locally grown produce--just shop the farmer's market. The Hutterites will gladly sell you their shiny fresh chard and glowing orbs of onion. . . for a price.

Rolling along down the dairy aisle, I scan for cream cheese and am shocked and horrified to find the strangest flavors--dill pickle, ketchup? Really? The chip aisle was equally foreign. It is here amongst these odd-flavored junk foods that I realize all the product labels are in French. This is not a terrible problem. I took eight years of French, and enough scraps of my education have remained to decipher basic phrases--"Frites Ébouriffés!" "Gras Réduit!"
--but aisle after aisle reveals the same story--French labels proudly displayed. Has Quebec secretly taken over the Commonwealth? Have they agreed to postpone their rebellion as long as the Canadian grocers accept "French First!" as their motto? It is all very suspicious.

Having partially recovered from my disappointment at not finding my favorite comfort foods, I head straight for the alcohol. Up and down the aisles I go, seeking comfort in a cheap bottle of Shiraz. Nothing. No beer, no wine, no hard stuff. I'm bereft. Fearing I've somehow moved to the Canadian version of Provo, Utah, I panic and tug the sleeve of a wide-eyed employee. "Oh, that's a bummer, hey? You've got to go to the liquor stores to buy those items. Sore-y!"

I'll spare you the tale of the wine shopping experience. A dollar for a cart? Twelve dollars a bottle for cheap wine? Where is Trader Joe's? Where is Two Buck Chuck? Okay. Okay. I promised not to whine.

Turns out I get my 25 cents back for the cart. My husband, the ever-observant neuroscientist, marvels at the "amazingly effective example of human engineering." One lousy quarter will motivate the laziest of shoppers to return their carts through rain and sleet and Chinook winds. He's right. I dutifully schlep my cart back to its home to retrieve my reward.

Of course we're managing just fine. We're certainly not starving. I just feel a little twinge of sadness without the comforts of home.

Ah, Your Lovely Voices

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 17:46:00 +0000

I'm fascinated by accents. I savor the nuances in the way people speak, the pronunciations, the colloquialisms, the cadences. My friends will tell you that I tease them relentlessly--Rachel and Jeanie Bean from Back East with their nasal tones and accentuated consonants, Larissa with her drawn out and dozy Southern vowels, but really I'm charmed.

Canadians are equally charming to me. I'm new enough here not to be able to pair their accents with their region, but there's a heavy Scottish flavor in many of them that I'm dying to trace.

All of them have a lovely way of lengthening and rounding out their words--"Oohhhh, yaaaah, fur surrre." And rather than the ubiquitous American "huh?" they'll say, "sorry!" (which comes out at "sore-y") instead. Wonderful.

Upon my first visit to Canada, I arrived hoping to hear the stereotypical "aboot" instead of "about" and lots of "eh's" sprinkled at the ends of their sentences. To my surprise and delight (at least here in Alberta), it's actually "a-boat" that they say, and I hear many more "hey's" than "eh's".

At first the "hey's" reminded me of my teenage American students (girls, always) whose every sentence ended with "ya know?" as a way of gaining acceptance from their listeners. I was wrong about the Canadians, though. It's a by-product of their utter likeability, a courteousness woven in the culture, I now think, a way of connecting with you in conversation: "Oh, the health care system does take a bit of getting used to, hey?"

Perhaps it's just that I live in a small town in Canada, and what I'm experiencing is simply the more neighborliness of rural life. After all, I grew up in rural Missouri, and it was much the same--conversations were a chance for you to show graciousness. I'd like to think, though, that Canadian culture in general is what's reflected in their speech, for every time one of them says to me, "Oh, no worries!" or "Oh, right! Fur sure!" I feel a little more welcome here.

I'll start here. It's August and I'm happy.

noreply@blogger.com (Catherine Euston) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 19:31:00 +0000

My god. I wake up every morning (okay, early afternoon, if I'm being honest) and continue to be stunned by the beautiful weather. Up on our third floor condo, we have a clear view of the Oldman River, blue and sparkling as it lazes northward. Tucked at the bottom of a coulee, I'm surrounded by sloping grassy hills and valleys like nothing I've ever seen. I've never traveled to the countryside of Ireland, but when I dream of it, this is what it looks like.

It's high summer, which I'm delighted to find means highs from the upper 70's to low 80's most days. Coming from Tucson, with months upon months of temperatures in excess of 100, this is unbelievably cool and lovely. Most of these summer afternoons have brought stunning skies. The clouds build and fluff themselves upward throughout the mid-day until late afternoon when the winds come, and the clouds turn impossible shades of slivers, blues and blacks, bringing a little shower to cool us off for the evening.

The cats are delighted. Coming from the desert, we were terrified to let them out. Coyotes howled from the arroyo just beyond our yard in Tucson. Scorpions lay under rocks, and this was no place for felines. Here, three flights up, they are able to sun themselves for hours on the balcony. Birds land and sing in the nearby trees, songs these cats have never heard before. Dogs and their owners walk below, and there is no end to the delight. Even when the storms come, the winds carry exotic scents and raindrops, all new and exciting for them.

I know this is all temporary. I can already sense autumn approaching. Just last weekend on a tour of the haunting Frank Slide Park in the foothills of the Rockies http://www.frankslide.com/info.html , I spotted yellow birch leaves dotting the creek bed. The cold is coming.