Canadaâs lasting power.
Just how long it can last.
Two
A Canadian Isâ¦
IT IS OCTOBER 17, 2006. A cold rain is falling in a slant along Wellington Street, the lights from cars moving past Parliament Hill washing yellow down toward the parkway along the Ottawa River. It is nasty and miserable and those of us hurrying along the sidewalk are in danger of being splashed from the side as well as having our umbrellas ripped inside out from behind. We are heading this wretched night, heads bowed, collars tight to chin, to the National Library to hear a panel discussion on what, exactly, makes a Canadian.
True story.
Several months earlier, an enterprising young Rhodes scholar named Irvin Studin approached fifty Canadian writers, thinkers, business leaders, politicians, activists, academics, artists, andâobviously running a bit thin on contributorsâeven a few journalists and asked them to submit two-thousand-word essays beginning with the words âA Canadian is â¦â
No two answers were the same, as might be expected, and some didnât even answer at all, which Iâm tempted to suggest could be as profound an answer as some of those that were actually typed and delivered. It was a strange exercise: two thousand words not nearly enough, two thousand words way too much.
One thing âA Canadian is â¦,â however, is willing. As Stephen Leacock once wrote about a favourite character, âhe flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions.âLeacock, of course, was writing nearly a century ago. The horse ridden today by alarmists is the computer keyboard. And it goes in as many directions as there are fingers on the keys.
Iâm not quite sure why Studin included me in his survey, but I do know that the deadline attached to my contribution was outrageously tight, which would suggest the B or even C list, someone who can type fast subbing for a significant name that either dropped out or didnât deliver. And no money was offered, which almost always leads to the journalistâs return note beginning âMuch as I would love toâ¦.â
But the invitation was impossible to turn down. I found my brain riding madly off in all directions, asking the silly question while walking the dog, riding my bike, watching Hockey Night in Canada, and even trying to get to sleep at night. For someone whoâs never had trouble sleeping, this was disturbing indeed. I simply had no idea what the answer was.
In the end, the only way I could think of to complete that suggestive opening phrase was to go to the Statistics Canada website, look up the running census, and start off with âA Canadian is 32,146,547 different things altogetherâand counting.â¦â It seemed smart at the time. On reflection, it seemed silly. On rereading, it seemed passable. Unable to make up my mind and, being Canadian, I went with it.
Canadians, I sometimes think, do lead the world in one matter. Not hockey, not pulp production, not snow, not even potholes, but in picking through their own belly-button lint. For a people known for their resourcefulness, this can often seem a dreadful waste of oneâs most important resource: time.
Compulsive self-introspection, however, seems oddly and uniquely Canadian. Americans donât seem to do much of it, apart from issue-based magazines that occupy but a fraction of the shelf space devoted to celebrity, sports, and even pornography.
British author Jeremy Paxman says that those he studied in his 1998 book, The English: A Portrait of a People, âhave not devoted a lot of energy to discussing who they are.â He finds this most curious, since vanity is also a large part of the English makeup. At one point he quotes CecilRhodes, who ardently believed that the English just âhappen to be the best people in the world, with the highest ideals of decency and justice and liberty and peace.â
Just how long it can last.
Two
A Canadian Isâ¦
IT IS OCTOBER 17, 2006. A cold rain is falling in a slant along Wellington Street, the lights from cars moving past Parliament Hill washing yellow down toward the parkway along the Ottawa River. It is nasty and miserable and those of us hurrying along the sidewalk are in danger of being splashed from the side as well as having our umbrellas ripped inside out from behind. We are heading this wretched night, heads bowed, collars tight to chin, to the National Library to hear a panel discussion on what, exactly, makes a Canadian.
True story.
Several months earlier, an enterprising young Rhodes scholar named Irvin Studin approached fifty Canadian writers, thinkers, business leaders, politicians, activists, academics, artists, andâobviously running a bit thin on contributorsâeven a few journalists and asked them to submit two-thousand-word essays beginning with the words âA Canadian is â¦â
No two answers were the same, as might be expected, and some didnât even answer at all, which Iâm tempted to suggest could be as profound an answer as some of those that were actually typed and delivered. It was a strange exercise: two thousand words not nearly enough, two thousand words way too much.
One thing âA Canadian is â¦,â however, is willing. As Stephen Leacock once wrote about a favourite character, âhe flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions.âLeacock, of course, was writing nearly a century ago. The horse ridden today by alarmists is the computer keyboard. And it goes in as many directions as there are fingers on the keys.
Iâm not quite sure why Studin included me in his survey, but I do know that the deadline attached to my contribution was outrageously tight, which would suggest the B or even C list, someone who can type fast subbing for a significant name that either dropped out or didnât deliver. And no money was offered, which almost always leads to the journalistâs return note beginning âMuch as I would love toâ¦.â
But the invitation was impossible to turn down. I found my brain riding madly off in all directions, asking the silly question while walking the dog, riding my bike, watching Hockey Night in Canada, and even trying to get to sleep at night. For someone whoâs never had trouble sleeping, this was disturbing indeed. I simply had no idea what the answer was.
In the end, the only way I could think of to complete that suggestive opening phrase was to go to the Statistics Canada website, look up the running census, and start off with âA Canadian is 32,146,547 different things altogetherâand counting.â¦â It seemed smart at the time. On reflection, it seemed silly. On rereading, it seemed passable. Unable to make up my mind and, being Canadian, I went with it.
Canadians, I sometimes think, do lead the world in one matter. Not hockey, not pulp production, not snow, not even potholes, but in picking through their own belly-button lint. For a people known for their resourcefulness, this can often seem a dreadful waste of oneâs most important resource: time.
Compulsive self-introspection, however, seems oddly and uniquely Canadian. Americans donât seem to do much of it, apart from issue-based magazines that occupy but a fraction of the shelf space devoted to celebrity, sports, and even pornography.
British author Jeremy Paxman says that those he studied in his 1998 book, The English: A Portrait of a People, âhave not devoted a lot of energy to discussing who they are.â He finds this most curious, since vanity is also a large part of the English makeup. At one point he quotes CecilRhodes, who ardently believed that the English just âhappen to be the best people in the world, with the highest ideals of decency and justice and liberty and peace.â
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