First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
This July I was paddling off the coast of Victoria delighting in the long evening, calm waters and dreamy vistas. Scenes of Canadians in summer doing what they do best: furiously recreating until the last light. Boating, fishing, swimming, tossing sticks to their dogs on the beach. And, of course, shoreline construction complete with tugboat, barge, dump trucks and backhoe. I glided between kelp fronds at the edge of water and air, in Canadian waters that become American across the Haro Strait.
As an American married to a Canadian I have had the privilege of immersing in Canadian life and spending parts of summers north of the border. We stream CBC Radio while making coffee and while making dinner. We wear tuques (though not often in Arizona, where we live). We order our tea from Murchie’s and wish we had Nanaimo bars. I understood most of the references in the Mike Myers and Mark Carney election campaign video. But this July, unlike the last one, the presence of the border and my awareness of what side I was on felt different.
I’m just one of many Americans who did not vote for the stress that has been added to our lives. I’ve learned that elections have consequences. As a school-based physical therapist in Tucson, Ariz., I am already witnessing the deportations and worrying about cuts to education and Medicaid. Friends have lost government jobs and funding. I try not to talk about the elephant in the room every time I visit with Canadian friends, but what is happening in America is affecting everyone on some level and inevitably the topic comes up. It is all happening, all at once.
Moving to a small town taught me about the solace of silence
As my partner and I went from Squamish to Whistler, Ladner and Vancouver Island, I was often reminded of Canadian summers past while contemplating more seriously the prospect of a Canadian future. I used to dream about living in Canada but had accepted and appreciated being “Canada-adjacent.” I do not want to leave my friends, community and the landscapes of Southern Arizona and Sonora.
This Canada Day, while visiting family in Washington, I walked along the sand on Dungeness Spit. I could see tall buildings in Victoria with my binoculars. I felt a rise of pride and promise on that distant shore, a patriotism to which I had no claim. Two weeks later on Vancouver Island, I looked back at the islands and mountains of the U.S. They were as beautiful as ever and I felt further disoriented by the day, unsure where I belonged.
Friends, even strangers – such as a woman I met while birding beside a river in Sonora – tell me how lucky I am to have a Canadian husband and that I should move to Canada. An Argentinian acquaintance warned me to go now while I can, before it is too late. Some Americans have been public about their leave-taking. Others talk about what line would have to be crossed before they go. Still others talk about how important it is to stay and help save the country and democracy. Others, many others, don’t talk about any of these things. Some think everything is just fine.
For Acadians, rappie pie is a family affair
I agree that I am lucky to even have the possibility of choosing where to live. I also know that obtaining residency is a long and complex process and do not presume I’ll automatically be granted this privilege. If I were 25 or 65 maybe this choice would seem clearer; however, I’m in the middle of life and not eager to relocate or reinvent. I love Canada. It is a love that has grown for over a decade, built upon many small but significant differences such as the first time a truck abruptly stopped to let me cross the street because I approached a crosswalk. In what other country could you go mountain biking and stop after the ride for a wine tasting paired with poutine?
When this summer’s Canada trip came to an end I sat on a bench taking in the last views of Victoria Harbor as the ferry headed to Port Angeles, Wash. The gray skies matched my mood. A woman in her 80s started telling me about her life in rural Washington. How she doesn’t recognize her country anymore and feels isolated in her Republican-majority community but keeps her politics to herself because relationships are more important. She shared her worries and I listened and nodded. Canada receded as she talked and I wished I could stay in the in-between space a little longer, to defer such a big decision, to hope it made itself.
Rebekah Doyle lives in Tucson, Ariz.
