By Jonah Prousky
“Which state are you from?”
This is a question I’ve encountered several times since moving to London a couple weeks ago. In fact, it’s a question that all Canadians sometimes face while travelling.
It’s a fair question. Canada’s population is about a tenth of the size of America’s. So if you meet someone who looks and sounds like me, chances are he is indeed American.
It’s the follow up question I struggle with.
“Oh, so what’s Canada like?”
It should be a simple question to answer. Yet, it’s not. What it means to be Canadian, to describe the soul and spirit of Canadian people, has always been elusive. Marshall Mcluhan once said that, “Canada is the only country in the world that knows how to live without an identity.”
There are a couple of reasons for this. Canada, unlike, say, Great Britain, is a relatively new idea. Canada’s national identity has simply had less time to stew.
What’s more, Canada is incredibly diverse. Toronto, my home, is in fact the most multicultural city in the world. As such, Canada is often referred to as a cultural mosaic, in stark contrast to America’s cultural melting pot. In America, it’s e pluribus unum, out of many, one. In Canada it feels more like, out of many, many.
London is an interesting backdrop on which to consider Canada’s identity. Last week, for instance, I stumbled upon Canada House, home to the High Commission of Canada, while visiting the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. I felt that this building revealed something about Canada’s identity. Made of Portland stone, the building’s weighty walls give it an air of dignity. Yet, like the country itself, Canada House is unassuming, and certainly less ornate than, say, Australia House down the road.
It’s that unassuming, subdued quality that makes the building distinctly Canadian. But why?
Perhaps it’s because Canada’s identity exists in the shadow of the United States, whose culture, economy, and military have always been larger and louder than ours. Any attempt to define Canada along these lines almost requires an invocation of America as a measuring stick.
Hence, when asked by classmates what it’s like to live in Canada, this is often the best I can come up with.
“Most of Canada is kind of like living in the Midwest, unless you’re in Toronto, in which case it’s a little more like New York, or in Calgary, where it’s a little more like Texas, or in Montreal, which is distinctly un-American and feels vaguely European.”
This is the effect of living on top of a giant. In a speech delivered to the Washington Press Club in 1969, then Prime Minister of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, described this phenomenon aptly.
“Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt.”
Sure, some parts of Canada’s identity are untethered to the beast we live above. But, most of the examples that come to mind border on gimmick. Take a trip to London’s own Canada-themed pub, the Maple Leaf, in Covent Garden, and you’ll see what I mean. Molson, for example, which brands itself as Canada’s beer, is for me, barely palatable. Poutine is tasty, especially under the influence, but most Canadians hardly ever eat it.
It’s probably much easier to define the uniqueness of Canada by its problems.
The country’s settlers, for example, were uniquely cruel to the indigenous people – especially children – they found. This summer, wildfires were uniquely devastating in Canada, scorching an estimated 15.3 million hectares of land – an area larger than the landmass of England. Oh, and the Toronto Maple Leafs are a uniquely unsuccessful team, having not won a Stanley Cup in 56 years, despite having one of the most talented rosters in the NHL.
But what is it about Canada that is worth celebrating? Why do some English people seem delighted when I tell them I am in fact not American, but Canadian?
The Editorial Board at the Globe and Mail grappled with this question in their July 1st issue this year, on the anniversary of Canadian independence in 1867.
“It starts with this country’s unofficial slogan of peace, order and good government,” writes the Editorial Board. It continues, “it captures the essence of Canada: a conscious break with the radicalism of the American Revolution, and the bloodiness of that country’s civil war.”
It’s the least exciting answer that Canada’s top journalists could have come up with. But it’s true. Canada is peace, order and good government, and I think the world knows this about Canada, even if only in a subconscious way.
Compared to the U.S., Canada has claimed far fewer global military casualties. It has observed only a fraction of the civil unrest. And for the most part, our country’s politicians tend toward centrism, at least relative to our neighbours south of the border.
Since arriving in London, the question of what it means to be Canadian has become a constant companion, a puzzle I find myself piecing together each time I’m asked, “so, what’s Canada like?” Peace, order and good government is an answer I can live with. Even if, at times, it’s merely aspirational.
