notes of thanksgiving

If you allow yourself to fantasize about your ideal country,  I bet you'll imagine one that's defended by nature.  Perhaps you'll think of a mountain valley walled off from invaders and influence: Alpine Switzerland or Bhutan or the Shangri-la of legend.  Or maybe it will be an island-state, like the England of Shakespeare's John of Gaunt:

This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
                            --- Richard II, ii.1

Today people fantasize about Iceland or New Zealand or Tahiti in search of that same security, that sense (however illusory) that in such a place, the complexity and danger of the world is far away.

Secure in such boundaries, whether mountain or water, you can spin out the culture and values of your ideal country with ease.  Culture will change, of course, but slowly enough, and around-the-edges enough, that it will still be your ideal country's culture.   

But what if you didn't have natural boundaries?  What if your country was a few people spread across a vast distance?  What if your border was a long, straight imaginary line, so that your people lived closer to foreigners than to each other?  Then, inventing your ideal country would be like trying to paint on a surface where paint turns to droplets and rolls away, while droplets from other paintings are rolling in.  You couldn't even begin. 

Such is the challenge of imagining Canada.  It's hopeless, but Canada is here regardless.  And because the harvest is earlier here, today is Canada's Thanksgiving.

Thanks for the worst kind of border, impossible to defend, easier to cross than to work within.  Thanks for the 49th Parallel, a mathematical thread stretched east-west where everything else -- mountains, rivers, energy infrastructure -- runs north-south.  Thanks for the 141st Meridian, between the Yukon and Alaska, which runs north-south where everything else runs east-west.  Thanks for a border that is not only unnatural, but perpendicular to nature.

Thanks, as a result, for the odd sensation that the two sides of the border are the same place in every way that matters:  the same high valley, the same alpine plateau, the same cliff-face, the same coastal boglands, the same rainforest, the same Point Roberts peninsula.  And the same culture:  the same dying prairie towns, the same wild west, the same rainy urban cappucinos, even the same paleo-Mormon polygamists.  Thanks for a border that you can hike across by accident, high in the mountains, often without a sign.   

Thanks for the arctic pressure that compresses the population against the border, so that the nation is the border, as arbitrary as the border itself.  Thanks for the national intellectuals who worry about this for us, e.g. for John Ralston Saul, who can begin a chapter with the words:  "The natural flow of Canada is east-west."  Thanks for the perfect emptiness of the word "natural" in this sentence, the creative archeology of it, as arbitrary as the 49th Parallel itself.

Thanks, back east, for the cradle of Canada, the one place where cities can get back from the border and invent unbordered selves.  Thanks that this center is also the center of the great division, the "two solitudes" of French and English.  Thanks that however often a political leader declares that "the time of the two solitudes ... is past," the twoness will linger as long as there are two languages, and will multiply as Punjabi and Cantonese and many others find new and honored homes.  Thanks that in the last Parliamentary election, an electorate in Surrey, BC held a debate entirely in Punjabi.  Thanks for a century of practice at truly multilingual democracy, long before it was the fashion. 

Thanks, still, for the special status of the French language even in the furthest corners of Canada.  Thanks that a friend of mine is paid to produce French translations of the laws of the Yukon Territory.  Thanks that when Japanese- and Chinese-speaking focus groups in Vancouver were asked what languages other than English should be on the signs in Vancouver's new subway, French was their top priority. 

A special thanks for South Asia's superpower status among immigrant cultures.  Thanks to people who left home countries whose lowest temperatures are near Vancouver's highest, and who brought bright colors that erupt surreally against the northern grays.  Thanks for the clearwater simplicity of Sikh ethics, among the many spiritual traditions arriving on this wave.  Thanks for the fact that any national politician must not only speak at least two languages fluently, but must also look not-too-silly in the simple head-covering one wears to Sikh events. 

Thanks for the Arctic, the otherness that presses Canadians into the border, a frontier that a century of global warming will not close.  Thanks for the world's highest per-capita supply of barren arctic islands.  Thanks, as a result, for the almost tongue-in-cheek attitude that prevails over Hans Island, a rock near Greenland that is claimed by both Canada and Denmark.  Thanks for the Swiftian absurdity of this dispute, plainly evident to most Canadians.  Thanks for the polite editorials on both sides, suffused with such equanimity that the whole matter will probably be resolved with a game of chess, or the flip of a coin.

Boundless thanks, then, for the dying leaf, for the permanent autumn of Canadian patriotism.  Thanks for the way the flag, rippling in uneven breeze, can fold to suggest the shapes of a leaf further gone toward mulch, the leaf already part-decayed or stepped on.  Thanks for the red leaf painted on faces -- whether at hockey games or on Canada Day in midsummer -- a symbolic gesture of pride that is also a literal welcoming of decay:  the Fourth of July and Ash Wednesday rolled into one.  Thanks for all of the insecurity, mortification, and anxiety that can be spun from this image.  Thanks for the serenity that lives these contradictions.

Thanks for a country that didn't need the Buddhists to explain the "wisdom of insecurity," because it has known nothing else.

Finally, thanks for the big noisy neighbors, so big and so noisy that Canada is all but invisible to them.  When national identity becomes too vague, Canadians can always complain about the neighbors.  They can even say rude things about them, confident the neighbors will never hear.  Saying rude things is good exercise sometimes; perhaps it should be a holiday tradition. 

From Canada, and to Canada, happy Thanksgiving.

Comments

[dale]

Marvellous, wonderful post. Thank you, Jarrett.

What a poor thing life in these United States would be without the knowledge that there is an openness up north.

It means, among other things, that we might open someday too.

[Marja-Leena]

This is a wonderful Canadian Thanksgiving post, from an American yet! I appreciate it as a Canadian (an immigrant too), how you've voiced the many things that are Canada. I've been reading your blog with much interest since Dave introduced you to me upon your move here, and now thought I should at last say "hello" and "welcome" to our fair Vancouver!

[Peter]

I speak one language and I almost never think about Canada. Your post threatens at least the latter tenet of my Americanism. Well done.

[mary]

Wonderfully observed and written. Thank you.

[ae]

Fabulous, JW. This Murkan loves what little of Canada (on either coast) she's seen. Thanks.

[Tjilpi]

Over 20 years ago I heard the story of an English schoolteacher who, sick of Europe with its everpresent danger of nuclear war, took his young family to an island so far away that he was sure they would be safe.

He arrived at his new teaching job and his family to their new home.

The next day the Falklands War broke out.

[Dave]

Jarrett, I think you should celebrate your relocation with a new sidebar photo: specifically, one of you in "the simple head-covering one wears to Sikh events."

I especially enjoyed the ruminations on frontiers and borders. My geographer brother maintains that so many people in his profession tend toward anarchism simply because national borders so offend them.

[JW]

Thanks everyone for the comments!

Dave, I think that it's artificial borders that offend me. Natural borders (mountains and water) make perfect sense.

Of course, what offends me is something I need to go look at. So I'll be writing more on this issue, I expect.

[elsewhere]

Thanks for that, too and for dropping into my blog. I have nothing profound to say except that I see you are another cat-loving blogger!

[Laura Woodswalker]

You should be saying thanks for Global Warming. In another Century, northern/arctic Canada will be prime real estate!

[Gareth]

Canada is a place that I have only experienced through words and photographs, but even from this distance I can see that you have captured something wonderful in your writing.

Thank you

Gareth

[beth]

Just catching up here...this is a wonderful post and captures so much of the way I feel about my adopted country. I am very grateful for Canada this Thanksgiving!