Before I begin this little tangent of thought, I must apologize and tell you that no, this post is not about a new dating site. You won't be able to connect with toque-wearing, back bacon eating, overly polite Canadian singles by reading this. No, this post is about my uncanny ability to meet other people with connections to Canada. But really--I don't even have to try. It just happens. All the time. My favorite bespectacled coworker I befriended last year, this guy I met who's in two of my classes this semester and almost has a mullet, it never seems to end. It's just weird. So here are a couple of the strangest anecdotes, starting with my own connection to Canada, in an effort to explain just how weird this is.
So, first of all, I don't even know if I can say that I'm Canadian. Technically, I'm not, but yet...I am. My national identity is a paradox. Both of my parents and all of my relatives were born and raised in Canada. Most of them still live there, too, but my parents moved down to the United States before they started their family and that is where I was born. So, if we're going to consider Canadian-ness a blood thing, I am a full-blooded, 100% Canadian woman. I could go up there and people would look at me and say, "Hey. She's Canadian." But then I'd flash them my passport and say "Nope. Born in the states, hosers." Technically, I am an American. But my heritage and family and the blood that flows through my veins is Canadian. So can I call myself a Canadian-American? Does anyone do that? Because other people get to hyphenate their cultures and backgrounds in front of the word American and, technically, I should be able to as well. Food for thought. I should really start telling people that I'm a first generation child of immigrants, or that my parents are from a foreign country or talk about how my mom finally became a citizen when I was like, 14. Maybe that would make me sound more interesting. But I digress. Growing up, my family and I went back to visit grandparents and aunts and uncles at least once a year, but even with those yearly visits, I've never actually lived there. Yet, for some reason, the people I grew up with loved to remind me of my Canadian connection, calling me "Canada" and asking me questions about polar bears and their "weird candy." On my basketball team in middle school when our coach told us we all had to give each other nicknames, I was awarded with "Canadian Bacon." I suppose I enjoyed that it made me different, and let's be honest--most junior high-aged kids would rather be associated with America's hat than with an embarrassing story of them having mustard all over their face or getting a hole ripped in their favorite Aeropostale t-shirt. But today, I truly am proud to claim my Canadian heritage as a part of myself. That was a really long-winded way to start this, but, as Avril Lavigne would say, it's complicated.
(Commence Anecdote-ing)
The night I first met the man who would become my husband, I found myself seated at a table in a pizza buffet surrounded by strangers. No, this was not a hostage situation--I was there because an acquaintance had repeatedly wanted me to meet this man, and I accepted her invitation on a whim to prove her wrong. When he was seated two seats away from me with a guy in between us, I realized that we'd probably never actually talk. Heck, I was barely talking to anyone at that table. But, somehow, someone brought up Canada, and I said something to the effect of "Oh! My whole family is from Canada!" and he turned to me and was like "I WAS BORN IN CANADA." And because of that we then started talking--the first of hundreds of wonderful conversations--with his friend still sitting between us, and I decided that I liked this person. I liked this person a lot. (We like to argue about who's more Canadian because while he was born there and has dual citizenship, his mom is American so he's technically only half Canadian, and even though I was born in America, I am 100% Canadian. I doubt we'll ever decide. But either way, our future children will be 3/4 Canadian so that's pretty great. Tangent finished.)
On the first day of school this semester, my professor took roll and called my maiden name, to which a wild-haired, wiry guy sitting in the back of the room responded. Before this moment, I had never met another person with my maiden name in my entire life, ever--besides the members of my family. Obviously I had to find out where this mysterious person came from and why he had my last name, because no one had my last name. So last week he happened to sit next to me, I started interrogating him, and we discovered that his grandfather is my grandfather's brother. We're second cousins. We have the same roots. And we're both studying English and taking the same class at the same university and I never knew he existed. This may not seem that strange to some, and he probably won't ever initiate conversation with me again (UPDATE: HE DIDN'T), but I can't stop thinking about it: this complete stranger and I share some of the same blood, the same heritage, the same family. We both know that small Canadian town our family has lived in for decades and we've both visited it many times. I recently did the temple work for my 6th great grandmother, who I now know is also his 6th great grandmother, and two weeks ago I would have walked by him on the street and never known how closely tied our ancestry is. It's amazing...and I don't yet know how to wrap my head around it. But it's amazing.
So yeah. Canada. Connections. You never know, folks.
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