O America
It almost sums up the current state of things south of the border.
I switched schools in the middle of the fifth grade. I knew a few people at my new school, but not many. A day after I started this one young chap (who'd later become the kind of friend you wished you never had) started a rumour that I was American. Upon hearing this several other fellows, who were loosely allied as the fifth-grade toughs, decided that my being American was a good-enough reason to beat me up. They backed off when I swore up and down that I was, in fact, Canadian and answered some skill testing questions only a Canadian would know (always the capital of PEI).
To a certain extent, this is what being Canadian is all about: not being American, and quietly and pointlessly resenting things that are American. Sort of like the way you might resent a really successful high school classmate, but still hang around with him because he buys you drinks.
Even though our culture is becoming more and more intertwined with US culture, we cling to the little things: our beer is better, when you're really drunk you can at least tell a Canadian $50 from a $20, we killed in Olympic hockey (and still suspect that our women's team could beat the US men's team), the CanadArm, and we still like to think we know a lot about US geography while they know nothing about ours. (A confession: up until a year ago, I sort of thought New England was a state, abbreviation NE).
Well, whatever. I'm off to crack a Duff, light some fireworks and celebrate Independence Day.
