City Of God 35

Canadians are a joyless lot. Not all of us, but a lot of Canadians, perhaps most of them seem to lack a sense of humour. I have Canadian and Latino friends, in more or less equal numbers. There is plenty of diversity among both populations: some are more outgoing, others more introverted, some are quite happy and joyous, others more solemn. But I have noticed one thing in particular. With my Latino friends I can laugh. There is always, regardless of how serious the conversation, or how difficult we might be finding life, occasion to smile, to laugh, to make jokes about things. This feature is strangely lacking among my Canadian friends. One of my Latino friends has told me that my personality is more Latino than Canadian. I believe this. Even though I was born and raised in Canada, as I became fluent in Spanish, my accent sounded not like Canadian English, but Brazilian Portuguese! Go figure! This isn't to say that Canadians can't be funny or don't have any sense of humour at all. We do, but we are very restrained and inhibited, and when we are being funny we seem almost embarrassed about it. Unless we've had a few beer. And smoked a joint or two. But I don't use alcohol, nor other drugs, but I have a natural proclivity for joy. Unlike many Canadians. I seem to be the only person I know who actually believes that life is a gift. Everyone else talks about it as a struggle, a game, a battle, or whatever. Gratitude is still for many a very strange and alien concept. But without gratitude, there is no humility, and without humility there is no joy, and without joy, there is no love and without love there is no peace. I wonder if that is why the mindlessness (oops, mindfulness) industry has so taken off with yoga and meditation teachers chanting om all the way to the bank. While neurotic and angst-ridden white folk (though some are brown or black, but this kind of uniquely Canadian, and humourless, self-hatred is still very much the purview of predominantly Caucasian Canadians of predominantly British heritage, which is also to say, pity us. Please!) are embarking eternally on this elusive quest for perfection, there will always be various hucksters from Gwyneth Paltrow to your favourite guru to fill in the void and cash in on your insecurities and self-hatred. Canadians are notorious self-haters, it seems. Yes, the self-defecating Canadian, but who knew? Step on our feet and we will apologize. Every time. I don't know why I have never personally subscribed to this nonsense. Perhaps it just isn't in my DNA. I don't even like hockey (hate it, actually). But maybe I don't need that kind of outlet for expressing my inner rage and aggression, since, unlike most Canadians, I am neither afraid, nor embarrassed, about having emotions. I don't need safe, socially-sanctioned outlets. I was telling my priest over coffee yesterday that the only thing that is Canadian about me is my passport. I have never identified with this country, and have, since childhood, been at least peripherally aware that Canada is a polite and lovely fiction, that this country has been built on stolen land. That if we are not aboriginal people, then we must be squatters. I don't feel particularly bad about this, just disengaged with this polite fiction called Canada. It could be that I have always been passionate about truth, about living authentically, without copying or emulating others, not even my most cherished mentors but to accept their presence in my life as keys that could open for me new doors that I need to pass through. Keys to the doors that open onto the City of God.