Every time, I first blink, then shrug.
Stereotypes rarely hit the mark. A handful of examples of outrageous or annoying behaviour from a few people, and suddenly that’s supposed to stand for an entire nation? Where does this idea even come from?
Probably from one single stereotype with a know-it-all complex.
The dreadful Canadian is a stereotype that hasn’t managed to get much of a spotlight in world history so far. Because the prevailing stereotypical view has always been that Canadians, as a whole or at their core, belong among the friendly and the kind.
They do, too.
In principle.
As a passionate nation of immigration and peace, niceties and friendliness are just part of the daily behaviour.
I mean, in what other country do complete strangers say “I love your shoes!” — just like that, in passing?
Well, exactly.
But now one of the politically most powerful men south of Canada has suggested that this image shouldn’t hold, neither as stereotype nor as reality.
Canadians, as a country including its people, are supposedly just plain nasty and dreadful.
What on earth changed about the Canucks that a stereotype suddenly turned into a verdict?
No more compliments.
No more holding doors at the mall.
No more friendliness.
Was the orange man in the White House onto something?
And if so, where did the man get his facts for the Oval Office?
Could us Canadians maybe have a look at those?
Oh no?
Then allow me, not just as a rookie Canadian, to withhold my faith both in this stereotype and in the man himself.
My own experience with the Canadian people and its citizens looks rather opposite.
Ha!
After all, I’ve been “studying” the Canadian soul for forty-six years.
Ever since I first set my soles on the ground in Québec in July 1980, I’ve had plenty of encounters made in Canada. Over time, friendships have grown that have held up to this day.
Of course there are a few things I don’t appreciate about Canada. It would be strange if I liked absolutely everything. One of these “nasty things” is the Caesar.
No, not the Roman stereotype out of ancient Rome.
It’s that famous, typically Canadian drink that I don’t even want anywhere near me. I’ve had to apologize for this more than once, politely but firmly declining the offer: “Do you want a Caesar?”
Sorry.
While preparing my application for the Permanent Resident visa, one particular fear kept surfacing: that at the immigration office I’d be made to drink a Caesar on the spot and then prove my nonexistent talent as a hockey player.
OK, I’ll admit: there were a few more fears about failing immigration with bells and whistles. After all, I brought along a considerable number of years: Old man seeks homeland. On top of that, the requirements of Canadian immigration aren’t exactly easy to meet. Those dark clouds over the skies of Ontario kept catching up with me.
Spoiler: neither Caesar nor slapshot were ever required. Shame, really.
Oh yes, I do like hockey. But always from a seat in the stands.
What’s fascinating about the players on the ice is the transformation.
Before these men and women squeeze themselves into their padded gear, they’re the friendliest, most courteous people around. But the moment they’re gliding on the ice, things shift by a hundred degrees.
The players stop playing. They fight. And how.
After the game is before the game: the most courteous of people… you know the rest.
And what would the guy in stereo, in the White House, have to say about that?
What keeps fascinating me, living the Canadian life for real, is the sheer diversity.
I used to travel a lot, eager to understand foreign cultures and people better.
But now, here in Newmarket and the surrounding area, I no longer feel such an urge to travel the world. Because the world is already present here in Canada.
I, too, was once a newcomer — and I enjoyed achievements that still astonish me today. I remember well — because it’s burned into my memory — one particular email from Immigration.
The first paragraph read: “Congratulations! You are now a permanent resident (PR) of Canada!”
So this is the rhetoric of the ‘Nasty Canadians’?
Sounds more like a marriage proposal.
And here’s a little bouquet for my former hometown of Basel.
The Baslers, the Bebbis, spent sixty years preparing me for Canadian life.
Although Basel borders both Germany and France, we Baslers were never fenced in or hemmed in. A quick trip to Alsace or to Lörrach was an everyday thing.
Especially on Saturdays.
And it’s exactly that openness toward strangers that shaped me deeply.
Because strangers become people once you talk to them.
The foreignness fades, the person remains.
That was my lesson from Basel.
My conclusion?
Bebbi and Canuck are friendly, peaceful, welcoming-culture kind of people.
Full stop.
