Well, well, well… July 4^th seems as auspicious a day as any to try and restart this blog. I started it back in 20-aught-6 to chronicle my move from the US to Canada. So much personally and politically has happened since then (wowzers, is that an understatement).

In all honesty, I had forgotten I even had this blog. But I saw a meme on the socials the other day that jogged my memory. It said, “I don’t think the US deserves a birthday party this year.”

Sometimes I joke around that living in Canada these days is like living above a Meth Lab. Not that Canada doesn’t have its fair share of issues. It certainly does. It’s just that I feel like I am watching the decline of the country of my birth with a worry and sense of helplessness in the same way I might navigate a loved one with an active addiction; in this case, an addiction to white supremacy, Christian nationalism (are those two even different at this point?), late-stage capitalism, guns, heteronormativity and a death grip on the gender binary, oligarchy, and to so many other things that are bad for it.

I am going to try and make a concerted effort this time around to get this blog re-started, if for no other reason than for my own processing and therapeutic needs.

So, US, while it is indeed July 4^th, it would be disingenuous for me to say there is much “Happy” about it in 2023.

Times - they are a-changin'

Wow.... right so clearly it's been more than a few years since I've posted here. Honestly, I've been busy just living life: buying a house; burying my father and supporting my mom in finding her "new normal" without her husband of 40+ years; getting my Canadian citizenship (maybe that will be a blog post of its own some day); tending to my career; and *drum roll please* getting married (again, this might be another post about making that decision about where and when since we did it before the US Supreme Court decision striking down all the marriage equality barriers).

I had just about forgotten this blog I started waaaaaaay back in the day to chronicle what it was like to move from the US to Canada. I mean, I did the acculturation thing right? I now understand what kind of clothes to put on based on the temperature told to me in celcius. In my head, I totally have a mental idea of how far a kilometer is. I now get officially annoyed that all US money is green and you have to actually look at bill to see what denomination it is.

It's all good! Right?

Except these days it's not all good when it feels like the country of my birth is on fire running around flailing its arms instead of doing the ol' stop-drop-and-roll to put itself out.

So what's a New Yorker by birth, dual citizen by choice dyke about town to do? (well, besides religiously call her state senators - both Democrats- and her congressional rep - a RepubliKKKan.)

I guess one thing to do is start blogging again. But this time it's for reals. Not just to relate quirky cross border/cross cultural moments. There's too much at stake these days.

I'm not sure how this will all look. And I suppose to some degree I need to do this as much for me as for anyone else. Stay tuned for more...

Things I don't want to change being an American from NY who is living in Canada:

1) Saying, "mawl," "cawl," "cawfee," "tawk," etc.

2) Although my job title has been "counsellor" we all know that it's"counselor..." and "labor," "color" and "center."

3) The Giants rule! (though I have nothing against the Jets. Nothing likethe Yankees/Mets hate-on).

4) I'm 5'6" ish; not whatever in centimeters.

5) I prefer "Department of whatever" v. "The Ministry of whatever"... too Harry Potter or Monty Python otherwise... ahh yes, the Ministry of SillyWalks and Muggle Protectionism. Give me the good ol' DMV anyday.

6) Being able to buy alcohol at the grocery store along with my toiletpaper, tortilla chips, Windex and half pound of American cheese.

7) Not saying, "Sorry" every two minutes when I don't really mean it.

8) Knowing exactly when an election is going to happen.

9) Target stores.

Things I really like about being a New Yorker living in Canada:

1) Canadian beer.

2) Canadian swear words like "knob" and "tool."

3) Health care.

4) Equal rights as a queer (and these last two count really big for me).

5) Peameal bacon.

6) Real maple syrup.

7) Cool "coloured" money.

8) Not having to apologize for Canadian foreign policies as much as the American ones.

9) Canadian Tire stores.

Weight of the World - Ok, I know, I know, it's been a long time of nothing from me. But with the U.S. election being only 2 days away I felt like I should write something. A curious thing has been happening over the last month. It started out as an occasional thing but has really picked up over the last week. It seems as though various Canadian co-workers and friends have all virtually had the same 2 questions:

1) "Did you send your absentee ballot out yet?" and

2) "Did you vote correctly?"

The first few times this happened, I chuckled and heartily replied with an enthusiastic, "Yes!"

But, after the first two or three inquiries of this kind, I began to notice something rather unusal. None of the people asking me these questions were chuckling with me. Heck, they weren't even smiling. In fact, they were as serious as serious could get. It was then that it dawned on me. The hopes (and fears) of all these folks were resting on me, the person they knew had a shot at having some impact, no matter how small, on the U.S. election.

I can't help but wonder if U.S. citizens still living in the States understand to what degree the rest of the world is holding its collective breath. And more importanly, if they did, would that increase the chances of them voting for Obama?

Subway Series - Sorry I haven't been posting lately. I've been taking a creative writing class and that's been keeping me busy. At any rate, in the last few months, I've become quite obsessed with taking the subway. Here is a series of Haikus based on my daily journeys "riding the rocket" I did for my class.

His head bowed in peace;

Serenity emanates.

A snore wakes him up.




Air thick laden with

Coffee, curry, sweat and smoke.

So robust and alive.





Sounds from her headphones

Fill the silence between us.

So close yet so far.





Smooth, greasy hard pole

Once shiny dulled by grasping.

Who else has touched you?

FBI Records Check - To the person who sent me a comment about this, I tried to respond but it bounced back. You can run actual finger print card the form off from their website and take it with you to a local sheriff's office (bring 2 or 3 in case they mess one up). Once I sent mine in, I think it took 3-4 weeks.

I just looked on their website (the link is on this blog) and they were saying 16-18 weeks. If you use the cards you can print off from their website, it shaves time off. Otherwise, you have to send them a check, wait for them to send you the blank card, then you have to just turn around and send it back to them.

Good luck!!

Embar-jack-assing - A couple of weeks ago, after our get up and go got up and went, we decided to eat at a diner around the corner from us and let someone else do the cooking. A few minutes after we were seated, a woman sat down at the table next to us and told the server that she was waiting for a friend to arrive. Not long after that a white man who appeared to be in his 20's arrived.

The two greeted each other fondly, sat down and began the process of catching up. The two, particularly the man, were loud to the point where I kept loosing my train of thought while talking to my partner. However, I chalked it up to the fact that they hadn't seen each other in a while but were excited.

Then, when the server came over to take their order, it began... "I'll have a rootbeer," the man declared. "We only have it in bottles and not as a fountain drink and it's a dollar more. Is that ok?"

"No it's not. Why can't I get it as a fountain drink?"

"Well, because we only get rootbeer in bottles."

"So do I at least get free refills."

"Uhhhh, no sir. There are no free refills on bottled drinks or actually any drinks here."

"Well, I'm from the States and we get rootbeer as a fountain drink and we get free refills. This is not acceptable. I want to speak to the manager."

At this point, I'm shaking my head. This guy is like the poster-child for "The Ugly American." Shit, I mean really this not the restaurant at the top of the CN tower with $50+ bottles of wine. This is a burger joint where, even if you tried, you couldn't find a meal for over $8 CND.

So then it continues.

The manager, who knows me well since I eat lunch at this place just about every Tuesday, comes over.

"Is there a problem, sir."

"Yes, I'm from the U.S. and in the U.S. we don't have pay extra for rootbeer out of a bottle and we get free refills."

"Well, sir, Coca Cola, who distributes this kind of rootbeer does not distrubute it in syrup form to hook up to a fountain. It only comes to Canada in bottles. And I'm not sure if there are other places in Toronto that offer free refills but we don't offer them for any of our drinks here."

"This would never be acceptable in the U.S., NEVER!"

By now the man is almost shouting and everyone has stopped whatever they're doing and are staring over to our corner. My head is burried in my burger so as to make sure no one thinks I'm with this asshole. My God, we're talking about a beverage that, for all purposes, has absolutely no nutritional value!!! This guy was acting like he was being denied a life-saving blood transfusion.

The manager, who maintained his calm and his sense of hospitality to the end, finally stated, "I'll tell you what, sir, if it will making your dining experience here better, I will give you free refills on your bottle of rootbeer. Will that be acceptable?" The triumphant asshole agreed and my partner and I ate as fast as we could to escape the bad vibes that had filled our corner.

Before I left, I went up the manager. "Hey, it's not Tuesday! How are you?" he exclaimed.

"I'm fine. Look, I'm from the U.S. and I just want to say, we're not all like that. He's just an ass but some of us are polite and grateful for the service we receive."

"I know. No worries. Some folks think that everything should be just like it is in the States and can't set aside their ways to appreciate someone elses. But I know not all of you are like that."

Radio Back to Headquarters - This post doesn't have much to do with my immigration journey. However, on our recent trip down South I was so thoroughly amused by a trend in North America to give radio stations strange names, that I had to write about it. Back in the day, I can remember just identifying a station by its call letters. But, I guess with the advent of huge communications corporations buying out all the local markets, they're wanting to make life easier by using generic names to be used in syndication.

Anyway, here's a list of some of the names we heard driving from Canada to Florida and back again:

Jack FM

Wally FM

Steve

The Boss

The Lake

The River

The Beach

Sunny 103.whatever

Froggy

Big Dawg

The Shark

The Rooster

The Beat

Kiss FM

and my personal favorite... The Pickle

Southern Charm - My partner and I recently drove down (and back) to Florida to visit some family, have a holiday and get some scuba diving in. It's been years since I've been south of the Mason-Dixon other than one trip to Florida (which we flew to) to go to a lesbian resort in the Keys. So, I was a little anxious about how we'd be treated as a same-sex couple and with me not exactly being "girly."

I'll admit, I was preparing for the worst. We were, after all, driving through a part of the country where the only billboards that outnumber the roadside cross displays are for strip clubs and fireworks stores. And of course, the only radio stations available are country ones with people singing about losing or gaining back their lovers, dogs and trucks or Christian stations proclaiming the evils of homosexuality, feminism and the Democratic party.

Getting a hotel room our first night, though, set the tone for most of our travels in a way that caught me quite by surprise.

We didn't make any reservations ahead of time because we weren't sure how far we would get each day. So when we were told our first night on the road that the first place we tried had one room left, we were relieved. But, the desk clerk, who was as friendly as could be, asked us a question in a slow southern drawl that completely threw me off, "The one room we have left only has one bed in it. Is that alright with you girls?"

Huh? Is one bed ok? Ummm, yeah, one bed is preferred. In fact one bed is a requirement in my world!

The whole way down and back, we were consistently asked things like, "Did y'all want separate checks?" and "Is sharing a bed ok with y'all 'cuz we only have one room left?"

I was expecting nothing but harassment on this road trip but it turns out all there was was a very anti-climatic invisibility.

Or was it? It's been a week since we got back and I'm still trying to figure out if it was ignorance/obliviousness or just a form of Southern "politeness" which dictates that in the case of some social situation that feels awkward to you, you just ignore the obvious and label it as something else (like, "Oh, isn't that hairdo just lovely, it covers up that goiter so nicely.")

While it was nice to not have people harassing me to my face, I think I still prefer the native New York way of telling someone exactly what you think of them. And of course my absolute preference is the way I get treated here North-North of the Mason-Dixon: that I can be queer, visible and fully accepted!

Springing a leak - Despite all my efforts to maintain my reputation as "butch," most people know that I'm really a sensitive new age guy. It's not unusual that I get moved by things but every so often, I even catch myself off guard by something so ordinary.

This past week, the ordinary event involved my wallet. I went to grab my wallet to get something out, who knows, my bank card; a subway ticket. But, instead of finishing the task at hand, it hit me all at once. If I were thunked on the head and someone was going through my wallet to see who I was, they would have no idea that I'm from the U.S. There is no piece of i.d. left in my wallet to say anything other than I belong to Canada. In fact, except for my passport and a social security card that I haven't found since I hid it apparently too well when I moved, I have no U.S. identification left. You see, when I went to register for a driver's license and my car, they take all that stuff away. I have to admit, it was a little distressing at the counter when the woman took my NY driver's license and stuck it in a locked drawer.

So anyway, when this realization hit me, I found myself bawling. This was what I wanted, right? To live in Canada, to be with my partner in a place where I had health care and legal protections as a queer that most American queers could only hope for. So why was I snifflin' away like a kid who lost his blankie? Identity is a weird thing. I am who I am regardless of the card(s). But why did it feel like all of a sudden I was live without a net?

I don't have any answers to those questions yet but chatting with another ex-patriot/immigrant a few days later and explaining my breakdown to her, it seems like it's a normal reaction. She said she had almost the same emotional experience as me when they took her U.S. driver's license. She said she made herself feel better by digging up an old social security card and putting that in her wallet. Perhaps, this'll be the catalyst to push me to go through the last boxes of crap that made it over the border to find mine and do the same.

I was thinkin' that this whole "immigration" experience was wrapped up when I landed. What I'm realizing now is that while the "logistical" part is, the "emotional" transition is just beginning.