It was 2016 and one of the wisest (and kindest) men of our town became a teacher.
And he didn’t even know it.
His name was Doug.
As a regular customer of Betty’s of Fort Frances, short talks with the late Doug Anderson soon turned into entire hours talking about local, regional, and national history.
By means of lengthy talks with Doug, I began to reflect on what Canada means to me.
I share this because recent times have indeed been interesting times.
Listening to good friends over dinner conversation, it is clear that ill-chosen remarks from the President and others to the south (notably remarks Canada as the “fifty-first state” and desires by some to acquire it economically) have brought forth similar sparks of reflection for others here in the north.
For some, it’s an acknowledgement of why our home is so special. For some, it’s sentiments of concern. For some, many express why our home has grown to be one of the hopes of the world – one that continues to grow, learn, strive, mature, and simultaneously stand in (and forever reach towards) a northern light that they know and feel everyday, but can’t describe when words fall kilometres short. For some, not so much. It truly comes down to the individual and one’s individual thought, opinion, and choice.
Regardless, in such interesting times, I think reflection is warranted, deserved, and true. I can relate.
Being raised for many years in the suburbs outside Minneapolis, Canadian history was far outside my reach. Talks with Doug (and others) spurred a desire to learn history, challenge my own perspectives, grow. I think he knew it as he often told me about history, local knowledge, family experiences, and often recommended literature. He understood my family’s complex and complicated relationship with Canadian history, but he unconditionally met this with an unspoken assurance to explore, venture deep, and not overlook seeing the gem of privilege and opportunity stood upon today.
Fuelled by our many talks, it was time to commit to learning. In July of 2016, I called the Hotel Indigo (currently the Metcalfe Inn) and made reservations for twelve months into the future. The operator wondered if I was crazy. I locked myself into being present for Canada 150 and for the next year, I immersed myself in (and forced myself to absorb) everything I could. Both triumphs and tragedies. Deep shadows and brilliant highlights. I fell asleep reading about the Charter, Laura Seacord, and Terry Fox. I ate dinner learning about the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords, Tommy Douglas, and the FLQ Crisis. I shared breakfast cereal with Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Sir Wilfred Laurier, Jack Layton, and Bob Rae (well… their authored works, at least). When I was under the weather, I marathoned Canada: A People’s History and when I was well, I marathoned the Rick Mercer Report.
Before I got on the plane to continue to learn what this all meant to me at 150 in Ottawa, again there was Doug behind the counter offering to silkscreen a one-of-a-kind, unique shirt for the trip because they had sold out. Because I had to travel to Thunder Bay, I said I couldn’t wait but his kindness was appreciated. Even when exiting the store to begin the drive, he seemed to appreciate me taking this journey of learning and discovery so seriously.
I wanted to learn and learn I did, more than I ever imagined. Special times of the country’s Renaissance in the 60’s and 70’s were both before my time, but four experiences from this trip sit deep in my heart to which I’m forever grateful.
Apart from the great artists (such as U2, Alessia Cara, Dean Brody, and Walk Off the Earth), my first poutine at Gainsbourg Bistro and Brasserie (to which I almost melted off the high chair T-1000 style), I found myself at the Notre Dame Cathedral Basilica. After spending time taking-in that beautiful ceiling, seeing occasional congregation people silently praying, and the incredible care and detail put into wooden carvings in that small world under that gorgeous roof, I finally understood why such places are so important. Even though one may not share the same faith, it is part of hope and light for many.
Making my way out of Parliament Hill towards Wellington Street following the fireworks, I stumbled upon a sight that I’ve held deeply tucked-away in my heart since. I knew it was special and profound, and I knew it was important not to let such a moment slip away. Dozens and dozens of people sitting around the Centennial Flame. Some standing. Individuals from more backgrounds and heritages than I could count or imagine. French, Indigenous, Chinese, English, Indian, Finnish. Many not speaking one another’s language. Quite possibly not knowing others’ names. Surely not knowing other’s histories. Or beliefs. Or politics. Nonetheless sitting together, enjoying each other’s company, embracing the moment and appreciating momentous smiles passed between each. Ensuring not to let this moment slip away, I took a photo. I was sure there was something to be learned in this moment.
After spending some time reflecting and overlooking the horizon resting beyond Gatineau from a small viewing spot next to the Chateau Laurier above the Rideau Canal, I made my way back to Wellington Street. To my surprise, everyone had gone home during that hour. Perhaps to beat the traffic. Perhaps to curl up under blankets en route to dream land after a day of celebration. The streets were empty. Occasionally, a car would pass. However, the only sounds I heard were my own footsteps in puddles from the gentle rain that came and went. Just the city and I, walking beside one another for kilometre after kilometre. Just Canada (via Ottawa) and I. Together we walked and together we cried. Visiting. Coming to terms and seeking understandings. Hours melted away. It was almost as if the profound silence revealed the spirits and energy of so many influential leaders of the best sort (some well-known, many not) who once made their way up and down those streets were still present and vibrant. Not in any supernatural sense (or maybe so), but their lingering passion and influence. As if the past and the present both coalesced and became one in a single place, we passed each other, walked beside one another, shared a moment and then moved on.
Walking down Sparks Street just hours before sunrise, I discovered many tall pillars stretching for blocks. On each side were photos, biographies, and letters of people from all over the world. Some born here with family arrived generations ago. Some Indigenous. Many newly immigrated. Their words were words of love, a gentle patriotism, and appreciation of many things this country offers, provides, and protects today. Their thoughts and expressions of joy as individuals were clear. Whether coming from war-torn countries, fleeing theocracies or autocracies, finding opportunities that were previously scarce, or navigating challenges between a home they love and historical legacies that impacted one’s family, there was a profound love. An inexhaustible love. An ember that wouldn’t go out. Couldn’t. Won’t.
As my plane touched down again in Thunder Bay, I felt changed. Different. Unable to step back within former frontiers of thought and conscience. My footsteps making their way down Scott Street did not belong to the perhaps naïve, perhaps critical, perhaps impressionable kid they had once long ago. Instead, they belonged to a man carrying personal lessons, a couple insights, and, perhaps not answers, but a desire to continue learning – and in turn, an inexhaustible love of my home.
Reflecting in these interesting times today, I realize that Doug was right and that the streets of Ottawa revealed something very important to me that still lives within me to this day:
I can only speak for myself, but there is something very special here in the north that is living, breathing, and luminous (albeit complex beyond the intent or scope of this column). Different to each person. A paradox where we are all individuals, but also individual threads in the human family each rich with heritage, identities, dreams, and room to work together. Something unfinished. A work in progress with tools of a healthy democracy available. Something profound akin to the words of poet Shane Koyczan’s notable work “We Are More.” Something where reflections have begun to invoke a new reasoned Renaissance: not in any mean or nationalistic sense, but something aggregate to the best of (and within) us all.
Something beyond words.
Something more special than a 51st state.
Something called Canada.
Something called home.
