By Aimee Plumley

CANADIAN
American Diplomacy

"So, are you an American too?"
"Yup," I said, stuffing another hunk of sharp cheddar into my mouth. "Sure am."

This was my boss’ annual holiday dinner. Standard boss-type holiday: Lots of booze, lots of red-faced older people, lots of collar- and belt-loosening, lots of introductions exchanged with raised eyebrows (Good to meet you Aimee! I think Dan’s mentioned you...), always somebody in the bathroom. I was loitering around the relish tray/flower-arrangement table when I ran into him. I was looking forward to this dinner: no family bullshit, no cooking, no dishes, just plain old booze-hounding, belly-laughing Americans stuffing their faces and hee-hawing over the television.

"Which state are you from?" he asked.

"Arizona," I said.

"Oh," he said.

"So I take it you’re not American?"

"Oh-ho-no," he said, chuckling. "I’m from Canada."

"Oh, which, um, part?"

"They’re called provinces, actually," he said. "And I’m from the one called Ontario, and the city of Toronto."

"Cool," I said. "That’s in the central part, right?"

"It’s more eastern, actually, near Lake Ontario," he said, adjusting his black-framed glasses. "I take it you’ve never been to Canada?"

"No," I said.

"Oh," he said twirling his drink. "Most Americans haven’t."

"Yeah, I guess so," I said. "I mean, it’s not that different from America really."

"That’s funny," he said. "Most Americans think that too."

"Oh, well then maybe I should go see Canada for myself," I said, stuffing a fresh deviled egg into my mouth.

"Not necessarily," he said.

"Why not?"

"Well, it’s not that you shouldn’t, but I mean, it’s not like you need to."

"Maybe not," I said. "So do you guys celebrate Thanksgiving up there?"

"Oh-ho-ho, no," he chuckled. "Gosh no. Maybe some do, but I definitely don’t."

"Geez," I said. "How come?"

He leaned toward me and gently ribbed me with his Canadian elbow. "I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"If you look at it, I mean all Thanksgiving really celebrates is Western imperialism and genocide of the Native American people," he said. "And especially right now, well, I mean. Oh, nevermind."

"No, what?" I said, plucking a large hunk of peanut-butter fudge from a glass bowl.

"I mean, most people would probably say that your country is ruining the world, polluting the environment beyond repair and exploiting the world’s resources. So I guess you could say the meaning of Thanksgiving is really just a celebration of that."

"Of what?"

"Of the United States’ systematic global imperialism."

"Well, I don’t think so," I said.

"Sure you don’t. But you’re an American, so that’s to be expected."

"But I read the papers," I said, picking a piece of walnut from my teeth. "I know what’s going on in the world, for the most part."

"What paper do you read?" he asked.

"The New York Times," I said.

"Ahh, the Times huh? Well, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but there are those who would say the Times suffers the same candy-coating as the rest of the American media conglomerates."

"What do you read?" I asked.

"Oh, lots of stuff," he said. "I like to get a broader perspective."

"Well, what if I wanted to get a ‘broader perspective’ too?" I asked. "What should I read?"

"Well, most of the papers I read you can’t get here. Plus if you only speak English you can’t read some of the best ones," he said.

"Oh," I said tasting a little apricot tart. "Then I guess I’ll just stay dumb, huh?"

He chomped loudly on a celery stalk.

"So what do you do here in New York?" I asked him.

"I’m a writer," he said. "I used to write for Adbusters magazine, you ever heard of it?"

"Yeah," I said. "I’ve heard of it."

The television channel-flipping was being deftly handled by a large-bellied man with a paper plate of carrots and celery with a large gob of creamy ranch dressing bleeding through the bottom. He stopped on CNN, where there was footage of President Bush petting a white turkey and laughing in front of the White House. The Canadian rolled his eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Your president is a moron."

"But at least he’s a crazy moron," I said. "And he just might be crazy enough to scare Saddam and all those fucking terrorists into cutting out the shit and handing over the weapons."

"Weapons that your government provided in the first place," he said.

"That’s bullshit," I said, examining a slice of fruitcake.

"See, you guys don’t even know your own history. You don’t have any identity," he said. "You’re all too busy watching Survivor and eating McDonald’s."

"Well at least our president isn’t a fucking pussy," I said.

"You probably don’t even know who our prime minister is," he said.

"Well I bet if he wasn’t such a little pansy-ass pussy I’d have heard of him by now, eh?"

"Okay. I’ve had enough," he said, waving his big hands in front of him. "That’s why I don’t bother talking politics with Americans."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, you’re all so, so...ignorant."

"Oh yeah? So we’re dumb and ignorant now?" I said, setting down the fruitcake.

"Yeah," he said. "Ouch! What the hell are you doing? Get off me!"

"What was that you said about Americans?" I asked, holding the Canadian in a firm headlock.

"Get off me!" he said. "C’mon!"

"Take it back."

"No!" he said. "Goddamn! Get off!"

"Not until you take it back."

"No," he said.

"Take it back now, asshole."

"Okay, I take it back."

"Say it."

"Americans aren’t ignorant. Now get off!"

"A little louder please?"

"Americans aren’t ignorant."

"Good, now I want you to say: ‘America is the greatest superpower in the history of the world and I love George W. Bush.’"

His face was really starting to turn red. I knew I had him.