Not a proud day to be a Canadian

Vancouver is ablaze. Rioting in the streets. “Canadians rioting?” people in other parts of the world ask. And at that moment you see the flicker of respect for Canadian character disappear from their eyes. You know then that you will never again be able to convince people that Canadians are uniquely different from Americans. And why? Is it all about a hockey game?

Hockey is our national sport. It is in our blood. One might say that in a way, it defines us. When Sidney Crosby scored the magical overtime goal to win Olympic Gold for Canada during the 2010 Winter Olympics, the whole nation (including us expats abroad) rocked with joy and proud patriotism. “Can it get any better than this?” we asked. And then came the seventh game showdown between Boston and Vancouver, in Vancouver.

Actually, the ugliness didn’t begin then. It had begun already a few games earlier, when a Vancouver player sent a Boston player to the hospital and out of the playoffs. Until that moment, I had been  enjoying this season’s playoffs, thinking it was the best NHL hockey I had seen in years. It reached its highest point in the 7th game of the semi-final round between Boston and Tampa Bay when not even one penalty was called and it was just about the hockey. But it was all downhill after this. The Boston-Vancouver series started out with a slew of penalties, then we had the Vancouver biting incident, and finally the inexcusable cheap shot that sent a player to the hospital.

But this shouldn’t have come as any surprise in a game where TV sport announcers glorify each hard hit, where the most enthusiastic cheers from the fans come from crushing blows rather than spectacular plays, and where injuries are often blamed on a player not keeping his head up, rather than the clear intention of the opposing player to cause pain and intimidation. How do we expect to have great play makers when players have to spend most of the time with their heads up, worrying about violent hits, rather than concentrating on the puck and skillful strategy? Sydney Crosby, perhaps the greatest play maker of this time - missed the last half of the season due to a concussion caused by a cheap blow to the head. He apparently was more concerned in playing hockey than in worrying about being hit.

Hockey has become a gladiator sport. Should we be surprised, then, that it spread out into the streets after the seventh game loss? Riots aren’t something new to sport. Sport harnesses herd mentality which often brings out the worst in us. As we saw in “Lord of the Flies”, it only takes a moment for the social checks and balances to break down in order to bring out our most primitive instincts. Yes... also in Canada.

So, what do we want to define us as Canadians? The riots of Vancouver 2011? Or the warm hospitality of the Vancouver populace in the  2010 Winter Olympics? And when your small child puts on skates, grabs a hockey stick and heads out to the pond in the back yard to play with neighborhood friends, who do you want him or her to emulate?

Where does your loyalty lie?

It’s the Winter Olympics 2014 and we’re sitting down to watch the Gold Medal hockey final. All of Israel is talking about the unbelievable meteoric rise of Team Israel from total anonymity to becoming a leading contender in the hockey world. Years of dodging Katyushas on the only Olympic-size ice rink in Israel alongside the Lebanese border, mixed in with hockey skirmishes on roller blades during the summer months, have finally paid off. It  all comes down now to the battle of the stars: Team Canada’s Sidney Crosby against Team Israel’s Gabby Cohen (AKA “The Rocket Cohen”).

Too far-fetched? Perhaps. I really don’t expect to have to choose any time soon between the hockey tradition which has shaped the core of my being and the little David who has traded in his slingshot for skates and a hockey stick.

But what if I had to? Where would my loyalty lie? How can an Expat remain loyal to countries old and new? The closest I have come to having to choose was when Celine Dion represented Switzerland in the  Eurovision Song Contest. It wasn’t even Canada competing, but she was Canadian, nonetheless. And Israelis take their Eurovision seriously, much too seriously in fact. But I was let off easily when it became apparent that Israel had no chance of winning (Israel finished in 7th place that year). So I was allowed to root for Celine in the nail biting finish.

I don’t know how Canadian expats living in the States manage, though. The States and Canada are up against each other all the time, and sometimes it can get quite ugly. And apparently about 80% of Canadian expats live in the States. I can see it now. Canadian expats tucking their folded Canadian flags into their pants and drinking their Molson Canadian beer out of brown paper bags, while watching the U.S.A. and Canada square off in the 2010 Winter Olympics hockey final. That is nothing, though, compared to the NHL hockey players with dual American and Canadian citizenship who have to decide which team to play for in the Olympics. There was one notable case where one brother went to play for Team USA and the other brother went to play for Team Canada.

Loyalty is a difficult fish to fry. Look at what happens after you get married. Suddenly holiday celebrations become a balancing act between blood relations and in-laws.

In most cases, such questions of loyalty are not a matter of life and death, unless both countries decide to go to war with each other. Then loyalty to the enemy country is quite frowned upon and you may find yourself jailed as a spy or enemy sympathizer. But I see no sign of Israel and Canada going to war soon and I think Americans have given up on seeking revenge for the War of 1812 - although I may be mistaken. But I can’t speak for the rest of you spread out through the world.

Maybe we shouldn’t worry about loyalty. Does anything really deserve our blind support? Why not be selective in our choices and go with what feels right. Whether it be Molson Canadian or a Budweiser, Creemore or Goldstar, an American dropping “r’s” or a Canadian with dangling “eh’s”, English, Hebrew, trees or sand...  let’s just celebrate who we are - even if one night we are cheering on The Rocket Cohen and the next night Sid the Kid Crosby.

The Canadian Passport Blues

I've got the blues and they're definitely Canadian.

This all started with the realization that I will soon have to apply for a new Canadian passport. One wouldn't think that this should cause too much anxiety, and it didn't, until fairly recently.

There was a time, when the Canadian Embassy was still on Hayarkon Street by the Mediterranean Sea, that getting a new passport was quite a simple affair. There was a simple form to fill out and the photo could be taken almost anywhere. I remember walking into the embassy and informing the person at the desk that I had come to apply for a new passport. She phoned upstairs and soon a kind elderly lady appeared. We sat down on two comfortable chairs and she went over my application. She seemed surprised that everything was filled out so properly, as she said most people were always missing things. But she didn't realize that an OCD like me would have gone over the form countless times before submitting it, even then sneaking a few peeks at the completed form on the way to the Embassy.

So, I didn't expect any problems when I helped my son apply for his first Canadian passport many years later. After helping him fill out the form, I printed out the photo instructions, which had now become quite detailed and were only in English, and told him to go over them with the photographer at the photo studio in Beer Sheva. When he brought the photos to me, I checked them and everything looked alright. Armed with the completed form, guarantor signature and photos, I headed out for the long two and a half hour journey to Tel Aviv. By now the embassy had left its cosy location by the sea and was perched high above in a sterile, modern building close by the Nokia (Yad Eliyahu) Arena. Gone were the comfortable chairs and friendly lady, and instead I was ushered into a small, bare room where a rather stern and haggard individual stared at me from the other side of a heavy glass window. He motioned to a small turntable in front of me. I placed the form and photos there and he swung them over to his side. He barely glanced at the form, as he went directly for the photos. By this time I was pulling out the money for payment, still totally unaware as to what was to come.

"Not so fast," he said.

"What?" I asked, looking up, just a little perturbed by the ominous sound of his voice.

"These are no good," he said, shoving the photos back onto the turntable and swinging them back to me.

I had never suffered rejection before from a Canadian official (from Israeli, yes, many times), so my response was one of surprise and consternation.

"Why not?" I asked feebly, picking up the photo and scrutinizing it again. I knew the measurements were right. There were no shadows to be seen. Noam wasn't smiling. His profile was facing straight at the camera, totally in focus. The photo paper was right, and there was a clear white background. What was I missing?

"His mouth isn't closed," he said.

"What?"

The man gestured to the photo. I looked back down at it.

"It looks closed to me," I said.

"His lips aren't together."

I looked at the photo again. There was the slightest gap between his upper and lower lip, just enough to let him breathe. I shook my head and looked up at him with a beseeching look, thinking back to the long journey there.

"You're rejecting it just because of that?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Yes," he said, "It's my job to be sure that everything is in order. I know that they won't accept this, so there's no point in my accepting it."

My Israeli side urged me to stand up and scream, but I told myself that he was just doing his job, and being the good Canadian I was, I packed up my things and left. I stopped short of telling him I was sorry, though.  My Israeli side just wouldn't allow me to become that Canadian again.

So my son went through the whole photo taking process again and brought me back the new photo. This time his lips were so closely pressed together that it looked as if they were stuck together with super glue. But the embassy accepted the new photo and that was all that was important.

Wondering if others had gone through a similar experience, or if they were just picking on me (did I mention paranoia in addition to my OCD?), I checked the forums where I discovered tales of  faint ghostly shadows visible only to passport personnel, profiles slightly off centre, and philosophical discussions about what constituted a smile (Mona Lisa definitely would have never been awarded a Canadian passport). If I had thought this was solely an expat issue, I soon discovered that even people who had their passport photos taken by reputable photo studios in Canada, had had their photos rejected. There was even a well-known Canadian photo chain which promised to take your passport photos again for free if they were rejected by the passport office. Note that they didn't guarantee getting it right the first time.

So, a year later when it was time to apply for a new passport for myself, I was understandably on edge. I don't handle rejection well, and wasn't sure I could go through it again. So I decided to write my English Teachers network mailing list, asking if anyone knew of a photography studio in the south of Israel that could take a proper Canadian passport photo. I didn't get any suggestions at first, but I did receive a slew of passport horror stories. One man even had to have his passport photo taken five times in Beer Sheva until it was finally accepted at the Canadian embassy. And then finally someone told me about a small photo studio in Raanana that was recommended to her by a friend at the embassy. Raanana is close to a three hour drive from my home in the desert, and  you may think me crazy to even consider driving all the way there for a passport photo, but I didn't have to be told twice.

Why do they do this to us then? Why do Canadians, who are generally thought to be polite, apologetic and down to earth – adopt such bureaucracy? Getting an Israeli passport is a much simpler process, even though Israeli security concerns are much greater. Are the Mounties behind all this?

I guess I shouldn't underestimate parted lips and a smile. You never know where they will lead. And it could be much worse, as in the case of my grandniece, who had to get a passport when she wasn't even one month old. My nephew and his wife were taking her with them to his brother's wedding in Chicago. And they had to get the passport process expedited in order to get to the wedding on time. Look at the advice given by a baby site, regarding the taking of the passport photo:

"Your baby can't sit up let alone keep her mouth closed and eyes open on demand. Passport Canada requires a full front view of your baby's head and shoulders but your hands or arms may not be seen. Try dressing your baby in a sweater so you can crouch below her out of frame and hold her up with your hand under her clothes. Another suggestion is to lay your baby on a large piece of white paper and have the photographer stand on a stool and take the picture from above."

-- babycenter: http://www.babycenter.ca/baby/travel/passport/#6 --

Are you still with me, or have you turned to drink? There was mention, though, that Passport Canada might be somewhat lenient regarding the expression of a newborn. Whew! At least that. And just when we thought that it couldn't get any worse, they were informed that the expedition process would take an extra day. Why? Now put your glass back down and get ready for this… the passport office had to perform a security check on the less than one month old baby. (And we bad-mouth the Americans.)

Anyway, I had hoped that my talking about this would lessen the anxiety. But no, I can still sense it eating away, fueled by the image of a stern official studying my photo with disdain. Maybe I should just travel on my Israeli passport, eh?