Sick, eh? Broke, too.
As a Canadian-American, I’ve spent a great deal of time alternately defending and celebrating my two halves. As a kid, visiting Canadian friends was like being a celebrity. I was the girl living in California! (read with excitement and envy over all the ponies I must own). But here in “The States,” as they say, I’d have to try to convince the people I knew that Canada wasn’t all snow banks and hockey games and funny accents. Sometime in the last decade, though, the tables oddly turned. Suddenly, I was the girl living in California… (read with pity and a little disgust). When I traveled, Canadians had big red maple leaf patches sewn on their bags — a sign saying, “Hey! Don’t confuse me with an American, please! I’m on your side!” Now when I go visit my grandparents and friends, I’m trying to convince them that things here aren’t really that bad.
But sometimes, I can’t even convince myself. I made the drive up to B.C. a few weeks ago. Since I always visit my teeny tiny hometown and there’s a whole lot of nothing much to do, my friends and I ended up seeing a movie. What did we go see? Michael Moore’s “Sicko.” Oh, the horror. What’s worse than seeing a movie that examine’s the U.S.’s repugnant and obviously insufficient healthcare system? Watching it in the land of socialized medical.
After the film — in which we learn how Canada will fix you for free and France offers free in-house child care after you give birth and even Cuba has their shit together better than we do — I had to face a barrage of questions: How does insurance work? You guys really have to pay every time? Why do you guys put up with that?
And the answer to that last one? I have no idea. Why do we put up with this? Why haven’t we revolted? I can only hope that we better end up embracing universal health care soon — or I may be moving back to the Great White North.
