Confessional

I’ve got to get something off my chest. For the past year and a half I have been hiding something that defines my very being and holds the potential to end all of my close relationships. It is something I have been dealing with for a long time and will radically change how the world sees me. I refuse to pretend any longer, so here it goes:

I am a closet Canadian.

At first sight, I may seem like your typical American girl, but, look closer and you will find a moose-loving, igloo-building Eskimo. I long to traipse the snowy mountain hills of the glorious nation that forms our northern border. I dream of one day reuniting with my French brethren over a schmorgesborg of maple syrup-smothered waffles. I dare to hope that I might be honored with the title of officer in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. During the National Anthem, I sing “God Save the Queen” under my breath. There is a stash of flannel shirts hidden in my closet. When did I discovery my true identity? Let me start at the beginning:

My sophomore year of college I became very bored and thus decided to develop a Canadian accent — I still don’t understand how I had so much free time and why I thought that this would be a fabulous use of it, but you can’t change the past, so I guess that time is lost forever and I’m just going to have to appreciate the things I learned along the way. I spent the next several months painstakingly working on my pronunciation of words, emphasizing the emphasis on certain syllables, and learning some basic vocabulary (eh?). And I am now proud to say that I have achieved an effect that could pass as a Canadian who has been living happily in the States for the past 15 years. Entertaining? Yes. Useful if I ever audition for Mounties: The Musical? Definitely. But I didn’t realize that I had gotten lumberjack in my blood. Now, whenever I speak I risk letting my secret slip. I can’t control it! I’ll ask a question in class and it happens. When ordering at a restaurant, it happens. I can’t even talk to a friend without it jumping out from behind my throat. And that is when I discovered the truth: I must have unleashed my inner Canadian. It’s true, I don’t secretly hoard flannel or have a fetish for the maple leaf, but it seems that a little part of Canada has stuck with me: the accent.

Don’t believe me? Just ask me to say that I’m sorry.

What do you call a little mountain? A Mountie!

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