Where I'm actually from

For eight (very specific) years, when traveling abroad I would occasionally tell people that I was Canadian. It wasn't always an apology; more often it was a way to defuse the conversation with a stranger. I didn't always feel like carrying the weight of such a powerful country on my shoulders, particularly not while browsing at markets or renting windsurfers. I wasn't alone: one friend put a Canadian flag on her suitcase.

Of course, my relationship to our northern neighbor was more complicated than just a few white lies. In both 2000 and 2004 my friends and family threatened to move to Canada. One of the best weekends of my life was in Toronto. And I have a persistent and rather romanticized notion that Canada is more civil, more humane, and happier than the U.S.

By that measure, yesterday brought the email I have been waiting for:

"Hi Signe, It was a pleasure having you . . . I also wanted to know whereabouts in Canada you are from. "

But this year feels very different. South Africans are keen to know all about Obama; my office mates have pictures of his inauguration above their desks. I'm proud when I talk about his election and what it meant to me and my friends. I'm not a flag-waver by any means, but I am not Canadian today, either.

Happy 233rd.