Knew the moment charismatic JFK was on our black-and-white screen in our humble T.O. living room that I wanted to be an American. Knew the moment my parents hung up a shiny silver and black JFK plaque in the hallway. Knew the moment I stood on a crowded sidewalk in summery Buffalo NY, eating my first hot dog and licking wonderfully tangy yellow stuff off my tiny fingers. Ain’t nothin’ says “America” like a good ol’ red hot!
My parents had always wanted to make the transition from Canada to America. Fate never enabled them to. It hasn’t—yet—allowed me either. I’ve been Canada-bound. My feet may pound Canadian concrete, grass and sand, but my heart and soul roam the streets and valleys of my American allies.
I respect the Red, White and Blue because the flag stands for honor and history and pride. Those who live under its magificence believe in their land, rights and laws. Those who maintain allegiance to the Stars and Stripes will fight to the death to uphold and support all that those symbols signify. I’d do the same if allowed.
I am an American caught in a Canadian body, longing to stand on the rich soil of the United States and claim, “Ich bin ein Amerikaner!” as JFK once declared of another country with visible zeal and resolute conviction.
Where there’s a will, there’s away. I have the will; now I will find a way.