On the day I pretended I was Canadian—October 19, 2025, to be exact—I took no chances.
Canadians don’t hate all Americans, but how could I know which group I would fall into?
The mission began on the south side of Lake Ontario, somewhere near where George Eastman—back in the 1880s—patented the Kodak box camera. The prosperity his company would bring has long ago faded, but the lake—that thing isn’t going anywhere.
As such, my two lady partners and I needed to find a way to get to the other side. Close to two centuries ago, after successfully maneuvering a metaphorical railroad, escaping slaves would take boats across. In the early aughts, eager locals would cross on a financially-doomed ferry. But on that cloudy and misty October afternoon, one that would give way to a fraudulent night on the opposite shore, we had only one option—drive around the monstrosity.
In other words, a 90-mile trip as the crow flies turned into a 167-mile trip as the chubby American drives.
As we headed west (before we would ultimately round a bend and head back east), I reminded the younger of my travel companions, aka my daughter, to get all the American out of her.
She dutifully obliged, mentioning that it was, like, so annoying that something or the other happened and that she, like, so wanted some type of mug or whatever.
For my part, I went unadulterated American with the playlist, requesting the Spotify DJ, aka my wife, to play Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, and Madonna. Because soon enough, I knew it would have to be all Rush, Neil Young, The Tragically Hip, and Drake.
Meanwhile, I provided unsolicited advice regarding the DON’TS:
- Do NOT mention the USD/CAD exchange rate.
- Do NOT admit that you convert kilometers to miles.
- Definitely do NOT say anything bad about Celsius.
- To be safe, don’t bring up the War of 1812.
- Ditto for Donald Trump.
And I added some optional DOS:
- Feel free to throw in the occasional sorry, pronounced soe-ree.
- Casually mention how you like Tim Hortons better than Dunkin’.
- Always refer to the US as the States.
- Periodically reference the 1993 World Series, 2010 Olympics, and/or 2019 NBA Finals.
- As long as you don’t hear French, take subtle digs at Quebec. (If you hear French, take digs at the States instead.)
As we approached the border, I told myself that on the day I pretended to be Canadian, only two people outside my family would know the ugly truth. The first was the Canadian border agent, who looked at us with disgust, lightening up a tiny bit when I answered his question by telling him the purpose of our visit was to watch the Toronto Blue Jays in game six of the American League Championship Series.
Once allowed into the Great White North, the show began in earnest.
We did, of course, have demographics on our side. Being brown in southern Ontario is kind of like being white in Iceland—you fit right in.
As we drove by Hamilton, we pretended to like the place, which I actually do seeing as it makes Buffalo seem like paradise.
We talked about Queen Elizabeth Way—and the British monarchy—in reverent terms.
As we inched forward on the Gardiner Expressway, we proudly referred to the traffic as a sign of Canadian prosperity.
Finally, we parked, strategically choosing a garage near a ramen place, knowing there we could easily blend in with all the Asians.
After downing some noodles, it was time to buy our costumes, otherwise known as Blue Jays gear.
Many CAD later, tags cut and gear donned, we confidently made our way to Rogers Centre.
Inside, I knew instinctively to ask for a Molson Canadian, only to be told that Anheuser-Busch is a sponsor of Rogers Centre and the Toronto Blue Jays, meaning I would have to settle for the very American Budweiser. I feigned incredulity, secretly not caring.
We then found our seats, shooting dirty looks at the Americans wearing hats of the opposing squad, the Seattle Mariners. To make them even more uncomfortable, I sang “O Canada” with a vengeance.
As the game progressed, we cheered when we were supposed to and exhibited angst as appropriate.
When a Blue Jays player who grew up in Rochester hit a triple, we were careful not to show additional emotion beyond standard Canadian elation.*
When the next batter, a Seattle native, hit a home run, we went nuts.**
Later, when a Toronto native hit a home run for the Mariners, we maintained silence.***
Eventually, a group of Americans, Mexicans, Dominicans, Venezuelans, and one Canadian helped the home team win 6-2.
But we still had work to do, as it would take us a couple hours to get back to the border, where we could let our guard down again.
The Spotify DJ put on some Alanis Morissette, and we started the trek in reverse.
About an hour in, I realized both my travel companions were falling asleep, leaving me to navigate treacherous territory alone.
Both were out by the time we reached the second person who would know the brutal truth of that day. That person, the American border agent, briefly smiled before noticing our Blue Jays gear. She waved us through with a look of disgust.
As we entered the US in earnest, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, thankful that my family and I had survived a hostile, global world.
Key:
*Ernie Clement
**Addison Barger
***Josh Naylor
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