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I had to laugh when I saw this short piece in World Hum, About that Canadian Flag on my Backpack. If there’s one thing that never fails to bug the crap out of me when traveling, it’s those damn maple leafs on every Canuck’s backpack. I even had a man in Sumatra once ask me, “Why are people from Canada the only ones who have a flag?”
The only thing worse though is American losers who should have stayed home putting a Canadian flag on their backpack out of fear that they’ll get kidnapped or something. Hate to tell you buds, but a “westerner” is a prize no matter which infidel country he or she comes from—with bonus points for Danes over the past year.
Like the person who wrote the linked article though, I have a feeling many Canadians don’t even know why they do it. Sure, some want to be sure foreigners don’t think they’re from the same country as George Bush, but is it better to be from the country of, “Who is your president and why should we care?” Is it a positive thing that your national identity is more wrapped up in who you aren’t than who you are?
For many Canadians though, it’s just something they do with their backpack. Like mindless lemmings, they just buy the flag patch as they buy their backpack, figuring the two go together like bananas and pancakes. Somehow that custom never spread beyond the Great White North though, even though plenty of other countries have their own overshadowing neighbor to the north or south.
My advice is this: It’s better not to broadcast your nationality to everyone with eyes, no matter where you are from. I personally find it a lot easier to deflect the touts when I am from Botswana or Kosovo. There is no frame of reference, so the conversation usually comes to an abrupt end soon after, “Where are you from?” Someone I traveled with for a while refused to say where he was from whenever asked by a stranger. He would just reply, “Earth.”
When I’m having a real conversation though, I have always found that being an American leads to interesting and nuanced conversations that can last all night, whether I’m talking to an Egyptian, a Brit, a Venezuelan, or a Russian. I can’t imagine giving that up just out of some vague fear that some nutjob will think I’m a bad guy because of where I was born.
[flickr photo from Yamica]
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