Last week, while visiting San Francisco for a conference over Spring Break, I found myself in a bar, engaged in some rhetorical fisticuffs with one of my fellow patrons.
I seem to recall that our argument began with my responding to some unsolicited comment he made about the futility of the now-fashionable green movement in America. Diminishing resources, and the so-called threat to the planet from existing rates of consumption were hogwash, he informed me. The world - and better yet, as he put it, in his mind, the United States - was going to be just fine carrying on as it always had. Nothing would change for the worse.
Vexed by his indifference to what seems to me an obvious environmental crisis, I offered a sarcastic remark in turn, as is my wont. Before I knew it, the gloves were off.
Our argument progressed from a straight squabble over the environment into a much broader butting of heads. "I know what you are," he growled at one point, bearing his eyes down on me. "You're a liberal. Well, I'm a proud conservative, buddy. Yes, sir. Conservative and proud!"
I agreed that by the limited terms available to us in the binary nonsense of contemporary political thought, yes, I'm what he would call a liberal.
But then things took a particularly nasty turn when I informed him that I was a Canadian, too. And not just one of your run-of-the-mill visiting snowbirds, taking in a little California sun to escape the last of a Northern winter, but a landed Canadian, living and - gasp! - working right here in the good ol' You-Ess-of-Eh.
My comrade-in-discord fumed. He told me he didn't have to listen to me criticize any of his values - which he characterized as definitively American - since I was obviously some opportunistic infiltrator from north of the 49th, who'd come "down here" to live high on the hog, amassing my riches, participating in the good life under the banner of the stars and stripes, and regularly taking a paycheck away from some honest American who otherwise might earn it.
"No carpetbagger am I," I volleyed back, in my best meekly polite Canadian manner. "I'm actually a state employee. And I was chosen by a committee of trained experts - American experts - who decided that my qualifications made me well-suited for the position I now hold."
His nativism was stoked like a raging wildfire, though. My barmate waved my defense away with a dismissive fist. He grumbled that the USA didn't need Canada - or any other country - for that matter. America, he proudly announced, spraying Bud Light from his mouth with each heavily annunciated syllable, could close its borders on a moment's notice and not feel even a smidgen of pain in response: socially, politically or economically.
"You realize, though," I said, feeling my Canadian civility fall away with haste, "that Canada is the USA's single largest supplier of oil. And given that you yourself said American needn't cut its fuel consumption, this would probably be a bit of a blister on the American way of life."
He told me I was wrong about the magnitude of American dependence on Canadian oil reserves.
I assured him I wasn't.
And I assure you too. Go ahead and Google "Official Energy Statistics from the U.S. Government" and see for yourself.
Backed into a juvenile "Is not!"/"Is too!" impasse over Canadian-American trade, my man then told me the real reason he had such a hate-on for Canada was because of our cowardly non-involvement in the War on Terror.
I asked him if he knew how many Canadian soldiers had served in Afghanistan since 2001.
He did not. He said he didn't care. He said we weren't in Iraq, and that's all that mattered.
Iraq. Here I could see we weren't likely to make much progress. So I decided to offer an analogous turn that might make him consider the importance of nations' being allowed to decide their military obligations for themselves.
So I asked him when the Second World War began. Falling into my rhetorical trap, as I hoped, he said, without hesitation, "1942."
I pointed out that Canada - that cowardly nation of non-committers - declared war on Germany in 1939.
He stared at me for a second, not comprehending. What was my point?
I told him that, by his standards of fairness, many Canadian veterans of my grandfather's generation might feel justified in offering a blanket disdain for Americans, for the USA's late entry into World War II. But many of them I've known, I added, never express such a sentiment.
He nodded. He thought about it. Then he told me he still thought Canada was wrong, and he wasn't going to like them because they didn't get on board the Iraq War.
Deadlocked, we found a point on which we agree: tobacco. So we stepped outside to smoke for a moment, less tense than before, agreeing to disagree.
While we were out there, a panhandler - a sadly ubiquitous sight in downtown San Francisco - approached us to ask if we could spare any money. I started to reach into my pocket, but by the time I had the change in my hand, my man had already barked, "Get out of here," and shooed the poor panhandler away.
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