Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing from my kitchen in Ontario, Canada, where I've been living for the past two years. As an American here I still feel like a guest in an orderly, well-appointed house. I tiptoe around from book readings to restaurants to the ServiceOntario where I'm photographed for my health card. I don't want to disturb anything, or discover that I'm not wanted.

My Canadian students look at the world I come from with bafflement and curiosity. I'm from the land of gun violence. The land of people going bankrupt from getting sick. The land of virulent racism and poisonous politicians. That's not to say Canadians don't struggle with similar problems; we share more of our history, and more of our sins, than is always acknowledged. But the volume is turned up so much louder across the border, and it threatens to drown out Canadian issues every day.

Yet — there's also that curiosity. My students love reading American lit. They are as likely to mention Kurt Vonnegut or J.D. Salinger as favorite writers as they are Alice Munro or Margaret Atwood. For many Canadian writers, the dream is to make it big in America — where a potential audience of 300 million awaits.

Canadian art and literature is diverse, multi-layered, and endlessly interesting. But I'm still an outsider, looking in. I'm starting to get a feel for the windy avenues of Toronto, the three Chinatowns, the vegan doughnut shops, and the startling beauty of the lake. Writing from this place of difference — of outsiderness — is something I've brought to each city I've lived in, and it helps me to be a sharper, more patient observer.

From the great north,
Blair




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Finalist for the 2020 Mythic Picnic Postcard Prize.

Read BH's story.

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