A backpack with a Canadian flag patch.
A backpack with a Canadian flag patch. Credit: Meg D. / Flickr Credit: Meg D. / Flickr

It was an uncomfortable truth once stitched onto backpacks—a quiet admission, an act of disguise. A maple leaf patch, sewn with the frantic precision of someone desperate to rewrite their story, became a shield against the uncomfortable realities of American identity abroad. These travelers, raised on hagiographies of their homeland, had been spoon-fed the myth of their global significance—until they took that revolutionary step of handing over a passport unstamped by experience. An act of pure, unhinged geographical subterfuge.

In dimly lit dorm rooms thick with the stench of dirty clothes and cheap beer, they plotted. Whispering ‘eh’ and ‘sorry’ like spells, they tried on a new identity. Springfield and Wichita earned blank stares; New York and L.A. got nods. But Indianapolis? Boise? Cultural flyovers. So they sewed, they lied, they transformed—American reinvention masked in Canadian politeness.

Now, they wanted to be Canadian. 

It seemed innocent then, but that identity theft foreshadowed a deeper rift—one now made explicit by Mark Carney. Standing in front of a phalanx of maple leaves, he publicly told Donald: it’s over. It was time to see other people. It was a declaration of political polyamory, broadcast to the world. No more economic entanglements. No more defense of indefensible policies. It wasn’t shrill, it wasn’t bitter. It was resignation. After decades as the obedient sibling, Canada was drawing a line. Fraternal disdain was one thing—being dragged into the MAGA meat grinder was another. Annexation? A bridge and a 49th parallel too far.

Long before Prime Minister Brian Mulroney’s treasonous sell off to President Ronald Reagan and his trickle-down fever dream in 1988, Canada had always been the junior partner to its hulking neighbour. As far back as the 1870s, just minutes after foundation, Alexander Mackenzie tried to negotiate free trade deals with the United States, but they fell apart. 

But with the 1980s’ heady musk of horrendous music and the Reagan-Thatcher plan to siphon off public wealth into the pockets of the few, corporate Canada saw a chance to align the Great White North more closely with the conservative, business-oriented American regime. We grew the trees, shipped them across the border and they came back as overpriced Ikea knockoffs. 

It was cheaper to make things down south. Fewer labor laws and less environmental regulations meant more profits. The trickle was in fact a form of urolagnia. The media had somehow convinced everyone about the benefits of golden showers, hailed as raining fiscal responsibility by the suits in Washington and Bay Street. Canadians were sold the fantasy that, with a little deregulation and a lot of blind faith, Calgary could become the next Dallas and Toronto the next Wall Street. 

Alberta, tempted by black gold, ignored Norway’s sovereign fund model and handed profits to oil executives. Premier Peter Lougheed’s Heritage Fund shriveled while Norwegians grew theirs past $1 trillion. Why? Because private hands could be trusted, they said. Just blame Ottawa when it didn’t trickle down.

But trickles turned to floods. Jobs were offshored. The middle class rusted out. Capital doesn’t know patriotism. It knows margins. Mexico, Bangladesh, China. Whoever offered the best deal got the factory. Offshoring became the new gospel on both sides of the border. Because if there is one thing that capital doesn’t understand it’s patria. It will happily belt out the anthem if it’s in its interest but is also on the first flight out if it learns of an easier place to hang. 

First, they whispered about ‘efficiency’ and ‘cost-cutting.’ Then, they didn’t even bother lying. Trickle-down economics had stopped pretending to trickle, and keeping up with the Joneses no longer meant buying a bigger house—it meant surviving another month without selling your plasma. The gig economy was sold as freedom—be your own boss! Until you realized that your ‘business’ basically consisted of you auctioning off your dignity in an algorithm’s Hunger Games. You soon found yourself at 3 a.m., dazed from exhaustion, delivering McNuggets to a man in a gated mansion who would tip you in ‘exposure’ if he could. 

And as the billionaires battled for top spots on in Forbes, trading yachts complete with gold-leaf toilets, they needed a new diversion. Something easy. The problem with gutting your country for parts is that eventually, the marks start asking questions. And when they do, you need a villain. The focus groups were unanimous: Blame Canada—the same country those young Americans once pretended to be from was now enemy number one on the Fox News hitlist. 

And so it begins. The slow transformation of Canada from friendly, apologetic neighbour to existential threat. A new villain for the MAGA fever dream, a socialist bogeyman lurking just beyond the 49th parallel. 

How did it happen? How did Canada go from the obedient little brother, the trusty sidekick with a similar accent who nodded along to every harebrained scheme—no matter how doomed? Didn’t we bend the knee enough in the latest trade deal? Didn’t we try to sell out Mexico in 2018, grinning through our teeth as we inked Trump’s last trade scam—like a sidekick trying too hard to impress the schoolyard bully? 

Or is it something deeper, something more unsettling—like a funhouse mirror reflection they can’t stand to look at? Would the Gipper blanch if he saw that his Grand Old Party’s objectives are now written in Russian Cyrillic? Is it the unbearable reminder—so close, so similar—that a nation can be successful, liberal, and democratic without twisting the Ten Commandments into ‘Thou shalt screw thy neighbour for profit’?

Because that flag did and does mean that, while the two countries do share a lot of similarities, there are fundamental differences. As Mark Carney said on the Daily Show, “we find you (America) very attractive, but we’re not moving in with you. It’s not you, it’s us. We do things a little differently in Canada.” We like the idea of liberty and justice for all—so much so that we’re actually trying to make ‘all’ mean something. Rather than passing bills banning history itself, Canada is making some real attempts to ensure that ‘all’ actually means ‘all’ and not just some. Initiatives like the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, however flawed they might be, would most likely end up somewhere between To Kill a Mockingbird and Beloved in the banned books section of many American states. 

For generations, we asked ourselves what it meant to be Canadian and too often, we answered in negatives, that we aren’t American. But starting off from a negative isn’t a good look for the country. What if we started defining ourselves by what we actually are? A country that—however imperfectly—has made actual attempts at fairness, at truth, at inclusion. A country where ‘sorry’ isn’t just a punchline—it’s an acknowledgment that we owe each other something. There is so much more than simply not being American, and this runs much deeper than the ‘I am Joe and I am Canadian’ Molson ads 25 years ago. 

Canadians dig the Declaration of Independence, that wild-eyed blast of humanism. The very idea that people could overthrow a government that violated their rights was dangerous and subversive. Jefferson’s “created equal” business was pure, uncut radicalism in a world ruled by kings and thugs. Canada took to the idea, but in classic Canadian fashion, couldn’t quite summon the raw animal courage to cut the umbilical cord to the monarchy. Even today, you’ll find these royalist freaks babbling nonsense about how having some foreign blue-blood fossil on the Loonie somehow makes us superior to Americans. What kind of twisted doublethink turns “Sorry, no Canadians allowed to be head of state here” into a source of national pride? 

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was a great intro but we had to make our own refinements. True Canadian values like solidarity, equity (not simply equality) and a genuine concern for the collective well-being were hard-wired into the nation’s DNA. It was an understanding that healthcare should be a right, not something traded on the stock market. These were the basic human rights that some lunatic senator from Texas will soon decry as ‘evil’, warning that Canadian abominations like universal healthcare would turn America into a frozen wasteland of woke politeness and affordable insulin. 

But for all the sneering from across the border, which some MAGAciles are now calling imaginary, the relationship in fact has never been one-sided. We’ve sent more than just softwood lumber and maple syrup south. We’ve shared ideas, culture, and voices that have shaped America in ways they barely recognize. Americana’s purest expression was born not just in the Mississippi Delta but also in a scrappy mix of Canadians with an Arkansan named Levon at the helm. It was never an invasion like that of the British. It was more like a mingling. Saturday Night Live, that cornerstone of American satire, wouldn’t be what it is without a cast of Canucks led by Lorne Michaels. Like true brothers, we were better together.

And when America needed a hand, we were there. After the 9/11 attacks, as the U.S. shut down its airspace and reeled in shock, Canada welcomed an estimated 30,000 to 45,000 stranded passengers without a second thought. When young Americans refused to fight an unjust war in Vietnam, we gave them quiet sanctuary until saner minds prevailed. And long before that, the real terminus of the Underground Railroad wasn’t some “free” state that still treated Black Americans like second-class citizens—it was Canada, a place where people fleeing slavery knew they wouldn’t be sent back.

The Brian Mulroneys, Stephen Harpers and Pierre Poilievres have mistaken prairie pragmatics and parsimony for possessiveness. They saw the rapacity across the border not as a cautionary tale but as a blueprint. But Canadians don’t want to be Americans. We’re happy to bask on their beaches, binge their blockbusters, and indulge in their deep-fried absurdities, but we wouldn’t trade our system for theirs—not for all the Big Macs and billionaires in Texas. The maple leaf patches might be passé, but some things never go out of style: humanity, solidarity, and the radical notion that equity is more than just a word corporations slap on their PR campaigns.

And while the MAGA cultists rant about annexation, insisting we’d be better off as the 51st star stapled onto their flag, reality is pointing in the opposite direction. It’s looking more and more like we’ll be the ones opening our doors—again. Our national prophetess, Margaret Atwood, saw Gilead leeching toward reality long before it donned a red hat and started quoting Tucker Carlson. What once seemed like dystopian fiction now reads like next week’s headlines from the crumbling empire to our south. The exodus will soon begin. Scientists and doctors fleeing witch trials, women desperate for reproductive care, and anyone who hasn’t downed the Orange Kool-Aid might soon be looking north for sanctuary.

It started with backpack patches—cheap fabric disguises meant to smooth over geopolitical awkwardness. But maybe—just maybe—the real irony will be even sweeter. One day, when there’s no one left to scapegoat, when the chaos south of the border finally boils over, it won’t be desperate American students pretending to be Canadian. It’ll be full-grown Floridians nervously stitching maple leaves onto their MAGA caps, mumbling “sorry” in mangled French as they inch toward the border.

As America struggles with its own unravelling, Canada hopefully continues to position itself as a model of what the world could become—steadfast in its commitment to equity and solidarity. While the U.S. flounders in MAGA chaos, we continue to carve out a future where compassion leads the way, offering a glimpse of hope in a world that sorely needs it. When those fleeing America’s wreckage look northward, they might find that the real refuge isn’t just in escaping the past, but in embracing a future where fairness and progress are more than just ideals—they’re the foundation of something better.

Troy Nahumko

Troy Nahumko is an award-winning author based in Spain. His first book, focusing on travels around the province of Caceres, Spain, was published with the University of Alberta Press.