Hello

When I have travelled, when people ask me where I am from, as they can tell from my accent that I am not from their country, I say I am from Canada.

I have never been one to raise my flag up high, or put it on my clothes, unless it is for Canada Day.

But we have our own culture here, which many people do not realise.

We have our own music.

We have our own movies & TV shows.

We have our own sports teams for baseball, hockey, soccer, and basketball.

We have our own football league, the CFL.

We have our own festivals, and holidays. Each Province and Territory having their own specific holidays, like Family Day, Louis Riel Day, or Yukon Heritage Day just to name a few.

We have two national languages, English and French.

We have two national sports, Hockey and Lacrosse.

Our National animal is the Beaver.

We have our own Military and Navy. Yes, we do have a Navy, as many people have assumed we do not have one.

Our history is strong and interesting, and not at all boring, like many people assume.

Our history is filled with good, and bad.

But, we have always come together as a country, even when we were still under British rule, like during the war of 1812.

We fought hard during the conflicts our country has faced through the years, but we have stood together, along with our neighbour to the south.

Now, our country is being threatened by our once closest ally.

Many people find it funny when their government says we will become the 51st state, but to myself and many Canadians, it isn't funny.

We have stood side by side with your country through every conflict that I can think of, WW1, WW2, the Korean War, the war in Afghanistan.

If our Prime Minister was the first one to say that the United States of America should become our 11th Province, many people in the USA would be calling for war.

I have seen many Americans say they will march across our border and easily take our country.

I am tired of these threats from our neighbouring country.

Canada does not wish to be a part of America.

We never have and never will.

If you are Canadian, and wish to be American, the way for you to become one is through the proper protocols.

IMAGINE IF SOMEONE WAS TO "THREAT" SAM'S WIFE LIKE "Well, you're not always gonna be here, uh"

Oh boy, it wouldn't end well

Garden - Sam

You were on your knees in the vegetable patch, carefully tying up tomato vines, when you heard the raised voice. It was a harsh, grating sound against the quiet hum of your garden. You looked up to see Sam, his broad frame filling the front doorway, talking to your neighbour. Mr. Brown’s face was a mottled red, and he was jabbing a finger toward the fence line that separated your properties.

You wiped your hands on your jeans and stood, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You knew what this was about. You’d seen the splintered post on his fancy new fence yesterday. You’d also seen the neighborhood kids using it as a makeshift goalpost for their soccer game.

Sam’s posture was calm, but you knew him. You saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were loosely curled at his sides—ready, but not aggressive. He was listening, his head slightly tilted. You couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was clear: accusation.

You moved toward the porch, but Sam caught your eye over Mr. Brown’s shoulder. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Stay there. I’ve got this.

So you hovered by the climbing clematis, your heart beating a little too fast.

“I’m just telling you what I saw,” Mr. Brown’s voice carried now, sharp and indignant. “Or what I didn’t see. Nobody else over there. Just your wife, puttering around right near that fence line all hours of the day.”

“My wife was transplanting seedlings yesterday afternoon,” Sam’s voice was a low, steady rumble, a counterpoint to Brown’s shrillness. “She was right here, in this bed. She wouldn’t have had any reason to be near your fence, and she certainly didn’t damage it.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? A new fence post isn’t cheap, son.”

Sam’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the ‘son’. “I’m not your son. I’m your neighbor, giving you the facts. It wasn’t her.”

“I want to hear it from her,” Brown insisted, trying to peer around Sam. “Let her come out here and take responsibility for her mistakes like an adult. Hiding behind her husband?”

You took a step forward, ready to defend yourself, but Sam’s voice, though still calm, dropped a degree in temperature. It was the voice he used when a situation was transitioning from diplomatic to dangerous.

“She’s not hiding. I’m handling it,” Sam said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re speaking to me. And you’ve made your accusation. I’ve given you your answer. It wasn’t her. We’re done here.”

The finality in his voice was absolute. Mr. Brown seemed to realize he wasn’t getting past this wall of quiet, implacable resolve. He scoffed, his face twisting with frustration. He took a step back, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine. Have it your way. Protect your little wife.” He turned to go, but then he paused, tossing the words over his shoulder like a lit match into dry tinder. “You’re not always gonna be here, soldier.”

The world froze.

The insult to you was one thing. The threat, veiled and vile, hidden within those words, was another thing entirely.

In the space of a single heartbeat, Sam moved.

It wasn’t a blur of rage; it was a terrifyingly efficient and precise motion. He was down the porch steps and had closed the distance between them before Mr. Brown could take step away. Sam’s left hand shot out, fist curling tightly into the man’s polo shirt collar, twisting it and lifting up just enough to cut off his air and stand him on his toes.

Mr. Brown’s eyes bulged, all the bluster instantly replaced by pure, startled fear. He was a large man, but Sam made him look small.

Sam brought his face close, his voice a low, deadly whisper that carried to where you stood, cold and clear.

“Listen to me,” Sam growled, the soldier in him present in every hardened syllable. “What happens on my property, to my wife, is my business. Always. Whether I’m here or not. You look at her, you speak to her, you even think about her in a way I don’t like, and the last thing you’ll ever worry about is a fucking fence post. Do you understand me?”

He gave him a small, sharp shake, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize every single word.

Mr. Brown, choking slightly, could only manage a frantic, wide-eyed nod.

Sam held him there for a second longer, letting the promise sink in, before releasing him with a shove that sent him stumbling back. “Now get off my property.”

Mr. Brown didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled away, not looking back, his dignity in tatters around his expensive loafers.

Sam watched him until he was gone, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. Then he turned. The fierce protectiveness in his eyes softened the moment they landed on you. He walked back to you, each step measured and calm again.

He stopped in front of you, his big hands coming up to cradle your arms, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your skin. “You okay?” he asked, his voice back to its normal, gentle rumble.

You nodded, reaching up to place a hand on his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart under your palm. “I am. Are you?”

He leaned forward and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m perfect,” he murmured against your skin. Then he looked over at your tomato plants. “Now. Tell me what you need help tying up.”

École Polytechnique Massacre

On 6 December 1989, a man entered a mechanical engineering classroom at Montreal’s École Polytechnique armed with a semi-automatic weapon. After separating the women from the men, he opened fire on the women while screaming, “You are all feminists.”