It was a sunny day. The kind of day where you feel smug about living in Canada because it isn’t -40°C. I was walking with my toddler through our very proper suburban neighborhood — think hydrangeas, Ring cameras, and passive-aggressive lawn signs about dandelions.
No sidewalk, of course. Because sidewalks are apparently optional in neighborhoods where everyone drives a Tesla. So, like any human avoiding moving traffic, I briefly stepped onto a patch of someone’s lawn.
You’d think I’d set it on fire.
Out came the man of the manor — eyes wide, jaw clenched, fingers pointing as if he were casting a curse. I couldn’t make out the words (probably for the best), but the tone was universal: How dare you?
Apparently, I had committed suburban sin #1: touching grass that wasn’t mine. While brown.
Welcome to Canada! (Terms & Conditions Apply)
Canada loves immigrants. Says so on the website. Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada practically sends you e-vites with glitter.
“Come help our economy! Come enrich our culture!”
(But also: don’t live too close, don’t cook too loudly, and definitely don’t step on our lawns.)
So we do all the things.
We get jobs.
We pay taxes.
We overpay for housing and pretend we enjoy kale.
We even start saying “sorry” when someone else bumps into us.
But one moment of “incorrect foot placement,” and suddenly you’re Public Enemy Number Lawn.
Ah, Canadian Politeness™
The thing about Canadian politeness is: it’s a performance. A delightful one! Like Broadway with better snow tires.
Everyone’s smiling. Until they’re not.
Everyone’s welcoming. Until your accent shows.
Everyone’s “so nice.” Until economic downturns hit — and somehow, brown resumes are the first to get shredded like cheese.
You realize pretty quickly that politeness isn’t the same as respect. It’s just better branding.
You Can Buy the House, But Not the Neighborhood
You saved. You sacrificed. You bought the house. You even learned how to separate your compost. You thought that made you part of the community.
Wrong.
You’re part of the real estate market.
You’re part of the diversity stats.
You’re part of the multicultural food festival once a year.
But one misstep — literal or social — and the mask slips. And someone like Lawn Guy reminds you:
You’re still the guest at a dinner party where you brought the food, but they won’t give you a seat at the head table.
For My Fellow Foot-Offenders
To every newcomer who’s ever been glared at for grilling the “wrong” meat or playing music at a respectable volume of joy — I salute you.
To every brown person who’s bought the home, trimmed the hedges, baked banana bread for the school fundraiser — and still got the “where are you from originally?” question — I see you.
We’re not ruining the country.
We’re just walking through it.
Occasionally on a lawn.
Dear Mr. Backyard Border Patrol,
Don’t worry. I’ll avoid your sacred grass.
But I won’t apologize for existing in your line of sight.
Because Canada isn’t just yours.
It’s ours.
I just hope someday we all get to walk through it — freely, respectfully, and yes, sometimes accidentally — without being made into the villain of a suburban soap opera.
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