Relevant Again: Mommy Are We Moving To Canada?

(Written in 2016) (Updated in 2025)

Oh, The Places You Could Go! (Just no longer Mexico or Canada, and probably not Greenland)

dana gonzalez

2016. Yesterday my 10-year old son spent a fair amount of time preparing me for a question he would be asking me at bedtime and noting that I HAD to answer it. The possibilities started swirling through my head:

“Are you really 39?” (Not even close!)
“Can I come back to life as a Jedi?” (Of course)
“Can you get a ticket for the names you call other people while you’re driving?” (I should)

These were all plausible issues I might have had to contend with, but after additional bedside stipulations from him – “Whatever you say is fine with me, I just really need to know and you HAVE to tell me the truth, because I might miss some of my friends, well, only two. . .” – I was guessing that the question had something to do with the likelihood (and his long awaited fantasy) of zombies walking among us. I was prepared for Zombies.

But from frickn’ left field comes: “Mommy, if Donald Trump wins the election, are we
moving to Canada?”

Oh the sweet relief that my worst fears had been just that. Cuz ya, I could definitely pursue
discourse about Zombies, but here had been a narrowly averted window for him to ask me
where did the rest of his piggy bank money go and I’d have had to confess. It’s pathetic and, I usually put it back. But sometimes I forget, which is exactly the time they remember they have some and want to make a withdrawal.

Anyway, relieved though I was, I responded with assuredness and authority. “No, what? Moving?! No! Where did you? But.. What?!” All fine responses for a bobble head. Apparently the world news I’d been getting from Facebook put me at a disadvantage, because I was not aware that there was a Plan B. My assumption had been that, as with the rest of our presidents, we’d stick the new guy with more responsibility than God, criticize the way he breathes, snark about the size of his wife’s ass, then crucify him for the state of affairs that had been in the making since the poor guy was a toddler. Here was my 10-year-old presenting an alternative!

Drastic as his concerns may’ve been, however, I examined my son’s brief history on the planet. At 10 he’d already lived in Estonia, China, Illinois and most recently, Colorado. As far as he was concerned, if another country offered, mommy just might pack up and leave.

Ironically, I had willingly moved to the countries in which I lived: Estonia, Turkey and China. These are places citizens have historically fled. My record preceded me.

Did his logic lead him to believe that if I left a perfectly good, world superpower for the relative discomfort of places barely secular, formerly Soviet-Occupied or currently Communist, that, presented with Trump, I’d surely head for the hills? And why not Canada? They are essentially Americans but with good healthcare.

If my son could have, at this point picked a party, there are certain indicators that Bernie Sanders would be his man. Sometimes he and his friends wanted to ride bikes to Target and I would give him cash to buy crap. He’d come back empty-handed, having. given all of his money to a homeless person. Most likely, one whose sign said “VET” which to him meant he was helping the animals by getting a veterinarian back on their feet.

I asked my mini Socialist wherever did he hear about people fleeing to Canada in the wake
of a Trump triumph and he explained “Mom, where does anyone hear about anything? Google!” So I looked it up and sure enough there was an Island using the prospect of a Trump Presidency to boost its economy. The locale, Cape Breton. appeared to be dead set on leveraging our misfortune by luring us with its cuteness and availability. In effect, a place willing to welcome American “political refugees?” I know we don’t have the karma for that.

Where though, did the idea to look this up on Google come from? Turned out parents had been discussing their options at home and kids had been taking away bits and pieces. Apparently I should have been talking more openly about politics at home, but I try to limit foul language to offensive driving.

And what could I possibly say? It would be easier to explain how it is that I’m still 39 despite published facts indicating otherwise. Or why I took money from his piggy bank. Or why he’s not allowed to use foul language and I’m sometimes caught swearing like a sailor behind the wheel.

My view of world affairs lately spirals down to the question of how is all of it going to affect my children. I see my blossoming good samaritan handing out my cash because someone asked for it and seemed to be in need. If Trump somehow, unfathomably, unconscionably wins this election, my son could very well become a teenager under the governance of a guy with the moral integrity of a ferret. Our kids need better leadership.

I asked our cat, Elvis what he thought. “Would you want to leave the US – and move to Canada if Trump becomes the president of our country?” He yawned and said, “Actually, I’m thinking Mexico, if they’d have us.” Averting my eyes while he pursued an intimate bath, I asked him why Mexico. And he said with another yawn and a stretch, “Well, if the orange man becomes president, I want to make sure there’s a wall between me and him.”

Good thinking, Elvis. Walls can be good. We now need one between the US and Canada. Not because they’ll try to get into the US – who would at this point? But because the most bonafide, genuine, guileless society on the planet hates us. We need protection from the snowballs, spitwads and rubberbands coming our way.