Oh Canadia

カナダ

Some have noticed a recent spat of maple-scented glee in my response to the elections in Canada this year and wondered what, if any, connection I may have to the Greater North. In all truth, no citizenship or cultural ties have ever bound me, but I have had a strange kinship with Canada since early childhood.


Around the age of seven my family moved from Northern Wisconsin to East-central Indiana. Prior to the move, I was completely unaware that people in my part of the world spoke in a different manner than people in other parts of the world. I would soon become rudely awakened to this distinction as my "Hoosier" classmates delighted in relentlessly repeating back every one of my unique pronunciations. Carry the long "a" in words like "bag" or "bacon" a little longer than expected and an entire classroom will turn and sneer derisively, I came to learn. Initially, the shock of it all caused my imagination to morph their so-called "Hoosier hospitality" into something more true to the spirit of the encounters. Their cheeks would grow scales, their eyes would set back and glow red, and their teeth would glisten jagged in predatory anticipation of my next verbal cue. I was a guppy in a school of piranha.

Linguistics aside, we all actually became friends rather easily. We played kickball as often as allowed, commiserated over bland mounds of unknown meat-like substances in our lunches, and orchestrated massive Lego space battles with joyful abandon. Let the accent slip, however, and the piranha would come swimming back hungry as ever with phrases like, "Go back to Canadia!" or "Cheese for the hoser, cheese for the hoser!"

"I'm from Wisconsin!" I'd stammer in exasperation. "Do you guys even know where Canada is?"
"Cheese for the hoser! Cheese for the hoser!"
"No, seriously, I'm from Wisconsin. It's another state, you guys!"
"MOOOOOOOOOOSE!"

Indiana, as it turns out, is not known for its stellar educational standards.

For my first several years in the state I was an unofficial foreign exchange student from the mystical frozen Northland where everyone carries hockey sticks to defend themselves from the rabid beavers wandering the streets and also, of course, to knock down all the freshly ripened cheese from the maple trees during harvest season.

As I came to learn more about Indiana and its history (see also: its educational history), I found myself actually wishing all the more to be a real Canadian. Nevermind that I didn't know any Canadians yet, anything foreign seemed better than the land of the corn and basketball. For example, when it came time for each state to design a quarter that would represent it in our national currency, Indiana chose a car and a road. "Crossroads of America" was the motto. Basically, even the state tourism board acknowledged that it's a place for passing through on the way to something better. No need to stop here, folks. Please enjoy driving one of our several highways and tasting our traditional, um...well, we've got Subway and McDonalds. Rumor has it we may even get an Applebees soon.

Indiana History

As far as I knew, being from Wisconsin already made me at least partially Canadian by proxy. I used to walk to school in full snow gear in kindergarten, I had relatives that harvested and processed their own maple syrup, and my parents even went on their first date to a hockey game. How much more did I need?

Then, one brilliant sunny day at summer camp in my teen years I finally passed that milestone in every young man's life when he meets a real Canadian girl for the first time and tries to impress her with all of one year's worth of high school French as taught to him by a German immigrant.

"Wow, you speak French," ...mon dieu, what a smile... "That's so Canadian" ...mince alors, her freckles, vraiment jolies... "I can't speak a word."  ...oh, well, my éducation is clearly a waste then...

After university, I came to have much more meaningful interactions with many Canadiens during my years as an English teacher in Japan. The country that they represented seemed to me like so much of what I wish my own country of origin could be. Never pushy, never rude. Always emphatically deferring to the needs of others with a level of politeness that borders on self-flagellation. Treating nature like a vital resource in itself rather than unexploited capital. Favoring policies that preserve the health and safety of all people far and away above any misguided notions of individual right to violence. Immigration policy that allows skilled foreign-born to remain working in their field rather than ending up like so many in the US driving taxis or waiting tables (1/5 of Canada is foreign born. Very diverse place.). Sensibility over flash. Substance over style. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one.

Even the currency is logical

Along came Harper. I concede that I do not follow Canadian politics closely, but what I have heard about the Harper administration demonstrates a policy that would seek to undermine and betray everything I have come to appreciate in my Canadian friends. It was a government that to me seemed much like the ugliest parts of Canada's southern neighbor: xenophobic, self-interested, soulless. Having spent many of the Bush years abroad, I can relate to the feeling of carrying a passport issued by a government that in no way represents the open-minded, open-hearted attitude of the traveler. Though I do not put much faith in politics, I do cheer the shedding of the politics of fear and isolationism. Here's hoping for better days.


Whatever may come, Canada, this faux Canadien has been and always shall be your friend.

"Myths of Muhammad"

     I've been spending my summer in rather diverse company at a mediation clinic that focuses on assisting immigrant communities in resolving disputes without resorting to the court system. At one of our first training seminars I made an instant bond with someone from the northern coast of Africa  when we simultaneously realized that the role-play practice sessions gave us the opportunity to chew up the scenery like Captain Kirk on an episode of Maury Povich facing all his green-skinned baby mommas. 

     Another person at the training, however, did not have a similar bonding experience. Knowing the North African to be a follower of Islam, Señora Fuzzypickles (not actual name), chose to begin their interactions by posing uninvited challenging questions about that most heart-warming of ice-breaker topics: religion. Fuzzypickles even went so far as to print out a few pages from an anti-Islam website and hand them to the unsuspecting foreigner saying, "There are some things you should know about your prophet." For, truly, five minutes of viewing the very first page to appear in a negatively worded Google search are enough to debunk an entire lifetime of cultural heritage.

     Don't get me wrong, I'm as skeptical as any aspiring Vulcan should be, especially regarding religion. I do not, however, approve of singling out the only member of a particular religious group in a room and insulting her beliefs with poorly researched blasphemy. The sources cited in the website, as it turns out, are not only non-cannon but also about as respected among Muslim scholars as the Shattnerverse is to, well, probably anyone but William Shattner (if you don't get the reference, good for you). Imagine a Christian from Tennessee moving to Egypt only to have a local shove a paper in his face and say, "You don't know the real Jesus! This anonymous person who read the Gospel of Thomas knows the real Jesus!" 

     I know what it's like to be singled out and ridiculed (rap plug!) , and I wish to dispel such nonsense for others. The North African did not push her own beliefs on anyone or even ask to begin debating religion. I could sense some real pain when she described the situation to me, so I decided to act. The next week at training, I arrived with a slightly edited print-out from the same website and said, "Now, here are some real truths about your prophet!" My truths were much more well received.

   My edited truths are below, but they will make more sense when compared with the original text which can be found here: pfffft.

Rock Climbing

危険！

A friend requested a few changes to a picture of a friend of his rock climbing. Naturally, I obliged. Specifically, he wanted a shark with lasers and a pet cat. Here are the results:

What does this have to do with legal studies? Good question. Nothing. Absolutely, nothing. I guess I'm using this blog to apply for other creative side jobs in case this whole law thing falls through.

Unnecessary Antics

不必要

　　　In civil litigation courts grant a fair deal of leeway for injuries sustained in sport.  To heavy a hand might deter participants from full good faith involvement.  Players assume the risk of injury.  Can't sue for something that's just a necessary part of the game.  The same goes for spectators in many circumstances.  If you twist your wrist trying to catch a foul ball, don't expect any judge to grant you damages. Just part of the game, after all.

   Most injuries that occur in sport, even for spectators, could not be prevented without seriously altering the way the game is played.  You can't surround an entire baseball stadium in protective glass to avoid errant foul balls.  Teams just have to make sure that the fans are aware of the situation and hope they keep aware.  Loose balls are a necessary part of the game.  

   After an injury at a minor league baseball game in Rancho Cucamonga (one of my favorite cities to pronounce out loud), a California court had to consider a new variation on spectator litigation:

   Are mascots a necessary part of the game?

  

"Tremor" seen here before devouring 5 hot dogs, 7 beers, a box of Cracker Jacks, and 2 players yet to be named.

   The Rancho Cucamonga (cannot say that name too many times in a day) mascot, Tremor, was scuttling about entertaining fans when a foul ball flew into his section of the seats.  As it so happened, the very same fan he had been distracting from behind with his tail was standing directly in the path of the ball.  Bonk ensued.

   If mascots are necessary to the course of a baseball game, then the injury would be an inherent risk (no liability).  Said the court, "foul balls represent an inherent risk to spectators attending baseball games...Can the same thing be said about the antics of the mascot? We think not."*

  Wonder how they'd feel about the sausage race...

  *Lowe v. California League of Professional Baseball

Cleaning with Gasoline

爆発ネズミ

(click to enlarge)

Easements

地役権

   Today in property class we discussed easements. Basically, an easement is what happens when a property owner allows an outside party to use part of the land. This usually occurs when a municipality builds pipes, electric wires, or sidewalks through someone's private land. It also occurs when a property owner allows passage to outsiders through a path or road on the property.

   One of the cases we read on the topic concerned a dispute between neighbors over an easement. Neighbor A required the use of a path on Neighbor B's land to reach the main road. This continued for years without issue until B decided to build a dam on his property. The dam, as dams tend to do, caused water to build up near the path, muddying it to the point where vehicles couldn't pass anymore.

   Introducing the case, the professor quipped, "He couldn't drive his Chevy to the levee until the levee was dry."

   A brief ovation followed.

The Soul of Wit

起きたらまだ恐竜がいた。

　　A Latin American literature course once introduced me to the imaginary wonders flash fiction could induce with Augosto Monterroso's tale, "Upon awakening, the dinosaur was still there." (Cuando despertó, el dinosaurio todavía estaba allí).

    That's not the title. That's the entire story. Readers are free to imagine the rest of the scenario by themselves, and, hoo boy is it fun. Time travel? Flintstones? Genetic engineering revival of extinct species à la Jurassic Park? Who would wake up next to a dinosaur? Seriously, who? Not only that, the response from the central figure isn't surprise or fear but merely, "oh, still here, eh?" So much to think about.

   American literature has a famous, albeit decidedly more tragic, take on flash fiction often erroneously attributed to Hemingway, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". 6 words that tell a great deal.

   Why talk of flash fiction? Well, today in my torts class I came across a line that sounded like a great flash fiction piece. The text is taken from a description of a case that I will not discuss here. Let your imagination fill in the gaps.


   "When the attendant turned on the electricity to start the ride, the mental patients began to converge on the plaintiff."*




*Text taken from Mark F. Grady's discussion of the case of Satcher v. James H. Drew Shows, Inc. in his casebook on torts.