I hardly ever have reason to complain about you, but today on my way home I was greeted at the Nexus lane with, “Have a great day, Steve!” Uhh … I don’t much like getting ‘Steve’ from cashiers and telemarketers, and you have no reason to assume I even go by that nickname. Sure, we’re a stereotypically friendly people, but you think that might be taking it just a step too far?

Cheers,

The Alien Commuter

I understand you’re upset, and I sympathize, that a relative of yours is having difficulty with an instructor here at Wayne State. I don’t doubt it’s true. However, it’s not a situation that involves me and my department in any way, and just like I don’t know Suzie from Canada, I don’t know Johnny from Wayne State either. It’s a big place. And, as for whatever my free advice is worth, don’t take it as gospel, because to be honest, I give the shortest fully truthful answers possible when at the border, including to you. Because, you see, while you are already at work, I’m not, and am looking to get there as quickly as possible.

Sincerely,

The Alien Commuter

Wait, anthropologists?

Inevitably, I end up conversing with the border guards, mostly on the US side, about my profession. Incidentally, I always say I am a ‘professor of anthropology’ rather than ‘anthropologist’ because it says I’m a professor (which I am) on my work visa, and I don’t want any confusion. And that’s when the fun begins.

Here’s what not to say:

“What do you do?”
“I’m a professor of anthropology.”
“Oh, you mean like stones and bones and stuff?”
“Well, actually, I’m a linguistic anthropologist whose research links mathematical cognition and culture.”
“…”

Here’s what to say:

“What do you do?”
“I’m a professor of anthropology.”
“Oh, you mean like stones and bones and stuff?”
“Yup.”

It’s best just to nod rather than try to stammer out an explanation of your research agenda. You are, after all, being interrogated by agents of the state, even though it’s hardly apparent. And they don’t really want a lengthy disquisition. But most of them actually are interested in what I do, at least to the degree that it doesn’t hold up the works if there’s a line of traffic behind me. The time that I was driving to a conference to talk about Paleolithic number concepts and could tell the guard, honestly, that I was going to talk about how Neanderthals counted, I think that really made his day. They may not know much, but we’re all agreed that we’re here for the same purpose, which is to facilitate the movement of me through the Maple Curtain, as long as I don’t say or do anything stupid. And if I can tell an interesting story and make someone’s day more interesting, well, consider it part of my service to the community. I’m not about to list it in my tenure file, but it’s a thing.

And yet, and yet, every so often, I am just floored by a question, and have absolutely no idea what to say, like the time last fall when I gave the standard answer and the guard looked at me and asked in all seriousness, “So, did you guys figure out what happened to Atlantis?”

Today, in an opinion piece in the windsoriteDOTca blog, ‘The Identity Underneath Fingernails‘, Brendan Houghton writes, “Windsorites have often been considered the odd ones. Always different, we speak with a different accent than our American cousins, yet we identify with them more than our compatriots ever could. We are looked upon as too American by other Canadians and too Canadian by Americans.” There is some truth to that. I’ve spent most of my life in southern Ontario, and Windsor is different. I’m not sure how American it is, though: I think the truth of the matter is that it’s Michigan, not America as a whole, to which Windsor is pulled, with all the good and bad that that entails. And I also think you don’t have to scratch far below the surface to see a very different set of influences: French, of course, but also small-town Ontario of the sort that is eminently familiar to me, particularly out in the county.

We moved here in mid-2008, just as everything was falling to pieces economically, so many of our initial impressions of Windsor were affected by that experience. Since Windsor is changing so rapidly (again, for the better and worse, as almost everyone agrees), it will be interesting to see where we end up. For now, I remain, your correspondent, the (double) alien commuter.

Seems appropriate for this blog, don’t you think?

This was taken this morning, and is the remnants of what, just two weeks ago, was a substantial layer of snow even by Windsor standards.  As of today, this is what it is.  Pathetic, really.  Actually, it’s less than that now, since it’s been raining most of the day.

When we moved here three years ago from Montreal, we didn’t notice much at first.  We moved in the summer, and like Montreal, Windsor has hot summers.  But once December rolled around, we started to realize something was amiss.   You see, it would snow every so often, of course; this is Canada, after all.  But then it would all melt.  All of it.  In the middle of winter.  And of course, more snow would fall, but the thing is, you can pretty much be guaranteed that it won’t last a month.

We had just come off the winter of 07-08 in Montreal, which was by far the worst I can remember in terms of snow; my wife and I also have fond recollections of the Great Ice Storm of ’98.  Between January and March 2008 Montreal was dumped with metres of snow, so much so that the snowplows had nowhere to put it.  So after we realized how much milder Windsor winters were going to be, I took an oath never to complain about the snow here. Like most Canadians, I had had no idea how warm Windsor is, being used to much colder.   This really is the warmest place I’ve ever lived, especially in the winter.   To live in a place where the snow melts regularly is a form of bliss for this southern Ontario boy.

Talk to most Americans about the weather here in Detroit/Windsor, though, and you’ll hear a very different story.  I know plenty of people who drive everywhere on Wayne State’s campus in the winter months to avoid the cold, even though it’s a maximum ten minute walk to get from place to place.   It’s hard for me to imagine the city as a cold place.  Yet most Americans have no idea how warm Detroit is, being used to much warmer.

I must say, though, that my oath has had to be modified: while I won’t complain about the snow or the cold, I will most certainly complain about the sorry state of snow clearance in Michigan.  Here in Windsor it’s fine; of course, my neighbourhood street doesn’t get plowed until the next day, usually (although sometimes they surprise us), but the main streets and highways are almost always clear.  Cross over the bridge and you’re in Deathtrap: Detroit.  It’s not even the residential streets, since I don’t usually drive on them.  The freeway on-ramps and off-ramps are the worst.   To be driving through two sets of tire treads on the on-ramp to I-75 off the Ambassador Bridge, three days after the last snowfall, is unconscionable.  I only drive about 12 minutes in Detroit on most workdays, and I spend those 12 minutes in utter terror, and I’m Canadian and am used to heavy snowfall (see: above).   While I’m sure this has something to do with the sorry state of the Michigan economy it is utterly absurd that this should be the case.

Of course, now that I’ve written this post, I’m sure we’re going to get another snowfall, despite the warm prognostication for the next few days.    As long as it waits until next week, when I’m off Spring Break and could actually enjoy a snow day, you’ll hear no complaints from me.

And then, almost without exception, comes the question: some variation of, “Isn’t it a long commute?”   When non-Detroiters ask me this, I answer cheerfully and happily, because I’m proud to live in a transnational city and most people, Canadian and American alike, don’t really have a sense that Windsor really is economically and socially part of Detroit,.  But I get asked this all the time by people who have lived there their entire lives.  I’m not sure whether, if anyone looked at a map, they would ask the question, since obviously it’s only a couple of kilometres between the two city centres.  It’s about 12 km as the crow flies from my house to my workplace at Wayne State University.

The answer to their question is, “Not really.”  It takes me about 20 minutes to get from my house to the parking lot at work, and 13 of those minutes are spent driving in Windsor, and another 2 at the border, and only 5 actually in Detroit.   If I lived near the bridge, my commute could be maybe 12 minutes.   Now, coming back from work is somewhat more convoluted, due to the ridiculously complex route one must take to negotiate the duty free area on the Detroit side, thanks to Matty Moroun’s obstinacy.  Thanks a lot, Matty!  But it’s still no more than 27 minutes or so, less if the traffic is light. And, I should add, the traffic normally is very light – I’ve seen real rush hours in Toronto and Montreal, and this isn’t one.

But the question they’re asking really isn’t about the commute.   There really is a sense among many Detroiters that Windsor is a magical faraway place, even though you can look right across the river.  There is an insularity in the question, a sense that it must be a terrible chore to come all the way over from Canada, when in fact many of my colleagues live in Ypsilanti or Ann Arbor or Troy or Sterling Heights, all of which are geographically far more remote.    This is not to say that there are no differences between the two sides of the river, but Windsorites actually know what those differences are.    So you can’t blame long border lines since 9/11, because those lines go both ways, and normally the traffic is fine, often nonexistent. Plenty of Detroiters just never go to Windsor, or maybe to the casino once a year for some tax-free winnings or, more likely, losings, for reasons entirely unrelated to convenience.

And it’s more than insularity – it’s the sense you get from some people that why on earth would anyone choose to live in Windsor when you could live in the American suburbs?  What possible reason would a Canadian have for wanting to actually live in Canada?  Actually, what possible reason would anyone have for wanting to be Canadian as opposed to American?   The more obnoxious among them, the hardcore nativists, are really challenging my right to live where I live and work where I do.  For these, the commute serves as a metaphor for the undesirability of anyone crossing the border for any reason.

So if you are talking to me, rather than ask about the commute, ask me about Matty Moroun. At least on that issue, Windsor and Detroit are on the same side of the bridge.

It may be surprising to some of you to learn that in the 1920s, it was the US-Canada border that was the source of most tension over illegal immigration, with histrionics over illegal nonunion Canadian labour crossing the Detroit river in rowboats to work in automotive plants.   Thomas Klug’s article, ‘Residents by Day, Visitors by Night’ (Michigan Historical Review, 2008, 34(2): 75-98) details the complex history of the alien commuter status with specific reference to the Detroit-Windsor crossing.  Perhaps the strangest legal fiction in this status is the idea that alien commuters were residents of their workplaces in the US by day, and then every evening, went for an overnight visit to their homes in Canada.

Legally, I am not an alien commuter, yet.  I’m still going through the interminable and sisyphean process, which even with the support of my employer is going to take a while longer.   But I most certainly am an alien.   Like ten thousand or more Windsorites, on a variety of visa statuses, I move easily between two worlds.  And let’s not forget that the bridge and tunnel crowd moves both ways – both the guy who sold us our Toyota (gasp!) and the woman who does my taxes (ugh!) are Americans hiding out in Canada.

As an anthropologist, my job is to observe the weirdness of places and people, and from my vantage, I look northward across the river to our ‘southern’ neighbo(u)rs.   I am the alien anthropologist of legend, sent to observe the strange rituals of a bizarre land.  Be afraid.