The only shame is to have none. – Pascal

Jane and I are taking the grandkids and their mom to the Stratford Festival in Ontario for a week of plays and pleasantness. Stratford, with its theaters, hospitality, modesty, courtesy and cheer, is my idea of heaven. How, I can’t help wondering, ambling the tree-lined streets of well-tended homes, did Canadians escape America’s addiction to ostentation, competition, wealth? No doubt I romanticize – people are people everywhere, with the usual failings – but these Canadians strike me as nicer, happier, more generous than my countrymen. Jane and I visited Stratford early in our romance. A photo of us arm in arm on the shore of Stratford’s polite, gentle Avon River smiles at me from my wall. I smile back.

We booked our week before the head of our government declared his – therefore our – desire to annex Canada as our fifty-first state. A one-time real estate developer, he seems to view nations as properties to be bought, sold, and mauled for profit. His appetite for Canada surprised pretty much everybody in either country. Friends collaborate, congratulate, condole, they do not acquire one another. In most lexicons, “I want to own you” is not a great come-on line.

I anticipate a memorable week in Stratford, full of love, laughter, and surprises. The most precious gift a grandparent can give is memories. Long absent, my grandmothers warm me daily, like a brazier in my soul. (I never really knew my grandfathers.)

I’m eager. But thanks to the weird uncouth insulting behavior of our elected leader, I’m also ashamed. How am I to explain our nation’s conduct to our wary hosts? They will be gracious, of course – they are Canadians – but behind their affability will quiver suspicion and hurt feelings. We – which means I – have insulted, assaulted them with our obnoxious condescension. That these days “we” no longer means “I”, that I shriek with horror at my people’s buffoonish swagger, will be lost on them. I am of the tribe Americanus, therefore capable of such vileness. No mea culpa can cleanse me of that stain.

Would I have suggested this trip if the Nameless One had already floated – if float’s the right verb – his offensive invitation? I suspect not. No one enjoys feeling ashamed. True, I’m innocent of the insult, but guilt differs from shame. Guilt means you did something bad; shame that you are something bad – a crucial difference.

With luck we’ll rid ourselves of this incubus, but never can we recover our honor. I will always be of the despicable tribe Americanus, wherever I hide. I used to find the anthem “Proud to be an American” corny but shared the sentiment; now I cringe. I am not proud, I am ashamed – but what can I do about it? Be better, demonstrate by my actions I am not infected with our national disease. That’s something, I suppose, but not enough.

The devil knows no shame. The devil’s motto is “Whatever works for me.” The devil mocks morality as a ludicrous attempt to shackle ambition. Winners win, in the devil’s book, and losers lose. Heaven is a retirement home for losers.

More than once in my days, greed or lust got the better of me and the devil whispered in my ear. Who hasn’t been Faust! Yet we can be saved – from ourselves – by love. Knowing better, we can be better – but it takes work.

While I curse the Nameless One for my shame, I thank him for my purpose. I live to defy and defeat him and his. We will be better, Canada. Wait and see.