The following is a story left in the comments by our own, Johnny U, followed by an observation of my own.
At first no one noticed him.
He stood on that wide sidewalk on Wellington Street. Passersby ignored him as they did every other weirdo sign holder standing in front of the Canadian Parliament. Abortionists, anti-abortionists, native rights, Free Palestine, Pro-Israel, save the bees, save the planet–you name it and you would find the protester for the cause on any given day. You even found Freedom Convoy junkies left over from that historic event. Somehow they never went home.
“I like your sign,” came the voice. At first he didn’t hear it. His mind had drifted up into the stunning Saturday morning blue sky. He was three hours already on his spot.
“Pardon?”
“Your sign. I. Like it very much.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m glad.”
“Can I ask you what kind of reaction you get from people?” The man asking the question was a journalist, photographer and blogger.
“Well, I don’t incite neutrality,” he started with a smirk. The man was older than middle age but not yet old.
“–Sorry I forgot to ask your name. Sorry to interrupt.”
“My name is Harry Flemig.”
“Your sign says, Make Canada the 51st State! That’s pretty, pretty, uh, what’s the word I’m looking for–.”
“Bold?”
“Exactly. Bold. How are you received?”
“I get spat on. Many people use foul language to express themselves. Others try to pull my sign away. Some simply glance and shake their heads in passing. If I’m lucky they stop to berate me, which gives me an opportunity to explain myself.”
“Are there no positive responses?”
“Oh, there are. In fact you would be surprised at how many.”
The journalist listened intently, even microscopically as Harry Flemig spoke. He had learned to do this over many years speaking with hundreds of people. He listened to every lilt and cadence in the voice, seeking signs of imbalance, extremism or lunacy that so often inflicted street protesters. He had been fooled before by investing in people who presented as normal but were not. Now his ears were finely honed–not perfect, mind you–but pretty darned good. “What do you tell those who stop to talk?”
“Well, first of all they’re surprised when I tell them I’m a patriotic Canadian. It’s become fairly predictable, actually. Impossible, they reply. So I go on to explain.”
The journalist heard no alarm bells, yet. Harry Flemig looked like a father of three out of suburbia. The only distinction in this regard was that there was no beer belly or sign of bureaucratic ease. No, this Harry Flemig was a fit and straight and serious man. He was not so intense as to be off-putting in any way, but conveyed instead a relaxed, confident sense of assuredness. He was tight but not tightly wound. “Please go on, then, and explain.”
“Simply put, it is the patriot’s duty to criticize his government and his country. This is wisdom from James Joyce.”
“But people will respond that you’re not merely criticizing your country, but calling for its end.”
“Correct! And my response to that is that the end has already occurred. And what I am calling for is a route back to what we stood for when we were a great nation. When we were freer and less socialist than even the United States. Do you know that in the 1950s we were even richer on a per capita basis than our American friends?”
“I did not know that.”
“Right. Most people don’t. So it is that I explain the only path back to the Canada we were is under the American umbrella, so to speak. The counter-revolution we are witnessing under President Trump has made this a possibility. Otherwise, at our late stage of Chinese-propelled takeover, this country is already lost.”
“Wow. You ARE a lightning rod.”
“I’m afraid so. But I knew this would be the case, which is why I’m here.”
Just then an old lady passed by and dropped a dollar into the bucket sitting at Harry’s feet. On the bucket was printed the same slogan written on his sign. “Thank you,” said Harry.
“What’s the money for?”
“I want to start a new political party.”
“Based on what platform?”
“On this,” replied Harry, bobbing his sign slightly.
“And on what else?”
“Nothing. Isn’t this enough?” he answered with a chuckle.
“You’ve got a point there,” said the journalist. “But you’ve got me thinking–.”
“–Good–.”
“We hear conservatives in this country reacting to Trump’s 51st state stuff with sort of confused hostility.”
“Precisely! How well put! They don’t know what to make of it all. On the one hand they think they are obliged to oppose any suggestion that we as a nation become, somehow, subordinated by annexation. On the other hand a little voice says it’s the right thing. Once I explain to them a few facts, though, they cannot un-see the clarity. It’s one of those situations where people only have to hear someone else say the words that congeal the notions in their head. It is academic after that.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t quite get it. What can you say to conservatives that would possibly get them to agree with you?”
Harry Flemig paused to put his sign down, leaning it against his body as he pulled a water bottle from his pocket and drank. Another man passed by dropping a coin into the bucket.
“How much do you make on an average day?” The journalist asked.
“Oh, three, maybe four-hundred dollars.”
The journalist was shocked. “You’re not serious.”
“Yes. And that is without saying a word.”
“OK, so back to what you say to conservatives.”
“It’s very simple. Basically, I know that about twenty percent of the population is close to being with me already.”
“How on Earth can you possibly know this?”
“Because this is approximately the demographic that didn’t take the Covid injections.”
“Well, alright, go on.”
“Twenty-plus percent of the population already sees and agrees with the state of communism in Canada. Once I point out how important Canada is to the United States with its economic needs, they start to see what I see. Twenty percent plus is more than the NDP polls. Besides, there’s not much point to a pantry without a kitchen. ”
“There’s the Chinese kitchen.”
“Not an option.”
“Agreed. And what else do you see?”
“I see it’s time to make a deal. This this is already academic. Inevitable. You cannot put it back in the bag. Want more clichés?”
“A deal with Trump? The King of the deal?”
“Exactly.”
“What kind of deal?”
“A sweetheart deal, that’s what kind. A deal of semi-autonomy, but with all the freedom, prosperity and protections written into the U.S. Constitution. A deal that makes Trump wonder what hit him– something he will respect us for. We would get the best of all worlds while recovering the country we once had, only under a different flag. It’s a small price to pay. And he gets what America needs, which is the one asset available within arm’s reach that makes it solvent, and provides all the raw materials it needs to repatriate its industrial base. Basically we can write our own ticket under the circumstances.”
The journalist thanked Harry Flemig for his time and walked on. Before leaving he took a photograph for his blog. Harry thanked him graciously. The journalist tried to think about everything that was wrong with what Harry had said. He was brave, but if he got any kind of traction they would tear him apart. He represented everything that complacent, stupid Canadians didn’t like. Yes, he would be a lightning rod and yes, once you saw what he saw you could not un-see it.
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