As the United States gears up for a political brawl over immigration next year, one of the concerns shaping the debate will be the fear that English-speaking Americans will be culturally and linguistically overwhelmed by newcomers, many of them Spanish-speaking.
An example of what is in store was the autumn cyberspat between the Telemundo anchor and MSNBC host José Díaz-Balart and the talk-radio host Laura Ingraham. Ingraham was annoyed because Díaz-Balart had pronounced a Hispanic name with the correct accent and conducted a bilingual interview in too "herky-jerky" a manner.
For me, reading about the contretemps in the lobby of Canada's House of Commons was a moment of cognitive dissonance. In our parliament, Anglophone members speak terrible French every day. Our accents are so bad that sometimes our Francophone colleagues can't quite hide their winces.
This butchering of Flaubert's native tongue is the foundation of a larger accommodation that Canada — and in particular, English-speaking Canada — has made with a world in which our language may be dominant, but isn't alone. We are far from perfect — our failings are particularly egregious in our treatment of our aboriginal people — but when it comes to living in a multilingual, multicultural world, we get a lot right.
"Multiculturalism isn't just about statistics, it is about attitude. It is about seeing diversity as strength," Henry Kim, the director of Toronto's dazzling new Aga Khan Museum, one of the world's finest collections of Islamic art, told me. "Canadians believe that blending makes you better and stronger."
Kim is a Chicago-born Korean-American. He doesn't speak Korean, and his mother baked apple pie "badly." Kim suggests that his homeland is still uneasy about incoming cultures: "Canada has a minister of multiculturalism. Can you imagine that in Washington?"
One of Kim's favorite examples of Canada's embrace of diversity is "Little Mosque on the Prairie," a sitcom about exactly that. One of mine is a "social experiment" staged in Hamilton, Ontario, a working-class city southwest of Toronto, after the death of its newly and tragically famous son, Nathan Cirillo, the reservist who was shot in Ottawa in October by a gunman who had expressed sympathy with radical Islam.
One actor stood at a bus stop in traditional Muslim dress. The other loudly argued that the Muslim could be a terrorist and tried to stop him from boarding the bus. Over and over, bystanders defended the Muslim-looking man. The experiment finally had to be stopped when the actor playing a bigot was punched by an offended local.