Neighbours, Not Strangers: Remembering When America Felt Like Home

Growing up near the US–Canada border, I always felt like America was my second home.

We'd pile into a neighbour’s Ford minivan—skis and gear strapped to the box on top—and all I had was a scribbled note from my mom saying I was allowed to cross the border in their car.

We crossed for cheaper gas or their version of Costco.
We’d make back-to-school pilgrimages to Target, Ross Dress for Less, and Abercrombie & Fitch.

At 2 a.m., we’d laugh with border guards as we confessed we’d driven down just for Krispy Kreme.

Spring break meant cramming into cars, heading for Southern California with nothing but a backpack and a paper map.

Some of my relatives moved south to escape the cold, setting up lives in Fresno or San Francisco.

We made friends in small farming towns a stone’s throw from the border—jet-skiing in flooded ditches, celebrating birthdays, and falling into our first crushes.

To me, America wasn’t foreign.
It was where friends were made.
Where first kisses happened.

Where Cold Stone Creamery and In-N-Out Burger were destinations, not just restaurants.

But lately, something’s changed.
The warmth I once felt seems to be fading.
There’s growing distrust, and American products we once relied on are now quietly pushed aside.
The friendly neighbour is starting to feel… distant.

These memories—weekends around a campfire, a red VW packed with friends on the road to Disneyland, writers swapping battle scenes at a conference—may seem trivial on a global scale.

But aren’t the small, sweet moments the ones that truly shape us?
Aren’t they the ones that show us who we are—and who we could be?

Maybe what we’re losing isn't just access or convenience.
Maybe we’re losing a piece of our childhoods.
A shared game of ball hockey between two friends—one from each side of the street, or the border.