Canadians like to think we're nice. But loaning my car to a stranger made me question what that really means

My daughter challenged me to be more than just nice

This First Person is the experience of Manon Christensen, who lives in Barrie, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

My daughter, Anna, had just passed her road test and we were waiting for the paperwork when we overheard the conversation next to us.

“We cannot provide a car for your road test,” a clipped voice informed the man at the driving test centre counter.

The man’s shoulders sagged. The woman on the other side softened, letting her dispassionate clerk mask slip.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “You’ll have to rent one.’’

The man said he had no money to do so and they were at an impasse.

Anna levelled me with a stare that said: "We have a car. He does not."

The truth is that there is something uniquely Canadian about wanting to appear helpful without becoming meaningfully involved. We are nice. At least we’re very attached to the idea of ourselves that way. We also mind our own business, which means not admitting to eavesdropping. And we definitely don’t interfere.

But lending my car to a stranger? That hit differently. Liability. Risk. Inconvenience. The kind of thing sensible people know better than to do.

Anna’s eyebrows arched, waiting to see whom I would choose to be at that moment.

My tank and spirits were filled at a gas station on a lonely stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway

I don’t mentally switch places with people as much anymore. Somewhere along the way, I have learned to insulate myself from uncomfortable feelings. To emote less. It’s easier that way. As a born-and-raised Canadian, I’m good at the nothing-to-see-here game.

But for a moment, I let myself imagine being him. To be new to this country. I saw myself on my own moving to France, Japan and Kenya — in all the places I have felt out of my depth.

We introduced ourselves to Godwin, who immigrated from Nigeria less than a year ago. He took driving lessons, rented a car and failed his first attempt. He hadn’t been behind a wheel since. His next road test was the next day. A licence would mean more work options, he said.

I thought about all the other ways I wanted to spend an evening after work, but I told him that he could use my car for his test.

He was thankful and then searched my face.

“Will you really come, Manon?”

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Anna and I decided to take him on the route she had just completed for her test.

In the car, Godwin fully reclined his seat before working out how to slide it back. He took slow, deep breaths, yet when he veered out of the parking space, he came close to striking a pedestrian. I wondered if I was putting all of our lives at risk, but Godwin started to pick up speed and I bit my lip.

He was so eager for feedback — unlike Anna. When he attempted a three-point turn, he signalled in all the wrong directions. I told Godwin to keep driving after he completed the circuit. He gained confidence. He told us what it was like living in Lagos. He described the relentless pulse of a city of 20 million people and the fierce competition for jobs. He missed home, but spoke about Canada with determined optimism.

His examiner approached at a determined pace. Her face was settled into a deep frown. She snapped at me when I handed him the keys: “Don’t interfere.’’

I was pacing outside the driving test centre when I got a call 20 minutes later. I could only hear hysterics on the other end. High-pitched, unintelligible sounds.

I pictured Godwin in a car wreck — my car wreck. The call went dead. I wondered what catastrophe had unfolded: twisted metal, horrified examiner, insurance claims. Each passing second fed my imagination.

Then I spotted Godwin, arms spread wide, striding through the crowded parking lot like a king. He was lit from within. His chest heaved and his breaths were syncopated. He picked me up in a bear hug.

I wasn't quite sure how to reciprocate and felt rather limp.

The sight we must have made. Me, middle-aged and awkward, enfolded in the arms of a young, jubilant man. We were not pulling off the nothing-to-see-here Canadian vibe very well.

Yet his light caught: joy sparked in me before I could name it.

Then it all tumbled out. He was terrible, he admitted — barely a pass, but he must have done just enough right.

“I can now count you my friend forever, Manon.”

As I waved goodbye, I realized that this was exactly where I hadn’t known I wanted to be today. The nervous anticipation, the awkward hug, the burst of pride I hadn’t expected to feel. Most friendships don’t begin in parking lots.

On my drive home, I saw it. Anna had wordlessly reminded me that there is a difference between being nice and being good. Wishing people well is easy. Goodness makes room for them. One costs little; the other asks something of us.

I might just have a thing or two to learn from them.

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Manon Christensen is a guidance counsellor and teacher at a high school in Barrie, Ont.