“I don’t get it,” Jonny said emerging from the passenger side of my car, “this doesn’t make sense, it’s…it’s…surprising.”
I closed the driver’s door to the car, turned and headed back to the building I’d just come from.
“Nobody expects the Canadian Inquisition,” I muttered under my breath.
Editor’s Note: This story contains material which previously appeared in the SoCal Yanquee section of TheStorytellerCafe.com.—Kenneth
Jonny and I entered the Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario Port of Entry building at the opposite end of the long counter where my interrogator, excuse me, Customs and Immigration officer assigned to “interview” me, was waiting. No more affable than he’d been with me, Captain Torquemada ordered Jonny to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite the counter.
Picking up the discussion about my writing where we’d left off, it soon became clear the only reason I’d been sent out to retrieve Jon was so that the two well armed Canadian border agents standing guard over my car could toss it in search of illicit substances.
Imitation maple syrup perhaps?
“Where does your work appear, on the web?” he barked yet again.
“Do you own that website? Are you self-employed?” he continued, never giving me a chance to respond to any of his questions.
“I do and I am,” I interjected as quickly as I could.
“You do and you’re what?” he said caught a bit off guard.
“I do own the website,” I said, “and I am partially self-employed.”
“What do you mean ‘partially’” he said curiously.
“I also receive a monthly Social Security payment in addition to what the website brings in.” This caused him to pause for a moment as if to regroup.
Jonny and I entered the Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario Port of Entry building…
This back and forth barrage of questions went on for some time. During the “interview” my interrogator often misquoted me and frequently repeated as fact things I’d previously corrected him on. This was not because he wasn’t paying attention or poor at his job. Just like the cops on TV, it was yet another attempt to catch me in a lie.
He finally asked for the name of my website, which I wrote out for him on a piece of paper. He disappeared for some time before returning to tell me he couldn’t find it.
Back at the counter he turned the PC he used to review my passport activity toward me, this time he had Google up on the screen, where I could see he had, incorrectly, entered the name of my website.
“I can’t find your site in Google,” he said with a flare of superiority.
“I’m not surprised,” I told him, without mentioning his having screwed up the site name. “Mine is a small independent site. It won’t appear on Google for pages and pages. All the entries you first see on there are either paid placements or long established high traffic sites.”
“I found you on Facebook,” he responded defiantly.
The look on my face must have told him I wasn’t buying the idea he didn’t realize Facebook was one of the largest, if not the largest, websites in the world and would therefore always rate high placement in Google searches.
“In the address bar, try typing in the URL, ah, web page I gave you,” I stuttered dumbing down my response to match his seemingly poor understanding of internet browsing.
My interrogator retreated to his office, where he stayed for what felt like hours, but in reality was more like 40 minutes.
Upon returning he announced, “I could only find two stories on your site about Canada and they weren’t very good.”
‘Great,’ I thought to myself, an immigration official and a critic. Just what I need.
For the record, at the time there were eight stories about Canada and Canadians on the front page of the site and four more in the archive. What he was referring to were my two commentaries regarding media complicity in the recent US Presidential election.
Apparently Citizenship and Immigration Canada doesn’t instruct its agents on the finer points of clicking and scrolling.
“You two live together?” he snarled leading me to wonder if some sort of LGBTQ bias might be what was behind all the Law And Order grilling.
“Yes…” he cut me off again.
“Got any utility bills to prove it?”
I was dumbfounded and for the first time my expression showed it.
“What,” I said in a daze, “I don’t understand.”
“You two say you’re living together as a couple, right?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise.
“That’s what tells me you’re just using this ‘Journalist’ thing as pretext.”
Now I was completely gobsmacked.
He went on to say in no uncertain terms it was his judgement that I was abusing the immigration system to take up residency in Canada and, therefore, would be denied entry.
As Jonny and I struggled to come to an understanding of what was happening, the Grand Canadian Inquisitor printed out two copies of a brief form, which read
Pursuant to paragraph 42(1) of the Immigration and Refugee Protection Regulations, I am allowing you to withdraw your application to enter Canada and to leave Canada without delay. Signed Citizenship and Immigration Canada officer 3704558 (NOT his real badge number).
“…[A]llowing you to withdraw your application…” the easiest way for a bureaucrat to avoid paper work and a lengthy appeal, which as I would later learn in all likelihood probably would have overturned his decision.
He placed the copies of “my request” to withdraw my application for entry before me for signature.
Knowing a lost cause—and not my rights—and a bureaucratic CYA move when I see one, I signed the forms. This left us with big problems.
Jon’s things were entwined with mine in the back of my car, which would not be allowed in the country for any reason, which also meant I had no way of getting Jon back to Sudbury, where he was scheduled to resume classes at Cambrian College the following Tuesday.
My choices weren’t much better; return to the US and file an application for Permanent Residency status, a process I was told would take months and require several visits to a Canadian Consulate. It also meant another extensive cross-country drive either to Colorado where I have family or all the way back to California.
And then this happened.
As we drove across the bridge I kept mulling over what we’d just experienced as if trying to make sense of it all.
Once I’d signed the request to withdraw my application and in the middle of our asking if there might be a way to get a temporary waiver in order to take Jonny to the bus depot, Captain Tight Ass’ entire demeanor softened and a sense of concern for Jon’s and my well-being began to emerge.
Without prompting, on at least four separate occasions during this part of our discussion, we were told, “Canada does not want to keep people apart. I can’t advise you, but if you guys were married, you,” meaning me, “would be able to enter the country on a temporary visa while you apply for permanent residency.”
He said this sincerely and reassuringly time and time again. I never responded. Jon, seemingly taken aback by the abrupt change in tone, asked, nearly incredulously, if it were really that simple.
“I’ve said all that I should say,” the agent stated and with that we walked out, got in my car, and headed back across the International Bridge toward the United States.
As we drove across the bridge I kept mulling over what we’d just experienced as if trying to make sense of it all.
Halfway across the bridge, almost exactly over the border between our two countries, Jon, now virtually sighing with every breath and tears welling up in his eyes blurted out, “Why don’t we get married?” He paused and looked down at his lap, “I know I didn’t say that well. I’m not good with words…”
I was instantly snapped back into the present. A few moments of silence followed, I began to breathe heavily as tears began flowing down my cheeks and I realized I’d just heard something I’d been hoping to hear for most of my life.
So of course I said, “No.”
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Join us again on February 20, 2018 for Déjà Vu All Over Again.
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