Oh, Canada
I’ll admit it: I used to protest lots of things when I was a younger woman. Namely, Republican and Democratic Conventions, IMF/World Bank meetings, and in 2001 I attempted to protest the Quebec City Summit of the Americas. I was full of complaints. Two friends and I drove 5 hours from Boston to the Canadian border near Burlington, VT in a crappy car covered with punk rock stickers.
I had it all planned out. We would tell the Canadian Border agents that we were visiting my relatives in Canada. My father was born in Toronto, as were my two older brothers, so I think I have some credibility. I even had a phone number for them to confirm my story. I also speak French, so I would know if they were trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Mind you, I’ve never been arrested.
As we pulled up to the border, we glanced to our left and saw a field full of
protesters who had been denied entry. We stopped to talk to them. Though they warned us that the chances of our getting in were slim, at best, we had to try. We’d driven all this way.
We pull up to the booth, give our IDs to the agent, who tells us to bring our car around to the parking lot. We go inside and are promptly seated with agents trying to determine where we are going. A female agent in her 50s sat me down across from her and demanded the reason I sought entry to Canada. I told her my nice story about going to visit my family, though they reside closer to Toronto and she became immediately suspicious. Mind you I’m 19 and think I’m waaaay smarter than these border fools. Afterall, I was in college!
So this agent, who looks exactly like Anne Robinson (formerly the host of the game show the Weakest Link), demands my aunt’s phone number. I hand it over. My smugness got the best of me when a strange man answered the line and Madame Border Agent starts screaming that this man knows nothing of my arrival. Thought I didn’t realized this at the time, clearly she had dialed a fake number. She redialed again and a French speaking woman picked up. Again, not my aunt.
She gets up and walks over to her colleague, a man about her age, and they start speaking French to each other. From what I could hear she told him that my friends and I are lying and clearly going to protest. She returns to the desk where I am seated.
“I do not have zee CRYSTAL BALL to know why you are coming to Canada,” she exploded. I repeated my story once again. I was lying to her, but I was also under the impression that both Canada and the United States have laws protecting speech and peaceful gatherings for these very purposes.
But alas, it was official. We weren’t getting across the border and would be forced to join the flacid protest with the rest of the rejects gathered in the field and drive the 5 hours back to Boston.
Now you might think the story ends there my friends, but it certainly does not. Years later, I’m on my way to my uncle’s funeral in St. Catharines with my older brother. We flew into Toronto and we’re headed through customs. We place our passports on the counter. The agent looks them over, punches something into the computer and looks at me. He explains that I’ll have to see immigration control.
At this point I’m a relatively normal human being with leftist leanings working for Congress. Though my earlier years were spent making change from the outside, I thought I might give the system a shot. It failed, but thats besides the point. I approach the next agent and he takes my passport. He punches my name into the computer. “It looks like you had some problems getting into Canada before,” he says.
I tell him the whole story. He laughs a bit and tells me I’m flagged, but surely it isn’t a major problem. I was told that I might get stopped when entering the country again, but it’s no big deal. He lets me in.
Fast forward to last weekend. I organized a trip with three friends to visit Montreal for the weekend in celebration of my 27th year on this planet. We borrow my Mom’s car and head for the border. We arrive at the Plattsburg entrance around 2am and receive a pink slip from an agent who tells us to pull the car around to be searched. Two Quebecois officers search the car. They find my friend’s Senate press pass. “Are you a Senator?” one asks. We reply that we are journalists. We empty our pockets and they question us.
They send us into the office where I’m called up to the booth immediately. “Have you ever been refused entry into Canada?” a youngish agent asks me. I tell her I have, that seven years ago the border agents had thought I was going to a protest. She asks me a few more questions and then instructs me to wave my friends over. The three of them get up and walk over.
“How do you all know each other?” she asks. A Seinfeldian moment ensues. We all start explaining at the same time. “We’ve been friends for about 12 years,” I finally say. She demands to know how much cash we have on us. Pookie looks in his wallet, “About $40?” he answers.
“Do you have any previous arrests?” she asks.
“No,” we reply.
“You mean that if I run you through the system, nothing will show up?” she demands.
“That’s right,” I say.
She struggles to keep up her menacing facade and then gives up. We’re told to go to the next booth for the code to get through the gate and to freedom. An hour later, we’re finally on our way to Montreal.
I arrive home and I’m telling my mother the story of our brief detainment. She points out to me that before I was refused entry to Canada, we had gone on a vacation to Europe and upon entering border agents questioned her and my father about me. Apparently I have some sort of file out there and everyone knows how I feel about American world hegemony. Now they know I’m still full of complaints.
