Jun 16 2003
(Un)Wanted Poster
If you have a permanent record at airports, the way they threaten you with having one at school, I definitely have it at Pearson International in Toronto. Something always seems to happen when I go there. Here you have it, in chronological order:
1. In 1994, John and I went to visit his family (and that was the first time since we moved to San Francisco and the last time I visited them before the visit this month). The 1994 visit to his family was a pit stop on the way to the real destination, Maine, but it meant that we had to fly back through Toronto on our way home, too.
Our arrival coincided with the arrival of two huge jets disgorging hundreds of would-be Canadian citizens, who all had to be processed through Immigration. Most could not speak English and did not seem to have the necessary paperwork. The powers that be felt that John and I, although simply changing planes in Canada, had to go through Immigration with everyone else.
There was no way we could have gotten through in time to catch our plane to San Francisco, which was my only desire in the world at that point. So I threw a great big noisy fuss in Ramona the Pest style until someone in charge came over and asked if he could help me. John was mortified and stayed out of it while I loudly explained the stupidity of our position and my lust for the San Francisco bound plane. He was a wise man not to tangle with an enraged Suzymonster, and took us to the head of the line without comment. At Immigration, the guy asked how long we were staying in Canada. I looked at my watch and said, “Oh, about 15 minutes” with the greatest sarcasm I could muster. He stamped our passports and we ran to the Promised Land of the SF bound plane (and made it). As soon as I could speak again I told John I was never going back there again. Never turned out to be 9 years.
2. Made a brief visit to Toronto in October 2002. On arrival (at almost 9:00 p.m. after travelling all day), I got sent to Immigration, where they informed me that the law had changed in June and if you have or had the right to work in Canada and you move away for good, you have to give it up. They asked if I had done that when I moved, a dozen years earlier. I said I couldn’t remember. They said I had to answer yes or no or they’d deport me, so I said I would have to say no because I couldn’t say that I had. They said I either had to fill out a report that took an hour or go back to San Francisco, and though Option B was looking pretty good, I agreed to the report thing.
They kept making me drag things out of my wallet and bag and asked the same questions three different ways, and really, if I hadn’t had the requisite v’n’v, there probably would have been a repeat of the 1994 incident and they really would have deported my ass. About 50 minutes into this bureaucratic Theater of the Absurd, one of the other officers read the report and said I didn’t have to fill out the report or be deported because I am married to a Canadian. I pointed out that I am in fact married to a reformed Canadian who is now an American citizen, but as far as they are concerned, if you’re born in Canada, you’re Canadian for the rest of your natural-born life (and possibly beyond). So they let me go.
Before fleeing, I told them that we were planning to come back in June and would I have to go through this again. He assured me I wouldn’t, and it was all in the computer.
3. It wasn’t. Same crap when I arrived there a few days before John. I was definitely less nice this time, v’n’v notwithstanding, and told them that I had specifically asked just a few months earlier about this and had been told it was all in the computer. Got called “young lady” which didn’t help. I was so close to saying, “If you really think that someone who was not only born in the US but owns property in San Francisco is going to move here, you’re even more retarded than you look”, but held back. Maybe I really am a grown-up. Honest to GOD though. It’s like they think my one wish is to move back there, when in reality, they couldn’t pay me to.
This time, they stapled a certificate in the back of my passport saying that I promise not to move there. The bad news is that the certificate is only good until the end of the year, so if we go back again next year I may have to go through this again and there may be an international incident.
There you have it: why you may well see Me on a Wanted poster (or, more likely, an Unwanted poster: “Don’t Move Here, Suzy! We’re Begging You!”) if you dare to go there. You have been warned.