SUSPICIOUS MINDS

I could be wrong. I feel I need to say that at the outset. But I have a hunch what I felt and what I thought were real. 

 

As I’ve done twice a month for the past year, I loaded up my Mini Cooper, cramming in my bike, suitcase, clothes on hangers and backpack and headed out, making my way from Vancouver to Seattle. The ordeal has gotten easier now that I don’t have to worry about getting a COVID test—and negative results—to return to Canada. I don’t have to mess with filling out details of my trip—length, destination—and physical health symptoms on the Arrive Canada app. That was, of course, part of the return trip. My biggest concern driving over the border at the Peace Arch crossing into the U.S. has always been how long the wait will be as I join the queue of cars. 

 

On Highway 99, both digital signs I saw indicated the wait would only be five minutes. Was it good fortune or a message malfunction? My last crossings have taken about an hour and a half. As I approached, there were four lanes accepting cars, two with no wait at all. Hurrah! I pulled right up to the booth in one of the open lanes and passed the agent my passport as I offered a cheery, “Good morning!”

 

He swiped my passport while maintaining a well-rehearsed serious face. “Where do you live?”

 

Yes. Almost always the first question. “Vancouver,” I said.

 

“What’s the purpose of your trip?”

 

“I’m heading to Seattle to see my boyfriend. Coming back Wednesday.”

 

“How long?”

 

Silly me. I’d jumped ahead. I knew the routine too well. “Until Wednesday,” I repeated.

 

“That’s a lot of clothes,” he said. The temptation was to smile and say with a shrug, “I’m gay.” Like that explains it. On this particular trip though, my wardrobe haul was more about practicalities than fashion whimsy. It’s spring. At least that’s what the calendar says. We’re in that iffy period when every day has moments of winter and moments of spring. I could have pointed out the mix of short sleeves and long sleeves, items with fleece, others 100% cotton. I could have mentioned the rainy forecast plus my stubborn hope for a flash or two of sun. I could have told him my boyfriend has stated many times how he wants us to dress every day as if it’s a date. That’s why I had daytime and nighttime options. But it felt like an overshare to account for any suggestion of overpacking. 

 

They make it look dreamy, 

but I predict a cold, wet 

sleepless night.

Mr. Serious started typing madly on his keyboard as I explained that I need extra clothes for exercising. Plus hiking. We were thinking of camping Saturday night. I figured he didn’t need to know I wasn’t all that clear on what to bring since I’d never camped before. I like places with mattresses and toilets and showers. Evan’s a camper. This was supposed to be my weekend to show him I could rough it. Look ma…no walls! Wouldn’t that have been another overshare? I kept quiet. I didn’t want to mess up the guy’s typing. I’m known for being a thoughtful, courteous man.

 

“What do you do for work?”

 

“I’m a school principal, but I’m on a leave of absence.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“It’s indefinite.” Not a chance I’d share that I was diagnosed as bipolar and having an anxiety disorder. With all the mass shootings in the U.S., I didn’t want my mental health issues to be a red flag, never mind that I’ve never owned a gun and that I think the Second Amendment is an archaic, wrongfully applied NRA crutch. “Well regulated [sic] militia,” my ass. I don’t have a violent bone in my body. I catch and release mosquitos. 

 

More waiting, more typing. Was it me or was he wanting to see me sweat while he caught up on emails? Stay calm. I tried to sit back and enjoy the catchy tune on the car radio—Jennifer Lopez (featuring Pitbull), “On the Floor,” what they call “old school” now; what I call my music. I rested my arm on the open window. I almost drummed my fingers out of habit but stopped myself. He’d think I was being impatient. He’d take offense or maybe even think I was getting nervous, as if I had something to hide—a contraband apple or maybe a live animal. I thought of a line from a Barenaked Ladies song: “Haven’t you always wanted a monkey?” No. Never, actually.

 

I sensed my breezy border crossing getting stormy. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. Uniformed authority figures make me anxious. I’ve had bad encounters with U.S. border agents before. “Abuse of authority” is what my lawyer brain always concludes.

 

This was a perfect opportunity for a border guard to have a little fun. A slow day. No backup of vehicles. Here was an older guy with a boyfriend at his mercy. A clotheshorse. One of those gays. This guard was older too. White hair, closely shaved. No tattoos in sight, no earring. (Canadian agents commonly have such markings.) He looked classically conservative. A good ol’ boy, like so many I’d met during my decade living in Texas. If he was typecasting, so was I. 

 

He stuck an orange sticker on my windshield, told me to put on my hazard lights and drive up to the building to go inside for further questioning.

 

I knew to shut up and comply, but my anxiety kicked in. “Why? What have I done?” 

 

STOP IT! They can turn you away. They can ban you from future crossings. Up to five years. They have full discretion. I’d read stories. I’d even perused immigration sites online to try to help an American friend banned from coming to Canada.

 

I reminded myself of the obvious. You have a boyfriend. An AMERICAN boyfriend. A ban would nix everything. Or add significant challenges, at least. Would he still love me if things became one-sided, Evan always having to come my way? Wouldn’t things be even more imbalanced with all our adventures being in my world while his home, his friends, his family were out of the mix until 2028?

 

“Thank you so much,” I said as I proceeded to the parking lot provided for people extending their border stop. I smiled, I sounded sugary sweet. We both knew I was giving him a not so thinly disguised middle finger. He didn’t care. He was having his way.

 

Seven uniformed officials assumed spots at the counter, three talking with other detainees, five staring at computer screens. There was a woman who smiled—a break in protocol—as she interviewed a couple. Please let me get her. There was a young, tall, thin guy who projected kindness as he talked with another couple as they took turns holding a baby. Or him. As I continued to wait, the agents who had Important Screen Things to deal with kept their heads down. One by one, they disappeared into a back room. I heard the tall, thin agent tell the couple, “You’ve been denied entry.” No! Who turns away a baby?! Maybe not him then. 

 

Eventually, it was just the nice woman (had she laughed?) as the counter area cleared. Yes! I’ll get her. But then my typing agent from the booth appeared and took a seat at a free screen. 

 

Noooo! Not him! I didn’t want to insincerely thank him again as he banned me. He’d messed with the gay guy enough. I didn’t want another round. 

 

No one else came out from the back room. I edited photos on my phone to distract me, to appear calm, to not give the typing master any inkling that I was a squirmy mess on the inside. After another five minutes, the line behind me had grown. Still no other agents. “Next,” my harasser said. I don’t know why I didn’t think to turn to the man behind me and say, “You go ahead.” I could have feigned an untied shoelace emergency but that would have aroused suspicion, right? 

 

I proceeded to the counter. Dead. Man. Walking.

 

“Hello again,” he said. His turn to sound falsely pleasant. He took my passport before floating a pen and paper across the counter. He told me to write down my boyfriend’s address and my own phone number. He asked my boyfriend’s date of birth and whether I’d ever been arrested. He asked me where I’d last worked and why I was on a leave of absence.

 

“Health reasons,” I said. I may have been at his mercy, but I said it with grit. Don’t you dare ask me more. I was done being a mouse to his cat. 

 

“The reason I had you come in,” he began, “is because I couldn’t see that you have a regular history of border crossings.” He nodded to his screen. “I see it now.”

 

It was a bullshit explanation. I’ve had several agents swipe my passport at the booth and comment about my frequent crossings. He’d had full access to that information. It’s quite likely that he knew I knew. It was his final play. I wanted to call him on his lie. I wanted to see his supervisor. I offered a slight nod, an acknowledgment I’d heard him even if I didn’t believe him.

 

“Have you ever been arrested?” he asked.

 

Nope. I have a squeaky-clean history. No drugs. No cutting labels off mattresses. If I jaywalk, I always scan to make sure there are no police officers in sight.

 

He slid my passport back across the counter. “You’re free to go,” he finally said. 

 

Only when I was back in my car did I allow my hands to shake as I gripped the steering wheel. Again, I could be wrong. The guy would say he was just doing his job. As I drove away, I had more insight into why some people are deemed to “pull the race card” too readily. I’d pulled the homophobe card. In either situation, error is possible. And yet, having gone through a history of discrimination, individually and as a distinct group, the thought arises and then the defenses kick in along with the desire to fight it. We’re taught to be on alert. It’s part of survival.

 

I’m all too aware of Stonewall. That history gets brought up vividly every single June as part of Pride. I know about police harassment in Toronto in 1981. On a personal level, I felt the gaiety silenced in gay bars in West Hollywood whenever I’d be there in the early ‘90s as a few officers walked through, letting their presence known. Sometimes they’d smile at each other: Isn’t this fun? Aren’t we powerful? It always felt gross. Intimidation. Oppression. I’m not a de-fund the police guy. I just want more training, more careful recruitment and better screening. And, yes, in situations when someone is in a state of mental distress, I’d love for skilled counsellors to be on the scene. I understand panic and the irrationality that follows.

 

I shook things off after making a planned stop at a post office across the border. It was another wait but nothing involving any imbalance of power. I had cash. Getting my stamp was never in jeopardy. Even as the tension eased, the sense of being violated lingered and a sadness set in. Long distance relationships are challenging enough. When there’s an international border involved, it’s creepy having an extra layer added on. I’m fifty-eight and now the border stop feels like having to ask permission to see my boyfriend. 

 

I’m an incredibly private person, an extreme introvert by nature. For a while, when I had a boyfriend in Portland, I used to say I was visiting a friend, but that felt dishonest to myself and the relationship. I don’t want borders to drive me back into the closet, even temporarily, dammit. This was reinforced by a Canadian border agent years ago who commented, once my explanation became more accurate, “We don’t care who you date. Just say it and it’s okay.” Different agent, different country but her words should be the way it is. In fairness, most American agents have lightened up when I’ve said I’m going to see my boyfriend. They even kid—“And you’re not bringing gifts? Isn’t he worth it?” I’m never quick enough to reply, “I’m making the trip. That’s the gift.” 

 

Let my next crossing offer that kind of opportunity instead. Let me do what it takes to push homophobia back into the closet from which I came.