Many of us are uncomfortable with going through customs/border
checks. We say too much. We try to be the funny guy. Yesterday, a colleague of
mine mentioned how she inexplicably adopted an English accent when going
through the border crossing to the U.S. I, of course, jinxed myself. “I don’t
get nervous. I’ve been through it all. I don’t care.”
Okay, I haven’t been through it all. No strip searches. No
guard dogs, barely restrained, eyeing me as dinner. But I’ve had my car
thoroughly searched, vacation plans doubted (Boise? Really?!), suitcases
ransacked—and I’d been so diligent about folding everything! In 2004, I had a
U.S. border guard detain me, send me to some back room at Vancouver airport and
treat me like I was a criminal for having previously been a permanent resident
in the U.S. who’d had the gall to move back to Canada. It seemed to be a
personal affront to his daily Pledges of Allegiance in what I’m imagining was a
patriotic shrine in the living/dining room of his basement apartment.
But things had been hassle-free lately. I assumed I’d ride
this good streak into my On Golden Pond years as skilled officers accurately
assess me as the harmless, fifty-something do-gooder that I am. (They may also
see me as a regular contributor to the U.S. economy, making impulse purchases
and bingeing on $4 donuts, all the while pretending that my Canadian dollar has
greater value than the American nickel. (Scrutinizing my credit card statements
is an exercise in masochism I choose to avoid.))
Alas, the streak ended.
I’m on a two-week vacation and, as soon as I could leave
work yesterday, I bolted for the U.S. border. Seems that, even though I had to
formally relinquish any right to live in that country, I keep going back
whenever I have the chance. Now more than ever. The estimated wait at the Peace
Arch border crossing was twenty-five minutes so I nonchalantly read magazine
articles, munched on a whole wheat sesame bagel and readied for an agent to
glance at my Canadian passport and wish me a nice trip. Indeed, the line in
which I queued seemed to move along smoothly with only one car inspection that
I could see. Probably some guy with marijuana smoke wafting in the air when he
rolled down the window. Or maybe someone blaring that song from “Frozen”. Maybe
a combination of the two. The driver got directed to pull over and head inside
for further inquiry. Been there. I feel
your pain. But I remained cheery. If it was a random questioning, I was in
luck. No way I’d be sent in, too. Border agents shouldn’t be overworked.
And, cut to the chase, I didn’t get pulled over. But I drove
away feeling equally, perhaps more, violated. As I drove up to the booth, my
passport dangled out the window, open to the page with my photo. Yes, officer, I’m going to help move this
along as quickly as possible.
“Where are you going?” he asked, stone-faced. Last time I
crossed, I’d gotten the guy to smile, even joke with me. This guy—I’ll call him
Barney—was all business. He’d wear the premature wrinkles on his thirty-five-year-old
forehead with pride.
“Portland.” Keep it
simple, I coached myself. No need to mention an excursion to the Oregon
Coast as well.
“Why?”
“I’m visiting a friend.” And that’s where I messed up. Maybe
Barney wasn’t just dead serious. Maybe he was having friendship issues.
“Why?” Um,…isn’t that what friends do? Poor Barney.
“For a visit.” I’m a very private person. Neither my
co-workers nor my family knew more. Why would I share more with randomly named Barney?
His next question startled me more. “Do you have a
significant other in Canada?”
Significant other? I
didn’t feel this was part of official border training. In what way had I
revealed my gayness? (To be clear, I was
not playing that song from “Frozen”. I don’t even know all the words.) My
calmness cracked. I was at the mercy of an authority figure and, being a gay
man of a certain age, I’d grown up wary of officers. I’d heard enough about
Stonewall, about bashings, about how today’s “hate crimes” were once deemed
just desserts. It’s taken a lot to be open about being gay, but I still don’t
always feel safe talking about it. I remember “Don’t ask, don’t tell” and there
was a time when I felt that was actually progress. As good as it’d ever get.
“No,” I confessed. No significant other in Canada.
“So who’s your friend?”
What did Barney want me to say? I coughed up a name. First
and last. How would that advance anything? I’ve moved past imaginary friends.
For the most part.
“How’d you two meet?”
“Online.” Here, I knew I’d entered another uncomfortable
realm. I believe in telling the truth, but I sure wished I could have lied on
the spot. Twenty-four hours later, I still don’t have a good alternate story.
“What site?”
Oh, god. Here, I hesitated. Deep breath. Welcome to Too Much
Information land.
“OkCupid.” Do people actually meet on Twitter? Or LinkedIn?
At least it wasn’t Grindr, but I was red-faced and resentful enough.
“How long have you known each other?”
“A year and a half.”
“Is it serious?”
Seriously?!
I finally lied. “No. We’re just friends.” I felt disgusted
with myself. I hate being so guarded with the truth.
Then Barney rambled on about not caring about the details of
who I am. “I just need to know you’re not crossing the border and moving here.
That’s my job.” Hmm, did the two dozen shirts hanging from the pulldown grab
handle on the passenger side lead him to think I was moving? If he was going to
make snap judgments about who is gay, how could he really think I’d move with
so little apparel? If anything, I’d under-packed. (More possible shopping in
tax-free Oregon! Another 0.3% uptick to the U.S. economy, courtesy of a
Canadian who can’t distinguish between want and need.)
I assured him I had a good job to return to in Vancouver and,
to repeat, my Portland companion and I were just friends.
Liar, liar!
He waved me through. Mission accomplished. On with the drive
to see MY BOYFRIEND. Maybe I should even call him my partner. Yes, we’re
serious.
Not that some border agent needs to know.
