Ever since the events of 9/11, air travel has gotten more and more hairy, for reasons we can all understand, I’m sure. Travel is far easier when you have a Canadian passport though.
I don’t have one of these.
About six months after I was born, my parents emigrated from Jamaica to Toronto for work purposes. My father was a doctor in those days, and came to do a second residency at St. Michael’s Hospital downtown. Newly married, my mother was busy being, um… my mother. My dad applied for his citizenship straight away… I’m not sure why my mother didn’t. It was of low priority, I guess. She became a landed immigrant, permanently. I came here on her passport, which made me a landed immigrant too. (My mother did become a citizen in recent years, but since she was over 55 and all old and whatnot, she didn’t need to write the test.)
There’s really no reason why we didn’t officially make the change. Outside of voting (which was never an issue for me as a child) our lives were the same as any other people’s: we lived, went to schools, worked, paid taxes, etc. just like everybody else. And, my sister was born in Toronto. We just didn’t give much thought to any of it, because we didn’t really need to, I suppose.
Also, we didn’t travel much. At all. By the time I was twenty years old, I’d only left Canada three times – twice to Jamaica (trips spaced apart by about ten years) and once to New York. I think I required a new passport every time we made a trip, since they’d expire between jaunts away from home. Besides my honeymoon trip to Cancun in 2000 (which is, sadly, the last time I’ve been on a warm, sandy beach) and one or two short business-trips, I’ve not been anywhere.
In recent years, the slip of paper noting my landed-immigrant status inside my nearly-never-used passport just wasn’t recognised as a valid anymore. I mean, it’s a photocopy with handwriting on it, and it is STAPLED inside my little book, for goodness sake. It’s about as unofficial-looking as you can get. I should have a landed-immigrant card. In the few times I’ve handed my passport over to any kind of travel officient, he or she almost always had to call a supervisor over to the wicket, and together they’d scratch their heads and wonder what to do with little ol’ me, standing there, ready to just get to wherever I’m going.
I’d say one of the hardest parts for me was trying not to make any jokes about bombs, baby-abductions, or killing sprees during their lines of questioning. If you know me at all, you know the more grave the situations, the worse I get. (Sidenote: Never get chatting with me at a funeral.)
They: Was your trip for business or pleasure?
Me: *smirking* Pleasure all the way, baby. (Inside my head: Stop smiling, idiot! Be serious.)
They: Are you carrying any fruit, vegetable, flowers or livestock today?
Me: You mean, on my person, or up my bum? Hee-hee… just kidding. Outside of this orange? Just a small bag of GANJA. You know… for my mother… holiday gifts… Just kidding, ma’am. I mean, sir. (Inside my head: ARE YOU CRAZY, TRACEY??!)
They: Could you please step out of your shoes and place them into the receptacle on the right…
Me: *sways hips and waggles eyebrows* Is that all you need, officer? (Inside my head: BAH! This is gonna lead to a strip-search for SURE this time…)
So you see? I had to stop flying, before my un-funny outer-dialogue got me into a holding cell at JFK with a beefy lady named Sue, and a box of latex gloves. Better to just apply for my Canadian Citizenship and just get it over with. I could leave the country, but I had no guarantees of them letting me back in! (With good reason, right? I. Am. Awful.)
Only, with no trips on the horizon, this small project quickly became… of low priority. And my very excellent procrastination skills made it such that I had photos taken, started filling out documents, and then… never got around to the actual finishing/stamping/mailing part. I did this at least twice in the last ten years. Silly, silly me.
Three-times-a-charm, I finally mailed all my stuff in a year ago January, and in September, I got my study package in the mail. Two weeks ago they gave me a test date, and I sat for a 20-question multiple-choice exam earlier this week. You need to answer 75% of the questions correctly. I *think* I’m fine, but I won’t know for two to three months.
Immediately following the test, an officiant conducts an exit interview, to review your personal information and such. He was such a nice, harmless young man. Please believe me when I tell you I tried so very hard not to smirk.
He: How many years have you lived outside of Canada?
Me: None.
He looks me in the eye for a second or two more than necessary. I suppose it’s to watch for “reactions” during the questioning. I bite my lip to keep the smile back.
He: Are you married?
Me: Why? Are you asking me out? Just kidding. (Inside me head: STOP IT!!) Ah, yes. I am.
I clear my throat. He looks into my eyes again, and then back to the paperwork in front of him. Then to my eyes. Then to the paperwork. I will the smirk to be gone with all of my might.
He: Have you ever had any problems with justice in Canada before?
Me: You mean, besides that guy I killed once? No. (Inside my head: YOU ARE GOING TO JAIL NOW!!) Ah, that’s a joke. *laughs nervously* Um, no. Never once.
He stares at me for a few moments again, probably trying to determine how stable I am. I smiled. Then he smiled. After some other standard questions, he hands me back all my stuff, and tells me I’ll be contacted about the swearing-in ceremony if I passed the test.
I forced myself not to wink at him on the way out.
It’s feels so strange to me to have to apply to be a Canadian. I mean, I’m nearly forty years old, and Canada is where I live! It’s the only place I’ve ever lived! This is where I’m from. This is my home and native land.
I AM a Canadian. And that’s my story.
(End note: Some of this dialogue is just a tad facetious. I’m not totally crazy, you know.)
I’m awful, Nancy. Really. I can’t believe I haven’t been strip-searched, yo. I need to be sedated before dealing with “officials” or something. Ack.
Oh, I hope that gets sorted out fast! The wait was waaaaaaaay longer than I thought – hoping it’s over now!
I get turrets symdrome too in sticky situations- always try to piss them off and then win them over. Strange behavior for sure. but so much fun. Pranking is my number one occupation.
this was very funny, grumbler and I can so relate
I SO love this story & can relate. My fiance is also from Jamaica & is a landed immigrant here. We have a 2 yr old daughter who is eventually going to want to do the Disney trip so I’m trying to get him to take the test too! Otherwise, we will have to get him a VISA (same price you know!!!) so he can come too!!
I have to force myself SO HARD not to say things, Alice! And I do have a crazy grin on my face most of the time – I swear, it doesn’t help me at all. But the flirting sometimes does. (Heh.)
It could totally happen to me. Hence more necessity in getting this thing done – don’t want to be deported, you know what I mean? 😉
I so want to be the fly on the wall when you slip up and some of that joking pops out one day. Ha!
funny story! i, too, have the smart brain, smarter mouth going on sometimes which, in hindsight, is frikkin hilarious but bound to land one in jail 🙂
Yes, this was precisely the matter – and I was told in the onset that the whole process would take about 3 months… maybe 4 if there’s a snag… so I was certain I’d have no problem with travel 7 months later – but I was wrong. Poo. Maybe this year though!
And I know you’re old, Oldster McOldness. 😉
Word, lady – these winters really are too damned long… sometimes I feel like I’m really living on the wrong island, but ultimately, this is where I belong. Under a fur blanket though.
Glad I made you giggle… hee!!
is this why you missed your internets blogger-geek trip to NYC last year (or maybe the year before…i dunno, i’m fucking old, ok?)
Love it! This country is so much better for having you in it. I mean, seriously – winter lasts six friggin’ months here. If there was ever a nation who NEEDS a laugh, we’re it!
Hee! I used to, but they don’t sell it in Quebec (for good reason) so I’m mostly a wino now. And isn’t it funny how you just wanna yell “HIJACK!!” when you’re not supposed to? Even if a guy named Jack is forty paces away… Let’s hope I pass. I belong here, yo.
You’re a shoo in!
Laughed till I puked at the dialogue. I think most of us want to mentions bombs and drugs up the you know what when we’re at customs, hee hee.
I just hope you don’t drink CANADIAN! Yikes!