A Hitler with a Heart of Gold

Never try to go through the Canadian border if you don't have a job to come back to.


Or

Don't tell them you're unemployed.


I apparently made the mistake of being truthful with the border guards at the Sweetgrass crossing last week. They asked all the normal questions. How long would I be up for, did I have any firearms, was I bringing any fruits or vegetables with me. Not unlike getting into California.

Then, just as I was about to turn the car on and head about my business, the guy got a weird look on his face and said, "What do you do for a living that you can just go up and spend a month in Calgary?"

I hesitated. To tell the truth or to lie? Technically, I am unemployed, but I am still doing some part time work (once in a great while) as a consultant. Some of it is paid. Most of it is not, because people can't afford to pay for that stuff right now. Bottom line, I don't like talking about being unemployed. Mostly because it's complicated. I don't have a job. But partially on purpose. I'm trying to write a book. I want to have time to devote to it. I am looking for full-time jobs in Worship Arts, but that search is not going well. I decide there's nothing wrong with telling the truth. So I do.

"I'm unemployed."

You could just see the oh shit in his eyes. I swear. He hustled me inside, where an even older, meaner version waited to give me the third degree.

We went through it all again inside. Where was I going, who was I going to see, what was I going to do, for how long, what was the purpose of my visit, all that jazz. He wrote down every word I said.

Then he asked me whether I was currently looking for a job.

Again, I hesitated. Not because I was choosing whether or not to tell the truth. But because I was trying to figure out the shortest way to explain my predicament. I am unemployed, and I am looking for a job, but only very specific jobs, and only in very specific areas. I spend my days writing and getting my platform set up. And in writing workshops.


This time, he pounced on the hesitation. His brows narrowed, his little Hitler mustache furrowed, his eyes flashed. "Don't lie to me!" he screamed. The scream echoed across the giant, half-empty room. Those of the other customers who weren't already watching me now stared with frightened looks. I felt tears creep into my eyes.


"I wasn't trying to lie to you," I promised, trying not to let the tears slip onto my cheeks. "It's just complicated."

"It's not complicated!" he shouted again. "Either you are looking for work, or you're not. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me." This time, he ground his teeth. To get the point across, I guess.


"Fine. Yes, I am looking for work. But not in Canada. I'm writing a book," I said, speeding through every syllable and then holding back the tears.


He asked me several more, quite pointed questions about whether I rented or owned, how much money I had in my account, whether I have a major credit card or not, and then stared me down with beady, black eyes.


"Your ties to your country are tenuous, at best," he pronounced, sounding pleased with himself. "I shouldn't let you into the country at all. Go back and sit down. I'll call you back up when I've made my decision."


I stalked back, stunned, and sat down next to a tall, African man listening to his iPod in one ear. I could hear the heavy drums beating in the earphone that hung down. He gave me a sad smile, and started to say something to me.


"Do. Not. Speak. To. Anyone," said my smug little Nazi, eying me. Meanwhile, he proceeded to say to the guy sitting next to him--just loud enough so I could hear--that he wouldn't be letting me into the country today. He typed several things into the computer, studied my passport, printed something off, and called me back up, rudely.


"Get back up here, Miss," he said, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the title. Now what? Did he think I was a transvestite? Didn't believe I was really a woman? Didn't think I was really single? What? What is it, Hitler? What?


"I'm gonna cut you a break, today," he said, looking stern. "I should make you pack up and turn around and go back to your own country. But I won't." He proceeded to give me a 4-week visa, telling me I would have to check out of the country on the 26th or risk getting picked up by the cops. Despite how rude he had just been to me, I could have kissed his little Hitler face.


I refrained from making phone calls for quite awhile, just in case Hitler called out the satellites to monitor my calls. But seriously, I am not looking for work in Canada. My ties to my country may be "tenuous at best", but I am going home. And yes, sometimes people hesitate when they lie, but sometimes they just hesitate when they're trying to find a short way to explain things so they don't have to waste your time.


I know it's easy for me to get angry with this guy--who was just trying to do his job--because I know myself. I know I'm coming back. For crying out loud, I've been over the Canadian border probably 500 times (or more) in my life. I always came back before. Why would this time be any different?


I just want to write my book in peace in another country. Is that so bad?


I know the economy is making everyone crazy, and suspicious. And I know it's making people do desperate things. But not me.


I promise. :-)