Welcome to Canada! Enjoy your holding cell.

Someone needs to redesign detention.  I pulled up to the border yesterday around 11am.  I rolled down my window at the checkpoint, placed a polite hello and ended up in Canadian immigration detention for an hour and a half.

I’m convinced that the border employees had a pool going on who could get the most benign person thrown out of their country.  Everything about my presence in Canada is legal.  I’m not a threat to jobs or security and I had my passport, a smile, and a hood with pink lining but it wasn’t enough. It was almost as if I tried to enter Arizona.

My pink hood and I sat in detention next to a man who had tried to bring guns in to the country. We chatted. A Russian man with wispy hair came in looking disgruntled.  We waited together. Us. The three amigos. Three’s Company.  When the immigration officer came in and asked, “who’s next?’ the Russian pointed at me and said, “ze pink hood.” Aw, shucks.

I'm about ready to get a flag tattoo (image from immigraitionvoice.org).

While I was sitting around with my new pals I couldn’t help but think that we might come up with some crazy ideas in a brainstorm. What a fantastic opportunity to have a group of people together with extreme diversity of perspective and experience, and plenty of time to dive into a range of issues.

Friend time was cut short by my immigration officer, Mr. Happy.   Without going into details, I wasn’t doing well in the interview.  It was fascinating to watch myself fail.   Words were vomiting out of my mouth and each one was incorrect.  I had no idea how to save myself and Mr. Happy was twisting my language, seeing nuance, and wanting clarity where I was comfortable with ambiguity.  Eventually, he accused me of changing my story.  I needed a Twix.  I told him I was as confused as he was and asked for a phone call.

I’ve always wondered what happens to prisoners when they use their single phone call on someone that doesn’t answer. I’ve had the same question for contestants on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?!”  If your ‘phone-a-friend’ doesn’t recognize the number, will he or she pick up?

My release included a large rubber stamp that Mr. Happy didn’t enjoy using as much as he should have.  I read the word ‘approved’ in outlined font upside down because Mr. Happy couldn’t bring himself to tell me that my lifeline had passed the test.

I hope it wasn’t the pink hood.