July 14 dawned brightly as I grabbed the ferry from my home in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, and headed for Camp B. Filled with anticipation, I waited patiently in the blistering sun for an hour to reach the Peace Arch border crossing. The officer asked me endless questions about where I was going and why, then slapped the dreaded orange slip onto my windshield, and told me to pull over ‘there.’
Feeling confident, I entered an office filled with swaggering officers all ‘packing heat’ (Elaine’s term). Several other ‘detainees,’ some giggling, took turns at the counter, showing their documents and being sent on their way. Finally, it’s my turn. I first handed over my passport and driver’s license. Then the keys for the car search. I had nothing to hide – no guns, alcohol, cigarettes or pitted fruits.
As he was leaving to search, I asked if I could use the washroom. ‘NO, wait until I get back’, followed by ‘Do you have to?’ My big mistake was responding with a firm, ‘I would not have asked if I had not had to’. I suppose giggling would have been the correct response. But I was now beginning to feel ‘testy’ and unjustly treated, even though the possibility of a cavity search flitted across my brain. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, you can wait.’
Little did he know my car was jammed with stone, tools, tent, suitcases etc. Twenty-five minutes later he swaggered in, slapped my file case on the counter and demanded, ‘So, WHAT is THIS?’ I explained for the forth or fifth time that I was the Registrar, and these papers tracked lodging and meals for 90 sculptors. I had spent my two-hour ferry ride organizing my papers in the file and now they were a reckless mess. I was angry.
The questions went on and on. I then, with obvious frustration, indicated that I was required at camp to get people settled in; people were depending upon me – mistake #2. At the 2 hour mark he tapped his finger on my file case and sweetly said, ’I’ll tell you what we will do. We will deny you access to the USA this afternoon.’ Looking him straight in the eye I demanded to speak to someone else. His response was ‘What is the matter, don’t you believe me? His, ‘OK, I’ll get someone else’ was pure attitude.
At that point I figured that I must get myself under control, as I was likely to be meeting the biggest, baddest officer he could find. I attempted deep breathing, surrounding myself in white light, and asking for universal help – all to no avail.
Called to the counter again, I met my new interrogator. Big he was and he began by letting me know that he supported the decision to deny me entry. I asked, pointedly, what evidence he had found in my car that I was working illegally in the US. He refused to tell me, so I asked if he would listen to my side of the story. I told him in a matter of minutes what I was doing in the US. He excused himself, returning to say that I would be allowed to cross the border. Relieved but upset, I broke down and began to cry. ‘Are you all right Ma’am’? I told him I was furious and while he escorted me to my car he cordially invited me to return to the US anytime.
I remember little of my I-5 trip but recall with relief seeing the Lake McMurray exit, where I knew I would be able to fall into the loving arms of fellow sculptors at Camp B.
Homeland Security temporarily dampened but could not extinguish the joy of once again being ‘home’ at Camp B. As the Registrar I had the pleasure of greeting most of the attendees and soon I was creating a small swan (thanks to Meredith, the Swan Queen), which sold at the Art Walk. So, after all I was working illegally in the US!
