May 31, 2008
Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania

Here’s to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…”

I suppose the best way to describe my relationship with the United States, after all that I’d experienced while living there — immigration issues, marriage, the healthcare system, two elections, federal aviation policies, banking policies, the real estate market, funeral homes, insurance claims, estate matters, Social Security, exporting an automobile, and myriad other processes — is… COMPLICATED. If there is a Canadian who understands what is involved in expat life in America, at both ends of the wellness spectrum, it is me.

Yes, it’s a complicated relationship, one that is touched on from time to time even though I don’t live there anymore, because I keep going back, and there remains a bit of my American life in America. In my mind I must separate the actions of the government from the actions of the people, because it is necessary for a healthy attitude and I believe this should extend to other countries, too. Although we wish it were not so, there is often no humanity in policy. It is not an ideal world we live in, but that should not stop us from having ideals and fighting for them.

With all the media coverage on the upcoming U.S. election, I wonder what David would have to say about it. He was a very patriotic American who completely disagreed with many decisions made by the Bush administration in the last two terms of his life. I know he’d be excited and encouraged by the inroads made by the Democratic Party — he was a registered Democrat and his maternal grandmother was a campaigner for the Democratic party at a local level. (Her diamonds are in our wedding rings.) In fact, I’ve kept a tin container of campaign buttons and various items that David stashed away over the years. Now that my scanner works again, I’ll see if I can scan some in October, in the run-up to the election on November 4.

In the meantime, I leave you with some Americana for the 4th of July.

First, a glimpse into David’s Americana group on Flickr.

Second, photos from my trip to New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey (May 29-June 2), to celebrate the birthday of my favourite American.

View as: [thumbnails] [slideshow] or click through the Pictobrowser below

I have opined time and time again that U.S. border guards (at both airport and land points of entry) are ill-informed, inconsistent, and have far too much discretionary power.

Here’s another example of what I’m talking about:

U.S. border guards bar skilled Canadian from his job – CBC, March 31, 2008

Technician says increased protectionism at U.S. border is unfair

I still get upset when I’m reminded of how much time, money, and sheer energy David and I spent trying to follow the stated policies of U.S. Immigration to the letter in order to get married and be together. We had an immigration attorney working for over a year on our case (who I only finished paying in December 2006; visa application fees and such are nonrefundable) and did everything he instructed us to do to secure my visa — including being forced to live apart during what we learned later was a critical time in David’s health.

When I think of how much of a difference I could have made by just being there for David, getting him to the hospital and taking care of him in July 2005 when his lymphatic system was under attack and his symptoms were intensifying (night sweats, back pain, etc.), I can’t help but get angry at this system that’s supposed to PROTECT its citizens but is in fact turning them and their families into victims of nearsighted bureaucracy gone mad.

In the end it didn’t do us any good whatsoever to follow U.S. Immigration policy. Ultimately, it brought us more harm than good because I wasn’t there for David when the cancer first began its rapid spread. I know of another couple who got married at the same time, an American man and a European woman, who did not follow policy and to my knowledge there was no immigration issue at all. Is it any wonder, then, that people wilfully ignore these policies if enforcement has an equal chance for an unreasonable outcome as it does with a reasonable one? That you can follow all instructions to the letter and STILL get deported or denied entry at the whim of an officer?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to argue with a U.S. border guard at what the law actually states because he doesn’t really know! Even the immigration attorneys can’t guarantee that border guards will grant entry if all paperwork is in order, because federal law protects the guards’ decisions (as arbitrary as they may be) as representatives of the U.S. government. In just five years since it was first established, the Department of Homeland Security has grown to be the third largest executive department of the U.S. government, after the Department of Defense, and Veteran Affairs. These officers have more power than any civilian law-enforcement agency in the nation, so you would EXPECT they would be the most knowledgeable, highly-trained, and the most judicious.

Well, think again. In practice, this could not be further from reality. (Including my last experience, on my way to San Francisco.)

If you cross the border regularly, you might have as strong an opinion about this as I do. I will now go listen to some calm, soothing music to get my heart rate back down again. Reading a story like the one above makes me think of how much it would’ve upset David to know that his own country sent his widow packing… and all in the name of overprotectionist immigration policies and the Patriot Act, an act that he felt strongly should never have been passed in the first place.

Click on the picture for the answer. Thanks to blynaffit for letting me use her picture.

See also David’s description of his city from the Flickr group “Praise and Curse of the City” two years ago:

I love that my immigrant grandparents made a life here, and my memories of their house across from the park and the museum, and hearing my grandmother’s Yiddish as a child. I love the railroad tracks and the boarded-up coal mines and the slag heaps. I love the careless accents and the affability of my neighbors’ voices. I love that there are soaring cities to the east, and endless forests to the west. I love that we still have our original chrome diners and our wonderfully awful newspaper, and one remaining human elevator operator. I love that Harry Chapin sang a silly song* about our town.

I hate that so much was lost when our city fell ill, around the time that I was born, and the youth and optimism that bled away over the years. (I love that health is returning, though.) Sometimes I hate that my city isn’t quite big enough, so that foreign films and foods and people don’t find their way here. I hate that the nearby farms are turning into housing developments, gated communities full of New Yorkers, wealthy and imprisoned. I hate the inept, corrupt and – worst of all – unimaginative public officials.

I love and hate the idea of leaving it, someday. I am Scranton.

*30,000 Pounds of Bananas.

Technorati tags: Scranton, Flickr, Harry Chapin

Specifically, Neil, Breigh, and the newly-married Tanya. I’m conveniently located near the CBC Shop, purveyors of fine Canadiana for possible Christmas gifts. I’m taking requests!

After returning to Toronto for one day after three weeks in Vancouver, I got in my car and drove from Toronto to Scranton, Scranton to Ambler, Ambler to Philadelphia, Philly to Scranton, Scranton to Rhinebeck, then Rhinebeck to Toronto in about six days. On Wednesday alone I drove about a third of that — 2+ hours between Scranton and Rhinebeck, then 7+ hours from Rhinebeck to Toronto. I spoke to Gigi’s Papa when I was east of Syracuse and he didn’t think I would be home before 2am, but I was in our underground parking by 01:10.

He also thinks I’m crazy for never using cruise control.

I’ve made three of these ON/NY/PA road trips since the end of May, and this drive home was the easiest. Oddly, though, the trip south last week really dragged. It seemed to take forever to get out of Toronto, and it continued that way until I turned south off Interstate 90 (part of the New York State Thruway) to head south along the very familiar I-81. For some reason, as soon as I see that sign for Binghamton (the last major town before the Pennsylvania border) it feels like I’m on the home stretch to Scranton, but in reality I’m not much further than halfway!

After my interrogation at the U.S. border on our way to Buffalo a month ago (just thinking about it still spikes my blood pressure), I smartened up and dug out the papers filed away that I had in a binder when I moved to Toronto. I put the binder back together again that contains supporting documents, eg. estate papers, marriage and death certificates, car importation, etc., so that NEXT time a USCIS officer gets “confused” with the details of my story and decides it’s easier to make accusations I’m going to simmer down and hand over that binder. In fact, I really should just make it easier for them and draft a one-page outline of events, with a table of contents.

Sarcasm never works at the border, so I’m keeping it all here, you see.

As I was driving to the border, I decided to skip the Lewiston crossing altogether and headed directly for the Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls. Which was a good move, I discovered, when I waited less than five minutes to reach a booth and was waved on through after three questions, the last one which was: “Are you the registered owner of this car?” I thought I was going to get the usual “Why do you have PennDOT stickers with Ontario license plates?” — but I didn’t, so I think I’m going to keep using Rainbow Bridge as my regular point of entry now. Maybe the officers have more sense there, or the spray from the falls works like Evian spritzer to make them more relaxed.

Ludicrous: American banks won’t accept a U.S. dollar cheque/check issued by a Canadian bank, fullstop. Or any bank in the world outside the U.S., for that matter.

I have a U.S. dollar bank account. I can write cheques in U.S. funds. But no U.S. bank will accept them. Does this make any sense at all?

Canadian border
Niagara Falls, Ontario
Friday, June 2, 01:45

Canadian Border Services officer: “Where do you live?”
Me (stifling yawn): “Toronto and Vancouver.”
Officer: “How long were you in the U.S.?”
Me: “Four days.”
Officer: “What goods are you bringing back to Canada with you?”
Me: (pause) “Cat food*.” (Neither Rachael nor I bought anything.)

The officer looked away for a moment, trying to decide whether I was jerking his chain he should continue his line of questioning and pretend he didn’t hear me, or if he should probe for more absurdities and maybe poke around the car.

About 30 seconds later we were on our way, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“At least he didn’t frisk the glove compartment and find the big bottle of Hugh’s pills I can only get in the U.S. because it isn’t on the list of federally approved drugs in Canada.”

Can you imagine the delay? The explanations? After driving all day, I didn’t want to imagine.

I also didn’t want to imagine what kind of excremental mess was awaiting me at the apartment from Mister Hugh, a.k.a. The Most High-Maintenance Expat Kitty Ever. He’s got the costliest poop around.

* Hugh can only eat two kinds of food, and both must be purchased from a veterinarian. Hill’s Prescription Diet K/D (Kidney Diet) wet and dry. Every other kind, including other Prescription Diet cat food for old cats or oral care or to treat furballs, are available in pet stores but disagree with his digestive system. The wet K/D is to mix with his daily capsule, and the only kind he can generally keep down is the chicken flavour. THIS FOOD IS EXPENSIVE, and I save a bit of money if I buy it across the line. With the pills I have no choice but to order them from the compounding pharmacy in Wilkes-Barre; they’re that obscure.

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It’s hard to believe I was in New York only the weekend before. I finished packing up a three-bedroom house, squeezed it into a 17-foot U-Haul and moved it to a one-bedroom apartment in Toronto a few days after that. After waiting out a snowstorm. Welcome to my bizarre world.

I haven’t written about the weekend in New York because I haven’t finished uploading the photos to Flickr yet.

Life of late has resembled a marathon of sorts. It is simply too overwhelming to try to tackle everything at once, so I motivate myself by setting my sights on the next lap marker. A month ago it was to find a place to live in Toronto. The other week it was preparing cross-border documentation. Last week it was to move house. The next lap marker is to find a job. Those are the major hurdles, but there are all kinds of minor ones in-between, such as finding a therapy group and helping Hugh adjust to a major life change in his advancing years. I keep telling myself I’ll feel better once I complete Project X, and move on to the next lap marker.

I like to think of myself as a resilient person. After all, I’ve moved around and my resume mentions three continents. Getting married, taking care of a dying spouse, then losing him in just a few months, however — nothing could prepare me for that.

When I was driving up to Toronto last Friday, I had some time to process recent events. I realised that my life has been in a state of flux for a year and a half, and it will likely take longer than that to restore any feeling of stability and security. After everything that’s happened, I have residual fears that something else will go spectacularly wrong.

I moved to Toronto because I wasn’t allowed to remain in the U.S., and it would be impractical to try to return to Vancouver right away. It will take about a year to sort out David’s estate, and I need to be within driving distance until then. U.S. Immigration did not finish processing my spouse visa before David died, and informed my immigration attorney that the spouse visa application died with him. They gave me 87 days to leave the United States before removal proceedings would be initiated. That’s right — 87 days from December 18.

After consultation with other attorneys and contacting politicians, it became clear that there was no basis for appeal where a spouse visa is concerned. No spouse = no visa, no Social Security number. No bank account. Can’t probate a will without a SSN. Dealing with Immigration has been an absolute nightmare. A nightmare on top of a nightmare.

Because of the immigration issues, I wasn’t allowed to live in our house, so I had to sell it. I also have to sell our airplane, which is tearing me up inside. But I don’t have another option — I can’t fly it, and importation is not viable. I want to learn how to fly, but it won’t be the same if I can’t fly David’s Tri-Pacer.

I am still haunted by cancer and its virulence. From the first symptoms to death, it killed David in five months despite aggressive treatment. Besides being profoundly affected by such an experience, I feel compelled to actively promote early detection of cancer. It’s nearly impossible to stop playing the “What if…?” game — “What if David had a different doctor? What if he’d gone to the ER when I first told him to? What if he stopped smoking before 1993?” — but there are lessons to be learned, to be sure. But no amount of investigation will tell us why, exactly, David got cancer and why the treatment didn’t work.

It’s daunting, everything, together. There’s still much to do before I can feel even remotely on solid ground. I don’t know how long I’ll live here. I have no income yet. I have no family here and I only know a handful of people. But at least I don’t have U.S. Immigration breathing down my neck, I can legally live and work here, hold a bank account, have health insurance, get a driver’s license, and talk in kilometers and Celsius without getting funny looks!

Taken yesterday in front of the 9/11 Memorial on Staten Island. My face is frozen solid here, as the winds are ABSOLUTELY GLACIAL.

Like my hair, things are a bit wild at the moment. Arrived back from New York near midnight, and have been running around today with phone in hand. In future, if anyone reading this needs advice on exporting a car from the United States and importing it into Canada, I would be glad to give you my two cents. I won’t bore the rest of you to tears with the (many) details, only to mention that I can’t register the car in Canada without a deregistration stamp from the American authorities on the back of the title, and there are all sorts of hoops to jump through before that can take place. It sounds like the two agencies work together, but I can tell you they do not!!

The New York trip was fun with a capital F, but now it’s back to the business at hand: moving. Anyone want to trade lives for a while?