The army officer asked to see my draft card. I showed it to him. He examined it and wrote down the numbers. He told me that my draft board in Florida would hear of my attempt to immigrate. He asked where I was living and I gave him my last address in Detroit. I explained that I had been going to Wayne State University. The officer said that he knew Detroit and that from my address, I must live very close to Woodward Ave. “Yes, in fact”, I said, “I lived less than a block from Woodward Ave”.
The officer moved closer, his face near mine, his eyes looking into mine. He said, “You don’t live there, that’s right in the slum.” I told him that was my last address and that it was very close to the university campus. The man insisted that I live in a slum then he asked, “Why?” I told the officer that I liked the area around campus.
The officer continued, now a monologue, the glasses waving. I didn’t say another word for the next hour. I did fidget, chain smoke until my cigarettes were gone, finally left with nothing else to do I played with my matches while he talked. As he spoke, sometimes in a arguementative tone, I thought of all of the people who had voiced opinions against my plans to immigrate to Canada.
Old Main at Wayne State University
When I spoke I asked him what had made him change his mind. He wouldn’t answer except to say that I didn’t meet the standards, which only momemts before I had met. After a short silence he slowly asked me what my classification (selective service classification) was. I told him I was II S (student). Some time later I was told that this officer had broken Canadian law by asking me my selective service classification. The officer suggested that I go back to school and keep my II S classification and get a degree. Ignoring the advice I had heard before I asked again what had really changed his mind. He hesititently confided in me that he had gotten word from Buffalo, Peace Bridge that I was NOT to be allowed immigrant status. Buffalo has twenty immigration officers, here, there was only one, he could not over rule them. He told me he was sorry. I asked him if I could withdraw my application, he said he would arrange that for me.
Again I got a slip of paper from him saying I had unsuccessfully attempted to immigrate to Canada. I had to give this paper to the American immigration officer on the other end of the bridge. Dave, my driver was completely baffled, thinking surely I had gained immigrant status, he couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. I tried to explain the events and attempts prior to this trip but it was a long story to be told in the length of a bridge.
Once on the other side we were both directed to an inside office. They asked Dave, to what radical group he belonged. He answered simple, “None”, showed them his Canadian birth certificate, then left to sit in the car. The officer then questioned me and then left the room. Another man entered, wearing an army uniform, several bars on his forearm. The man was about forty, with a thick heavy beard, a moustache the width of his nose. His hair was black and thining on top. When he spoke, he took off his glasses waving them in the air.
