Moments later I gave the slip to the American Customs agent. The agent looked at me questioning for some time before he spoke. When he spoke he said, “How old are you son?” I told him I was ninteen. Again he looked at me puzzled, then slowly asked if I had gotten into any trouble while in Canada. I said, “No.” He asked if I knew any reason why I wasn’t being admitted to Canada. Again I said, “No.” I said no partially, for the sake a brevity, how could I, and why should I explain this series of events that has landed me her. I also said no because I didn’t feel any guilt for what I had attempted to do, immigrate to Canada.
The officer looked at me again he spoke slowly. “Well . . I guess we have to let you back in.” His words delivered slowly. His statement, broke the emotional logjam I felt inside of me. The humor of my situation became evident with his simple words. Was I doomed to life on a bridge between two countries? “Yes”, the logjam broke, a laugh, the tension lowering, “I guess you do.” I felt better and I thanked the agent.
Both Dave and I felt famished as we drove from the bridge toward Watertown, New York. After some fast food Dave drove me to the bus station. I felt like I had few choices and I had just enough money for a one way ticket to Detroit with three extra dollars. Dave has spent most of the day with me. He had been very patient and I thanked him for all of his time the best I could. He left for Kingston, Ontario and I waited for the bus to Syracuse. It was dusk, and it felt cold.
This red faced officer seemed to take each arguement, covering so many different perspectives, all I had heard before. He covered all of the cliches. Love of country, duty to your country, defending freedom, all of the lives sacrificed so that I could have freedom, serving wasn’t a choice, rather a duty, wasn’t I a man enough to sacrifice? I pictured him transformed in to many of the people I had heard before, some very well meaning, some puzzled, some harsh and uncaring. Little word baloons appeared over his head and my attention waxed and wained.
I said nothing. He said nothing that I hadn’t heard before. I was sitting very still and watching the vein on the side of the officers neck grow larger. His frustration showed in his face and color. I sensed several false endings to the monologue and finally he stopped talking. There was a short period of silence, we looked at one another. I slowly put the match box back in my pocket, thanked him and started for the door, my body felt like it was in another space, composed of different parts not working too well together. The officer called me back, his face very red, the vein protruding, “I wasn’t kidding when I said your draft board would hear of this,” he spurted it out. I said, “O K.”
Again with difficulty, I tried to explain to Dave, my driver, the cause for the delay. We starting driving for the next bridge, some thirty miles distant. As Dave and I pulled into Canadian customs at the next bridge we were flagged over to the office. We entered and the officer said to me he wasn’t under any circumstances to allow me to enter Canada as a visitor. I explained to him that most of my belongings were in Toronto. The officer said without $250 bail he couldn’t let me into the country. The officer said he was sorry, but these were his orders.
I was given yet another slip of paper. The paper simple said, “Michael Cannarella has been denied admission to Canada as a visitor.” I was told to take the paper to American customs. Before I left the office I was warned not to make another attempt to enter Canada. The officer said that my name and discription has been wired to all of the border stations in the region.
