Borders and Discourses of Fear

My friend, A, and I decided to drive to Montreal for the conference.  She has moved back to Massachusetts and lives not far from Vermont, putting her only one state away from Montreal.  Besides, we would have hours to catch up, dissect issues and people, and in general hang out.  The trip up seemed fast.  There was nearly nothing to distract us ... except the vistas, and some of those were so covered in fog that you could only imagine what lie beyond the mist.

My friend was somewhat nervous about crossing the border... we had our passport check before we left Massachusetts so as not to have to worry.  The four and half hours crossing through Vermont went so quickly we were unprepared emotionally for the border when it seemingly jumped up before us.  We got to the open window and handed the guard our passports.  He asked where we were going, and my friend offered, "To Montreal for a conference." He looked at us and smiled, "Anthopologists?" he said with a French accent.  I asked him how many he had seen and he put his hands up and looked up and to the side, I don't know... he smiled again and we were on our way.

Turned out crossing the border into Canada is a piece of cake.

Coming back to America, on the other hand, is more like a pie in the face.

The grouchy customs officer took our passports and asked us what we had to declare.  Nothing.  We hadn't had time to sight see or buy trinkets.  He scowled at us and we smiled.  Then he said to turn the car engine off and open the trunk.  I could hear him unzipping the luggage.  What was he looking for?  Had we made a mistake by not buying anything? I had just joked with my friend that we should stop at the duty free.  We told him we were at a conference.  Was that code for something illegal?

Our time with the customs officers did not end there.  Let me say that knowing we were near the border and my friend had planned to get gas just over the border, I had been holding it.  But I really had to go.  This was my most pressing concern throughout, but I was also concerned about why it is that he had decided to call our actions into question.  He told us to pull up and get out of the car and go into the office.  He had our passports, so there wasn't anything we could do.  He hadn't punched in our numbers or done anything but a cursory look in the trunk.

In the office, we had to fill out claims forms, we were instructed to read the back carefully and sign. It was the standard bit about not carrying more than $10,000 in cash.  Neither of us had any trouble signing that... we had about 100 bucks between us.  Then they rifled through our purses.  My agent unzipped all of the little bags I keep in my purse:  the coin purse, the toiletries, the pencil bag. When he pulled out my computer and the books, he said, I guess you were working.  That would be the only clue we had in the whole ordeal as to why we were being searched.

I was admonished to not carry medication that was not in its original packing.  My friend was threatened with a $300 fine for carrying a clementine (that came from a grocery store in Massachusetts) in her purse.

The other agent asked my friend if it was her car...and if there was anything in it that wasn't hers.  She said no, it was a brand new car... barely in her possession over a week.  They left us in there, not allowing me to use the bathroom, and searched the car.  I watched as they sauntered over to another car searching while leaving us to wait in the office.  Obviously there was nothing for them to be alarmed at in our car... they never even found the other clementine.  I wondered if they just needed to continue to be hardasses since the first grouch had decided we were undesirables... maybe we shouldn't be let back into the country.

I know, I know...they are just doing their jobs.  However, since we live in the discourse of fear country, we must create monsters out of really ordinary situations.  While we were waiting, another customs agent came in carrying a bag of offensive grapes.  And she gasped, "They have bread in the trunk."  Not to mention the people she was talking about were BLACK and didn't speak English perfectly.  Yeah, lady, I got your number... now that you have them pulled over, there has got to be something wrong with them.

We got in the car and drove away fuming.  How ridiculously these border agents handle the situation ... skull and daggers, as if... in the world of fear you must have monsters. On that day, we were chosen to be monsters and then rejected as light weights.  For me this came on the heels of another friend having crossed into Arizona from California ... to be stopped at a checkpoint and asked her nationality.  Seriously?  Do I need a passport to cross state borders now?  As I prepare for my Christmas trip to California in the car, I am stewing with the reactions I will have ...

I can report that I passed in a car from California to Nevada Sunday night without incident...

I decided I need to think of fear and borders in other realms as well.  Here's one that I just got around to listening to... and I think you will see what I mean about fear/borders if you listen to it.

My niece's birthday party was held at a friend of her mother's house.  It is inside of a gated community nearby called Leisure Village (interesting, very time my dad hears this name he says, Sleazy Village, and I need to remember to ask him how it got that moniker).  I find it confining from the moment you drive in and have to tell a gate attendant where you are going and who you are ... though they didn't ask me.  You round the corners that all look exactly the same, perfectly manicured lawns and trees.  All I can think is "STEPFORD."  As my sister and I pulled out, I said something about it, and she said, it was a great place for someone like the host... retired, unmarried (widowed? divorced?). It was safe, my sister said.  But, safe from what? I asked, not convinced that anyone needs that kind of safety. 

I am continually intrigued by those that feel the need to live behind gates.  I say this in the full knowledge that mental and emotional walls are gates... though often unseen.  And I have spent my share of time behind those, so I guess my sister is right that I don't have a leg to stand on in my condemnation.

On a lighter note (but not really that light), I found a *new* (new to me) favorite song: