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10 THE RURAL VOICE
A SPECIAL CANADA DAY
Gisele Ireland's latest book, Brace
Yourself, is available for $7 from
Bumps Books, Teeswater, NOG 2S0.
Canada Day has always been just
another holiday for me ... but not this
year. I'm going to party until the
rooster keels off the fence. It will be
special this year because I will have
received my legal status as a citizen of
this country. If that surprises you, just
think of what it did to my adrenalin
level when I found out I was an alien.
The possibility of going abroad last
year prompted me to apply for a pass-
port. I was turned down because I was
not a citizen. I was dumbfounded. I'd
lived here for more than three decades
and behaved as a Canadian should. I
paid my taxes, and moaned about it. I
complained about the politicians ..
The kids, of course, thought it was
a huge joke. The nicknamed me Alf
the Alien. For Mother's Day they got
me luggage in case I got deported.
That was only the beginning. I went
to the Immigration Department,
naively thinking I could straighten it
all out in a few hours. What a laugh!
Reams of documents were required
to prove I existed, including a copy of
my marriage licence. I couldn't find
it. I sent for another one. I needed
photos. The photographer, who'd
known me for years, thought I was
kidding. When I assured him I wasn't,
he chuckled and suggested I wrap a
towel on my head and have my upper
lip tattooed to get legalized faster. I
declined. As it was, the photographs
were awful. I wouldn't let anyone in
the country that looked like that.
The immigration officer in London
was sympathetic but still told me the
proper procedure had to be followed.
I was ready to stuff procedure up his
nostril. It was because of a lacking
signature all those years ago that I was
being put through the wringer.
My name was the worst problem.
If you think it's difficult now, you
should have seen the spelling on my
birth certificate, and the slightly
altered version on my immigration
papers, and the condensed version on
my driver's licence. The aliases I was
operating under, I was told, all had to
be investigated. That ended up taking
almost a whole year. The next round
was an interview with a judge to deter-
mine my suitability as a Canadian.
Not many people have the ability
to intimidate me, but this judge did.
She was steely gray, with her hair
chopped off at chin level with a blunt
axe. Her beady eyes pinned me to the
chair as they blazed from over the
wire -rimmed spectacles dangling near
the edge of her nose. She made me
want to confess every lie I'd ever told.
Her first volley at me was a line of
questions about my criminal record.
Assurance that speeding tickets were
the most offensive things I'd ever
collected seemed to mollify her, but I
spoiled it when she asked how our
judicial system worked. That I had
learned first hand by serving as a juror
did not sit well. I was just grateful
that I hadn't sent anyone to jail.
The election procedure was also
no mystery to me. Her rather frosty
response when I informed her I'd been
an avid voter since I gained the age of
majority made me feel as if I had just
been put on the ten most wanted list.
The clincher came when she asked
how I felt about becoming a Canadian.
My response was positive, with the
rejoinder that I'd feel a whole lot
better if Canada wasn't so far in debt.
That was a subject I was intimately
involved with.
She looked like she had a dump
truck of misgivings, but signed the
application, informing me that the
swearing-in ceremonies would be one
month hence — but I had to stay out
of jail between now and then.
It's been a tough job to walk the
straight and narrow, but I somehow
managed to refrain from clashing with
the law. Like I said, now I'm going to
party, like a real Canadian.0