Is Nothing Sacred?

I am on this train in a state of shock, so numb that I can barely feel my own fingertips as they press up and down on these keys. What began as an innocent and exciting potential trip to Toronto ended in mental rape and physical molestation by the Canadian border officials.

It took me a while to organize my scattered thoughts, to recollect exactly how and why I have been wronged. Every few weeks, I read all these horror stories about the TSA; how they treat everyday travelers like criminals and single people out who aren't "approved" to exist freely in our society -- mainly, those who are non-white and poor. I am here to tell you that it isn't just the TSA. It's the border officials on both sides, its government both local and federal, and to them you are nothing more than a piece of meat ripe for ridicule and mental torment. You are not innocent until proven guilty. You are guilty until proven innocent.

I am writing this because I want people to know just how totalitarian Western society has become. I am just one person, someone they wish to silence. But I refuse to be voiceless any longer. And I want to give my voice to the other voiceless.

My first train departed from Albany, New York at 10AM. Six hours later, we arrived at the Canadian border. I took some pictures of Niagara Falls before customs told everyone that we had to get off the train. Most people went right through without a problem. When I got up to the counter, a quirky, young brunette woman asked me where I was going and why. I said Toronto and for Spring Break. She asked if I knew anyone to which I responded that I did not. I put my bag through the Xray machine as they requested.

"What's in there?" said one heavy set middle aged female officer to another.

"Just a lot of stuff." a blonde officer responded.

Of course, they seated me in the additional screening area. What else is new? This happens every, single time that I travel probably because I look Middle Eastern or something.

"What are these?" said the first officer as she thumbed through my plastic vitamin bag.

"Multivitamins, gingko biloba, and biotin. I try to stay healthy." I responded.

She continued by going through my wallet, credit cards, pockets, and everything else. Another officer motioned me to come up to the counter.

"So we have to run a background check on everyone who comes through Canada." She said. "And it shows here that you have an assault charge in Michigan from 2007 and another in Florida."

"I was a minor." I replied. "And I don't have any convictions."

"Well, here in Canada anything over the age of 14 will remain on your record for life and count towards your application for entrance. If you have one charge or conviction that's more than ten years old, then you can enter. However, two means that you can never enter unless you receive a pardon from the Canadian Embassy. Do you want to tell me what happened so I can make a decision?" she asked.

"I was married at 16. Divorced at 18. My ex husband beat me and the police took us both to jail without asking very many questions." I replied.

"Usually in a domestic dispute, the police will arrest both parties."

"That's exactly what happened."

"The problem is they never entered what happened to these charges. So I will need to see deposition paperwork."

"I wasn't aware that I had any charges."

"Did you go to jail, pay a fine, or see a judge?"

"In Florida, no. In Michigan, I was arrested and jailed for seven days before being released. The day after I was arrested, I saw a judge in the morning and plead 'no contest'."

"Do you know the outcome of that case?"

"Unfortunately, no. I was 17, homeless, broke and scared. I didn't have anywhere to go but back to my aunt and uncle's house in Florida."

"Okay, can you just step into this room please?"

I walked into the room and they asked me to remove my coat, shoes, and arm warmers. To my horror, the burly lady walked in with my laptop as the young brunette had my open diary on the table.

"Those are very personal writings."

"I know but I have to see if there's anything in here that could be cause for concern."

"I don't want my diary read." I insisted. "It's personal."

"We see this kind of thing every day, don't worry about it. A lot of young girls come through here and they're desperate, like you."

After the burly woman patted me down, groping me everywhere from my breasts to my butt to my ankles, she asked if I had any drugs.

"Not hiding anything in your bra are you?" She asked, taking an extra long time to feel around my breasts, swollen from the onset of menstruation that day.

"Okay, you can put your shoes back on." They both seemed to say in unison. I hate how cops have this sort of hive mentality. Groupthink, or whatever its called. Bullies.

"Can you enter the password to this laptop?"

My stomach dropped.

No. No. No. NO! Please, God, please tell me this is all a bad dream and this is not happening. I can wake up at anytime. I can wake up...

"I have explicit pictures of myself on there." I stammered.

"That's fine. We're just trying to make sure you don't have any child porn or anything illegal."

 I had no choice in the matter at all. I entered my password and they started clicking around my desktop.

"I write creatively in my spare time. It's a passion of mine." I said after I saw her click on the poem Sleeping Ugly that I'd written for a creative writing class.

They all came by and glanced at my laptop screen. I wanted to know what they were looking at besides that poem.

"Okay, I'm just concerned. I saw something in your journal about suicide and bipolar. Are you on medication or anything?"

Great, they must have misread the entry about [my friend] who has bipolar and now they think I'm mentally ill on top of everything else.

"I haven't been hospitalized in over six years and that was for PTSD. I have no current diagnosis and I don't need medication."

"What happens if you go manic or something?"

"I'm not bipolar." I repeated calmly.

"I have several causes for concern." She said. "Normally, when we see pending charges like these we would deport you. However, I know you've had a hard life because people who have an easy life don't do what you've had to do for money."

I simply stood there in shock. I couldn't figure out which was worse -- the fact that this woman was patronizing me or the fact that she was accusing me of being a sex worker.

"We see a lot of young girls come through here. I know you're desperate."

Where does this woman get off acting like she knows me personally based on a few misread diary entries? What on earth would she know about desperation, looking as white and middle class as she did?

"These gentlemen are going to escort you back to the United States. This doesn't mean you can never come back to Canada but leave all that stuff at home and get deposition papers for those charges next time you apply for entry."

Why? So you people can put me through hell again? No, thanks. Canada's got a giant red "X" through it on my world map.

Two male officers took me to a police van and drove me back over the border. The U.S. officers were much friendlier. They asked if I needed a cab or anything and chuckled about how ridiculously strict the Canadians are about entry.

"Yeah, we see it all the time. People get sent back for everything."

"Apparently." I replied.

They pointed me to a Days Inn across the street near a Casino in Niagara Falls, NY. I booked a room for the night and opened my laptop to let some people know what happened. Afterwards, I went to the Denny's downstairs. Even though I was starving, I found it difficult to eat.

The waitress greeted me with a smile and quick service. She complemented my black and white tipped nails as she dropped off the menu. I was the only customer in the entire restaurant and one of the few hotel guests. Her kindness was sorely needed that day so I left her a $9 tip on my $11 check. Gotta pay it forward.

When I ran a bath for myself in the hotel room, I felt nothing but numb. I thought the warm water would comfort me but it did not. I thought the biscuits and gravy would comfort me but they did not. I thought some music would comfort me but it did not. Then it occurred to me that this is exactly how I felt after I was violently raped at 11 years old by the 13 year old girl living up the street.

Those female officers mentally raped me. I was treated as if I were less than human. Sub-human, even. I was humiliated in front of dozens of people; interrogated for over an hour only to be sent back over the border to the U.S. -- my vacation and spring break ruined. My uncle, a fellow traveler, would always rant and rave about Canadian customs and for the most part, I tuned it out -- thinking it would never happen to me until it did.