If you follow me on Twitter (and if not, why not?) you know there has been a respectable amount of stress in my life. One of these pressure points is a little thing called D-E-P-O-R-T-A-T-I-O-N. You see, I am not American but choose to live in this great country and will probably always live here. However at this juncture, I am not willing to forsake all that is holy my Canadian citizenship.
My Permanant Residency Card expires in a few months. It was issued almost 10 years ago after some not-so noble practices. Unfortunately, my beloved Lord of the Gourds did not come into my life until a few years after I needed him.
While at BYU, my fellow Canuck Mike and I used to swap dating stories. Sure, he/she was hot. Sure, he/she was kind. But most importantly: did he/she have GPC? (Code for Green Card Potential.)
Hey, at least we weren’t marrying for money.
Both Mike and I ended up marrying Americans. As a sidenote, one of my favorite Mike stories was after he graduated with his MBA. He had a promising job lead so shot the company off a resume. Imagine his delight when he realized he did not send it from his professional account, but from his personal one. The one entitled “hoserhell.”
He didn’t get the job. Shocker.
Upon graduation, I had no GCP prospects so had to go my own route and apply for Permanent Residency through the government. If I did not have any American connections, they told me it would have taken me 12 years. Fortunately, my grandmother was born in the U.S. so I could go through my mother.
The year that followed was ripped right out of a nightmare. I poured mucho $ into the application process, only to have the government repeatedly change the laws, which required me to start over and over again. I had to fly up to Calgary to go to an “American-approved doctor” (because evidently they don’t have those in the U.S.) and then out to Montreal for an interview. I was yanked into the Taliban room at Customs more times than I can count. In the end, my future residency hinged entirely upon my mother’s ability to pass a driver’s license test, which she flunked three times in one day.
Didn’t know you could take it three times in one day? Don’t tell the three different locations she visited.
It was all a wee bit stressful.
Everything came through in the end but I have been more than a bit apprehensive about what I will have to endure for the renewal. Last month, I sent a big ol’ check to Homeland Security, which felt more like a bribe than a payment but within weeks, they set an appointment.
That appointment was last week.
I barely slept the night before. Would they ship me off to Montreal again? Detain me in the Taliban room? Make my mother retake that driver’s license test and realize she should have been banned from the road 10 years ago when she first took it?
Nothing transpired. They took some fingerprints. I filled out some paperwork. The only conflict was debating if I should check “pink” or “maroon” on the eye color choices just for kicks. But better to play it safe than be kicked out. That was it.
And so my friends, I remain a Canadian yesterday, today and always.
At least until I have to go through the entire process again in 10 years.
Cast your vote here: should I have remained Canadian or instead come over to The Dark Side?
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 