How CANADA Keeps Trying to Keep Me in its Borders, but Won't Admit it Wants Me. Much of the U.S is on pins and needles watching the post-insurrection mid-term elections. Will tight and contentious races go the way we want? Will bleakness yield to hope? Is Georgia on my mind? Ab-so-peachin’-lutely. But you know who, or what seems to be thinking about me? Not California. Not New York. Germany could give a rat's ass. But in case things here go tits up, it seems that one locale is opening its arms to welcome me, offering me an escape. Or, maybe just the opportunity to contact one of its specialists and fill out an evaluation to see if I’m worthy… O, Canada. To date, you’ve played coy. You’re always there, quietly on the fringes, saying “no,” yet showing “yes.” It’s a new era now, Canada. Don’t play games. Just come out and say it. You know you want me, baby (Canada). My family has ‘dabbled’ in Canada. One of my great-grandmothers was born there. Her husband, my great-grandfather (was) moved there as a child. My grandfather was born there but wasn’t considered a Canadian or British citizen, simply a British subject. Gee, thanks for the warm embrace of inclusion, Canada. Despite not fully welcoming my family into the Canadian fold, growing up in northwestern Washington, my mom recalls believing that O’ Canada was her national anthem. Her neck of the woods tuned in more Canadian than U.S. television channels, and the stations back then signed off at night with color bars and “O, Canada”. Time hop a couple of generations and maybe Canada is changing its tune about my family. One summer during my early high school years, my mother wanted to show her Australian friend where she grew up, and from there, visit Canada. This was, ah hem, a while ago, before we needed passports or had Real IDs to cross our northern border. My prior visits to Canada had never been an issue, so no worries. Right? As per usual, we rode the Coho from Washington to Victoria, B.C., Canada. We visited the Butchart Gardens, hit the James Bay Tea Room because the Impress was too touristy, and shopped for Rogers’ Chocolates and Murchies tea – yet sadly, not a Mountie in sight. And, after a day on Canadian soil, it was time to board the ferry back to Washington. It was a sunny day and the winds whipped off the waters onto the ferry’s deck. Upon docking, all us passengers then mooed our way to customs to be cleared to enter the U.S. I knew the drill. I also knew that the border guards drilling me always got tripped up on the point that I was born in a different state than I grew up in. And, as expected, the border guard grilled me on where I was born, where I’m from, and then proceeded to get a bit flustered that those are two different states. Then the real fun kicked in.
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AuthorGreat transitioner & media operative seeking a position as a script coordinator, writers' room assistant, or staff writer with a TV drama. I'm also open to related jobs with networks and production companies. Landing an agent would be awesome. Archives
March 2024
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