Take a deep breath

To their credit, I find Canadians every day that are intensely interested in the story of US war resisters.  I've told my story, I'd suppose, at least a thousand times since coming to Canada.  Everyone that listens does so intently.  Most thank me for telling them what brought me to their doorstep, then depart with a few kind words and go about their lives.  Some are motivated to tell others about what they've heard, and write letters to their Members of Parliament.  A precious few are driven to do more, and become key players in this struggle that dominates my life.  Coming home from work yesterday, it occurred to me that in all those times of telling the story of my life to others, there are things I skip over.  I don't find them interesting, because I do them every day- they are simply a fact of life for me.  But as I went through the motions yesterday, the realization struck me that this, in fact, is not normal.

I share a house with some housemates who also happen to be the landlords.  I rent part of the place from them.  They leave mail for me in a common area near the door.  Every day, as I come up the walkway to the door, I slow down a little bit.  Part of me doesn't want to go through that door, and see what might be waiting on the other side. Every day, I slow down a little and hold my breath- I suppose in some vain effort to get the world to slow and stop along with me for a few seconds.  Today might be the day.  What the hell am I going to do if it's there?

I've been through most of my immigration processing since coming to Canada.  I applied for refugee protection, went to my 34-minute Immigration and Refugee Board hearing, and got my denial based on evidence provided in another person's case.  I tried to appeal the decision, and was denied leave to do so by the court.  Now I'm waiting on decisions for a Pre-Removal Risk Assessment and my application to remain in Canada on Humanitarian and Compassionate Grounds.  Both were filed as Minister Kenney began telling all his immigration officers that I am a criminal, and a "bogus refugee claimant".

One day, perhaps today, I will get an envelope in the mail.  If you've not gotten a lot of mail from the federal government, you may not know that they favor these official-looking beige envelopes, and they use the same one for everything.  It will be waiting for me just on the far side of that front door.  It will look like the dozens of others I've gotten before, filled with things my attorney had told me to expect.  But this one will be different.  It will have a date to report to Canada Border Services Agency, to begin the process of deporting me.  Most days, you'd have to be looking very closely to spot the break in my stride.  Some days, just thinking about that envelope knots up my stomach bad enough that I stop with my hand on the doorknob - key in the lock.  I get caught in freeze-frame at that threshold for what feels like forever.  On those days, I have to shame myself into opening the door.  A combat veteran is stopped in his tracks by a lousy envelope.  I take a deep breath to get my arms and legs under control again, and tell them to keep moving.

So far, it's worked out in my favor every day.  I've never opened the door to find my arch-nemesis, The Envelope, waiting for me.  But time is on his side.  Unless something changes soon, that day is coming.  It occurred to me yesterday that this one moment of terror per day really isn't normal at all, but I'd never actually given voice to that.

And now you know.