O America!
An anecdotal counterpoint to the ever-popular American threat of moving to Canada in times of turmoil.
In the weeks after Donald Trump was elected president, many writers scrambled to post timely words of warning, hope, and the perpetual oscillation between the two that now encompasses the emotions of many like-minded liberals. Some were convinced it was the end of days, others found solace in the fairly (politically) moderate viewpoints Trump had maintained prior to his campaign. Others started taking Cymbalta (a “friend”).
As a part-time writer and full-time latte-sipping leftist elite (and daughter of Muslim immigrants), I felt like maybe I too should post some sort of opinion. But as my brother pointed out during Thanksgiving, too many people were trying to predict a man who was entirely unpredictable. These thinkers and bloggers were wasting hours of intellectual energy trying to make sense out of that which makes no sense. He might build a wall at the Mexican border. He might register Muslims. He might register at Bed Bath & Beyond when marrying his fourth wife, a former gymnast/child-bride at Béla Károlyi’s obedience school in eastern Rumania. We could not possibly predict him.
So instead of offering my ill-founded forecast of what a Trump presidency would look like, I decided to spend a recent Saturday night reminiscing about a particular adventure with Romy, my Canadian raison d’etre, and cofounder of this blog. I grabbed a mugful of wine, a handful of Cymbalta (for a “friend”), and thought about that time in 2008 — when after years of yelling angrily at the TV upon hearing yet another atrocity committed by the Bush administration, we decided to take a road trip. To Buffalo. To get her American visa renewed at the border so that she could maybe, hopefully get the privilege to stay in this country for a little while longer.
Let me start by clarifying that Romy is not your classic Canadian. Her parents are Middle Eastern immigrants, she does not say “aboot”, and despite her penchant for real maple syrup, she has never once smiled passive-aggressively when I said something stupid, or say, used Aunt Jemima on my waffles instead. She is opinionated, blunt, and has never lost a staring contest. If she were an animal, it would probably be a panther. Or a pit bull. You know what the difference between Romy and a pitbull is? Lipstick. Just kidding, she doesn’t wear lipstick. There is no difference.
Because of her fierce intelligence and focused gaze, she is often perceived as intimidating, which in our sexist culture translates to being cold. Yet over the last decade of knowing her, I’ve come to think of her as one of the warmest, most secretly optimistic people I’ve ever met. And something about our similar-yet-dissimilar personalities have made us magnetically attached since our earliest days together in that beautifully dilapidated Brooklyn brownstone.
In fact, here is an excerpt from an email I sent some friends about my new roommates, two weeks after I moved in:
Romy is mostly Lebanese, though she was raised French Canadian (so she says words like “tomorrow” really funny and can conjugate an irregular French verb at the drop of a hat). She’s a very athletic math major/piano teacher (what?!), though her job is to help organize a pro lacrosse league. She’s hilarious in a deadpan/no-affect kind of way, and threatened to clothesline me if I started loudly cleaning the living room before she woke up on like the third day we lived together. I fell in love immediately.
We also realized on day 1 that she was one of those girls who was really good at dodgeball as a kid. I on the other hand, was the kid who always liked getting out immediately to avoid getting beaned, and enjoyed stepping on the gym floor in weird calculated patterns to amuse myself on the sideline. This is very symbolic for the type of person we are — she makes friends easily, I may have Aspergers. I am essentially the slug of the house and settling a house dispute over a quick game of dodgeball has been brought up numerous times already. Assholes. We also died over the fact that we both moved in equipped with an arsenal of hair-removal/bleaching/straightening/Anglo-izing products. The extra room is slated to become a “get whiter and fit in already” salon for the two of us.
We spent late nights having profound conversations while watching TV — anything from a DVRed game featuring her beloved Celtics (complete with her rewinding key moments and telling me to focus on the nuances of Kevin Garnett’s leadership in his minute gestures mid-play, me nodding and sipping my 3-buck Chuck in genuine fascination), to art-house movies, to MSNBC. We’d watch Grey Gardens, and laugh in horror at what was sure to be a vision into our future together as cat ladies reminiscing of our past glory (minus the glory). We’d watch Rachel Maddow, and cry in horror at my nation’s constant quest to cement themselves as a worldwide embarrassment, resigning both political parties to do nothing but invoke the Founding Fathers and dream proudly of a greater time (or at least a time when our president was smarter than the average third grader(’s pet hamster)). Each night was a new disaster — brutal accounts of unconstitutional torture, frightening discoveries about unconstitutional spying, unconstitutional institutions of constant incontinence — all amidst the worst economic depression we had seen in our (and our parents’) lifetime.
Romy would watch the news intently. “Are you fucking kiddi — ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! Are you hearing this? Look at this fucking fuck! How did you get elected?? Fuuuuck!”
I didn’t have my glasses on. He was another old white man with what appeared to be a giant “(R)” next to his name, speaking at some congressional hearing, saying something that probably would have been a popular sentiment in the 1800s.
“I know”, I’d say. “I can’t believe this guy is making decisions. For my vagina. My vagina is in that man’s hands. Fuuuuck.”
Despite not having voted for any of the cretins in power at the time, as the only American in the house, I felt partially responsible for the garbage cabinet that was now ruling what was supposed to be the land of opportunity they fought so hard to get to. Our third roommate was also foreign-born, from India, but with a steady job and imminent prospects of grad school, he had a more stable visa situation than Romy.
And so he felt relieved. Because to both of them, despite the despair, the regression of American values, and the shitshow of Sarah Palin and the Tea Party on the horizon, there was absolutely nowhere else they could imagine being.
We tried everything to keep her here. She hired a lawyer, and then another. Her friend offered to marry her. I dug up information on the Green Card lottery, and interviewed others who had managed to score a coveted H1B.
I offered to marry her.
In the end, she threw together a work visa application, which required a number of small trips to my office printer, and one large trip to the border. I don’t know why I agreed to come. I normally can’t even be bothered to meet a friend for donuts at the diner two blocks from my apartment (despite having a massive desire for donuts, and an inexplicable yet incredibly opportune desire to walk two blocks).
But on that frigid winter morning, we packed up the car, grabbed a handful of CDs and a few Middle Eastern talismans, and headed into the Buffalo tundra, determined to keep her dream alive.
Despite being fully aware that the sole purpose of the trip was to enter a foreign country and obtain a visa, I never thought to actually bring my passport.
“Are you fucking kiddi — ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! What do you mean you didn’t bring your passport? Fuuuuck!”
I sat silent for a minute.
“Look, I understand you’re upset,” I said. “Maybe we can swing by my parents’ place real quick? I think maybe they have it… there’s also a Dunkin’ Donuts on their block, so like, we could maybe stop and get some — ”
“Dude! We’re in Chinatown! We’re not going to your parents’ place! Godammit, I have to pee already. Hang on.”
She made a turn that could only be described as “illegal”, and pulled up behind a truck sloppily unloading what appeared to be fermented giant squid. There were approximately 37 signs posted directly above us indicating completely contradictory restrictions, but I could only assume that stopping there for any period of time would result in at best a hundred dollar ticket, or perhaps a trip to Guantanamo.
“I’ll only be a minute. Think about how you left your passport in the meantime.”
“What!? You can’t leave me with the squid people! What if they recruit me?? That’s probably what happens to people who park here. No! Don’t leave m — ”
She slammed the door. I sat silent for a minute. We had only inched through about 6 miles, and already our burned Santigold album had started over again. Outside, a man cursed as he dropped a squid bag into a stagnant puddle that was just warm enough not to have frozen over.
“New York fuckin’ City. And she wants to stay here.”
Four pit stops, three more rounds of Santigold, and one off-brand upstate New York Cinnabun later, we made it to Buffalo. It was evening, and as we pulled into the cheap hotel’s lot, we saw a group of young kids ill-dressed for the subzero temperature, laughing audibly in the street, ready for a night on the town.
“They’re probably our age,” I said. “And they live in goddamn Buffalo. Why are they so much happier than us?”
“Oh come on, you’re way happier than them. Or you should be! Look at you, you look like… like a trendy grandpa. That’s happiness right there.”
We entered the hotel and were greeted warmly by the concierge. She offered us a room for $89.
Romy: “Sounds great, we’ll take it.”
Concierge: “Now hang on… did you ladies say you were students?”
R: “Nope. Neither one of us.”
C: “Well… I might still be able to do something for you…”
R: “Really… it’s ok, we’ll take the room — ”
C: “How about $79? I found a manager’s discount.”
R: “Really? Well, sure, I mean, that’s great. Thanks!”
C: “Wait just a minute… are either of you in the service?”
R: “Nope. But seriously, $79 is gre — ”
C: “Hang on, just give me a minute. Hmm… nope, that code is no longer valid. What about this one here… nope, neither is that one. Rats.”
R: “Really, it’s very sweet of you, but $79 is fine. We’re kind of tired, and would love to just — ”
C: “Hold on, sugars, let me try one other thing… are either of you retired?”
The following day was judgment day. Romy dropped me off in a local cafe on the border as I spent the next 3 hours doing work, and daydreaming about what my life would be like in Buffalo while perusing the community board’s numerous quaint ads for improv troupes and bands seeking drummers. Life might be simpler out here with fewer distractions, fewer squid trucks, and just as many interesting people. What about that guy at the table in the corner? What was he writing, all hunched over his laptop? Maybe he was the next Cormac McCarthy. (Meh, seems like a blowhard.) Maybe he was the next Hunter S. Thompson. (Ugh, dead.) Maybe he was the next Mindy Kaling. Yes! Maybe, deep down inside, he was a brilliant, chubby Indian girl waiting to steal my heart. We’d meet regularly at the coffee shop, and then spend our nights running through the cold in our miniskirts and I’d laugh when she’d call me a “skinny bitch”, because I knew she secretly appreciated my elegant ankles and how I never borrowed her clothes, and really, she was way more successful than me, so who cares about that anyway? except that I did, I DID, and the resentment would build and build and build because of course she wanted to move to Hollywood, and I kept complaining that “L.A. sucks, and NY is waaay better” even though I hate NY and she’d of course (of course!) remind me of that every time (that bitch), and then —
My phone rang.
“I got it. I got it. I GOT IT!”
“Got what?”
“Are you fucking kiddi — ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! My visa!”
“Oh! Great!! Come pick me up! Let’s get out of this shithole.”
In the years since, after many threats to her visa, and a couple of forced exiles to Canada, Romy is currently living in NYC. She has never stopped wanting to live in the states.
In typical immigrant fashion, recently, Romy has gone from being an analyst to being a VP and running her own team at a prestigious firm in Manhattan. And she did this the way every immigrant does — by using her gypsy charms and exotic eastern beauty to beguile the white man. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is HOW THEY TAKE OUR JOBS.
I digress.
You don’t need research to tell you that immigrants help the economy (though there’s plenty out there). Just look at the smartest, most successful people you know. Now look at their parents. Now look at their parents’ noses. Just this year, the Americans who won the Nobel Prize were all foreign-born with the exception of Bob Dylan (whose grandparents were Jewish immigrants).
When I ask Romy now, why, as such an informed person, and weeks before someone like Donald Trump takes the highest office, she is still so hell-bent on staying here, she tells me it’s predicated on a dream. The United States was the promise of a new start, away from her family, away from her former life. If she gave up now, even under the completely believable excuse that the current political climate has become untenable, it would mean giving up. It would mean accepting defeat.
As much as I wanted her to launch into some sort of American patriotic diatribe, you can’t expect someone to always love America. You can, however, make grand sweeping statements that conclude immigrants never want to give up.
And that is why I never want foreigners to stop wanting to live here. And when they finally get here and realize what a spectacle it really is, or maybe how fucked up it really is, or what a fucktacle it really is, I hope they stay. Because as orphan Annie once said, “the sun’ll come out, tomorrow!”, and as Ice Cube once said, “today was a good day, I didn’t have to use my AK” (keep your standards low, guys.) This is the country where anything can happen. This is the country where a black man named Barack Hussein Obama can be elected president while our two major enemies were named Hussein and Osama, and the other candidate was an experienced, white, decorated war hero. This is the country where the same people who voted for Obama could also elect Donald Trump as president. This is the country where anything is possible. Get angry, get active, get depressed, but please, whatever you do, as Lisa Loeb once said, “stay.”
