Have You Ever Considered Becoming an Immigrant?
An immigrant leaves all that is familiar and comprehensible behind, for a roll of the dice.
Fifty-four years ago, on March 16th, 1968, I landed in Canada.
I was sixteen years old. It was to be a one-year visit, a trial run of sorts, or maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps my sister and her husband — who sponsored my immigration — needed an escape route. After all, if things did not work out they could send me back to Chile after a year.
My memories of that landing day remain crystal clear. It was a typical Vancouver spring day, cloudy and cool. The immigration officer who welcomed me to Canada was friendly, and seemed genuinely happy that I was here to join family. He stamped my passport and wished me well. I had become an immigrant.
I was not fleeing a war-torn country as a refugee, nor was I riding freight trains to reach the Rio Grande to illegally enter America. I was a legal immigrant prepared to start a new life in a new country. I was also a naive, wet behind the ears, ignorant, pimply teenager.
