“You will take the fruit, the sandwiches and the yogurt,” my sister instructs me.
“What? Why?” I ask. “Because they will already be asking me more questions. You will go behind me. We can’t be together, ok?” “What? You’re leaving me?” She is making me nervous.
“I’m going to say I’m travelling alone. It will be better for us both that way.” “So you’re breaking up with me? It’s not me, it’s you…it will be better for us both… What are you talking about? Why are you telling me this?” “Get ready,” she warns.
We are at the border. It always feels like this. There is something guilt inducing about crossing borders. We are hustled off the bus and ushered inside. My stomach twists.
It is incredibly cold inside but I resist putting on my sweater. Something, something… “the right to bare arms”… After all, I don’t want them to think that I am trying to hide something. I have nothing to hide. No way. Not me. Fruit? Sandwiches? Yogurt? Is that street slang? I don’t even know what those illicit substances are.
Two lines form. My line advances ahead of the line my sister is in. I try not to look at her. I also try not to notice that she is a mere three feet away from me. There she is. Right there. Howdy Partner! I could literally reach my arm out and give her a jab in the shoulder, with my finger gun, and say something like: “This is a stiiickkk up!”
Do NOT do that, my brain instructs me, embarking on his own ego trip. The border guards have obviously inspired him. Next thing I know, there will be checkpoints between my cerebral lobes. I know, I know: “We Are Not Together.” I drone in appeasement.
My line moves slowly. I keep my gaze solidly fixed on… nothing. I try not to look at anyone, while being cautious not to look away from anyone–that could be perceived as dodgy. I follow protocol and join ranks, putting my backpack up on the scanner. I double-check with the security guard that it’s ok that my laptop is inside. He responds: “It only erases part of your laptop’s memory, not all of it.” My face clearly shows signs of distress, as the guard informs me that he was making a joke. I release the tension in my lower back. Ahhh. A joke, that’s fun.
My sister is called forward. I don’t look up. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, should they detect any resemblance in our facial features. She is being seriously questioned. For the record, others have, once or twice, noted the general shape of our noses.
In line, they do a quick search of my lunch bag. I have arranged it as my sister instructed me. Then, they tear my suitcase from my hands. Ok, maybe that’s not entirely true. Ok, it’s not at all true. Regardless, what is true is that my suitcase is sailing down the conveyor belt and I am sweating a little. But then, my whole body freezes as I suddenly remember. Oh God. Fruit, Yogurt and sandwiches…who cares! I have bags of loose tea, from my mother, sitting on top of the clothing in my suitcase! Goldenseal, and marigold, lying there, fully exposed!
I am nervously shifting my weight, alternating between a plié and contropposto stance, desperately trying to think of various winning rebuttals. I rehearse the first one that comes to mind: But officer, they are “natural” herbs! No, no, no. That definitely would not cut it…
Luckily, I am spared the strain of coming up with more winsome refutations as moments later my luggage trots out of the baggage scanner looking triumphal, but war-torn. I can tell that she has been through a lot on my behalf. I still lie awake at night wondering: How did that machine know the difference between marigold and marijuana? I’ll never know. I am in awe of you, powerful technology. I grab her and pull her to my side.
Back in line, I look over to find that the officer is still grilling my sister. He is married, I notice. Or, at least wears a ring on the forefinger of his left hand. 1 out of the 4 officers behind the counter wear some such similar ring. There is only 1 woman amongst the 4 guards. Less than 25% of all border guards self-identify as women. My sister is smiling. Prematurely, I take this to be a good sign. Then, I notice that the border guard is not smiling. Bad sign. Of those who participated in our border control survey: 5% answered affirmatively to the contentious statement “I have smiled while on the job.”
As I am contemplating this, a man in front of me rolls over my foot with his enormous suitcase. He then turns around to say: “careful, watch your toes!” I thank him for his thoughtfulness. In another place, at another time, I might have said something different in response, but presently, I bear this ill silently for fear that someone should see that we are talking, i.e. conspiring. The sign in the middle of the wall suddenly commands my attention: “You are not allowed to argue with or threaten the guards.” I imagine this means no feeding or poking sticks through their cages too.
Now I am summoned. I take a deep breath and walk forward.
Guard: What is the purpose of your travels?
Me: To see friends and family.
Guard: To see friends and family?
Me: Yes.
Guard: No, repeat what you just said.
Me: Umm… “To see friends and family”
Guard: No, from the beginning… “The purpose of my travels is to…”
Me: Oh. “The purpose of my travels is to see friends and family”?
Guard: Final answer?
Me: Yes…
Guard: No, say it.
Me: Oh, umm….
Guard: Say: “Final Answer.”
Me: Oh. “Final Answer.”
Guard: Have a good trip!
Me: Thanks. You too!
Dang. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s the wrong response. He’s not going on a trip. Whatever. It’s just that he had me all caught up in that “repeat after me” stuff.
I exit the building and look for my sister. There she is. I march over to her. “Hey, what was THAT all about?!” “We’ll talk about it once we’re back on the bus”, she hurriedly responds, moving away from me as if dodging the burdensome queries of some weirdo smelling of Doritos. I get it. I practice my whistling and take another stab at self-hypnosis: I am just a regular-ol’-passenger-person who happens to have met a look-alike on my bus tour. Just a coincidence, ho-hum, whistles, whistle, whistle. The line moves onto the bus and I rush to the middle to grab two seats.
Finally, back on the bus and seated, I am hoping that we can be sisters again. As we get ourselves situated I quietly whisper “OK! So What Happened?” (“Quietly whisper?” An outright lie: more like exclaimed loudly.) She tells me that they needed proof of her residency to ensure that she would leave the country again come fall. But the “100% real” “juice” of the matter, the “pulp” of the situation, the “seedy” detail was that her file had been flagged.
Me: Flagged?? Why?!
Sister: Apparently I brought a clementine into the U.S. a number of years ago.
Me: Apparently?! (Gasping for air, my heart palpitating, I move as many inches away from this unconscionable smuggler as I can.) So that’s why you weren’t willing to put the fruit in your own bag. Wow. What a set up! It’s all so biblical!
Sister: You are nuts.
Me: No. I am Benjamin. You are Joseph: the malicious one, placing a silver cup in my bag!
Sister: One would be so lucky as to have nothing more than a silver cup discovered amongst their belongings at the border. Sure, there might be duty fees, but they wouldn’t flag your profile.
Me: I think you’re making light of this. I am suffering from pangs of guilt and possibly even PTBD.
Sister: PTBD…?
Me: Post-Traumatic Border Disorder. If any of this fruit had been discovered in my bag, my plight could have surpassed that of biblical proportions.
How could she be so cool about it all? This had been a really stressful experience. I knew I needed to calm down. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small container and proceeded to lick the white stuff off the lid. My sister looked alarmed, or maybe just surprised. “You got that through?!”
“Want a hit?” I say, softening my earlier tone and cracking a smile. I reach back into my bag and grab a container for her. “But seriously, how did you…” my sister is still still waiting to hear my explanation. I try to leave her hanging there, for just a minute more 1,2,3… until I can contain myself no longer.
“You see, dear sestren…” I proudly begin, “While the border guards were busy sniffing out the infamous citrus contraband, and the X-ray machine was scanning for traces of Marigold tea, they failed to notice the 6oz of yogurt slipping into their country undetected. But, then again, I guess it’s medicinal, right?” I enjoy a spoonful until, like an annoying parrot, my brain squawks: Final Answer? I attempt my best impersonation, which in actuality is a “Regina Phil-in” nasally counterfeit at best, and respond to my internal border patrol: “Final Answer.”