The day the door to the U.S. closed in my face

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The Urbane Indian

Now I'm a traveling kind of guy. I've been a lot of places, seen a lot of wonderful lands. I've even had my share of unique adventures. But this one was a first for me.

Picture it-I'm on my way to Vermont for a series of dramaturgical (theatre stuff) meetings with the artistic director of an American theatre company that is interested in producing one of my plays. During the summer the A.D. teaches a course in theatre at a college in Vermont. He wants to meet me. So like the mountain and Mohammed, I was willing to go to him if he provided the way. So with a plane ticket in hand for a flight on Wednesday, I was busy packing my bags on a Tuesday when the call came in.

It was the A.D.'s executive assistant. There was a wrinkle in the plans. I was the wrinkle. Or more accurately, Toronto was the wrinkle. The person with the college campus had told the executive assistant that upon arrival, I would have to sign a document stating I had not visited any cities on the Centre for Disease Control's (CDC) list of SARS hot spots. The executive assistant struggled to find the correct words to tell this woman, but she found them.

"He's flying in from Toronto. He lives in Toronto." I'm told there was a slight pause on the other end, then a polite "Well I'm sorry, but he won't be allowed on campus."

Now keep in mind, this was a good week after Toronto was taken off the World Health Organization's list of SARS hot spots, but this college campus follows the edicts of the CDC which had not, and was rather inflexible on the subject. I was not going to be allowed to enter these hallowed halls of education. I had visions of my first great American production going up in smoke.... there goes that Pulitzer, that Tony, that Nobel literature award thingee.

But as a starving playwright and professional humorist, for some reason, whenever the harsh hand of reality slaps me in the face, the gods always make sure it's wearing a glove of irony. At least that way, it makes the sting more interesting.

For instance, was I the only one that saw the irony, the peculiar twist of historical fate, in that I, a person of Aboriginal ancestry, was not being allowed into a country because of the fear of a disease? Where was this belief 500 years ago?

That's like saying I wouldn't be allowed to phone a telemarketer, because I just might annoy them. I was stunned. Part of me, the Trickster part, was tempted to go down to Vermont anyway, and just take a casual walk around the campus wearing a shirt that proudly boasted the name Toronto on it, and, occasionally, cough.

And how's this for the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. This theatre company that was in danger of losing the cost of a plane ticket from a sudden cancellation, started arguing with the airlines. They wanted a better refund because it was not their fault I couldn't use the ticket. It was the campus and the CDC who nullified the situation. Meanwhile, the airline's response was 'We take our direction from the World Health Organization. And they say it's okay to travel to and from Toronto. No refund.'

So there I was, hoping and expecting to bring the glory and genius of Native theatre to America, stopped by a disease I didn't have, a disease that nobody I knew had, by a people that didn't have the disease and knew nobody that had it. I think they're still pissed off we didn't support them in the Iraqi war. And yet, if memory serves me correctly, the Americans are not quite fully convinced there's officially such a thing as the Persian Gulf Syndrome either.

I have a few more trips planned for the States in the next few months and now I'm beginning to get a little concerned about what America will fear in me and other Torontonians next. Mad Cow Disease ... Albertans beware. The West Nile Virus ... I think that's already made its way into America. I just hope they don't find out about the great Crabs epidemic of '99, one of the less reported afflictons. I was not a victim, but then again I wasn't a victim of SARS either.

But the final insult, the final, ironic kick to the kidney happened that next morning, the Wednesday morning I was scheduled to leave for the lovely state of Vermont. I was morosely unpacking as I listened to the radio. The CBC announcer told me that the Centre for Disease Control in Atlanta had just lifted its Toronto travel warning, and it was now safe to migrate.

I hate it when stuff like this happens.