That Rebel Weed

Here's a poem that got me into a bit of trouble at the Pembina border crossing in 2003, when I went to sell Christmas trees and sleep on the streets of Manhattan. Being the single, young Canadian traveller with a one-way ticket I was a natural target for inspection.

I imagine they were most interested if I was bringing drugs. As if I'd be that stupid. Whatever, it's their job, and I think they get genuine pleasure out of making people sweat. I was cool. I had nothing to hide, except the fact that I was going down there to work illegally. And there was no physical evidence of that.

But there was a poem that mentioned "that rebel weed" which the officer read while perusing my private journal. And he questioned me about it. I told him quite honestly it was about dandelions. I used to be obsessed with weeds as a poetic metaphor in the mid-nineties. I was taken-up with their tenacity, inspired by unwanted things that could be so beautiful and free. It had very little to with marijuana.

July 24/98

Looking back
to when I was so consumed
with emptiness
wondering how sorrow could be so
addictive

Now sunshine
is reaching the cracks—
weeds are pulled, uprooted
for flowers
and it seems as though anything
is possible

Remembering that
I still cherish that rebel weed
a confusing emblem
of annoying yet voracious life,
only now will colour and charisma
shine forth

At the opposite side of the book was another entry that he read, this one was written the night before.

11/25/03

Pre-Trip
It is the night before I take off into my American adventure. Ren hit it on the head when she said that I am in the portal. I am neither here nor there, but waiting for the near-distant launch into another world. Add to that the strange hours I have subjected myself to in preparation, and it becomes clear that I am in a zone that Nikki described as being 2" in front of your face. If only I weren't so nervous about sleeping-in & missing the bus, which after all does not leave until 9:40. But I guess pre-trip jitters have to manifest themselves somehow. Only 7.5 hours to go.

Ironically, I only used the journal once on the entire trip, and that was to record my feelings about the border crossing. The rest of my observations were written nightly on Christmas cards and then dispatched via the Post Office on 84th Street. It is up to all my friends and relatives who kept their cards to put the pieces together again—I'd be grateful if anyone of you typed one into the comments ; ).

Here's what I wrote about the border crossing:

Border Crossing
The usual suspect—Young Male, casual labourer with casual plans. I would have been extremely surprised if they had waved me through, I am the type that if I were them I would scrutinize. But my travel plans, sketchy as they are have a definite conclusion, and my bank statement is compelling evidence that I have the means to support myself. Still, it is nerve racking sitting in that room being interrogated. I can only imagine how horrible it would be if I were Mr. Arar, or if the inspector had not believed my reference to "that rebel weed" referred to dandelions and not to pot. It is the curse of the wayward artist to face such sticky situations, but thankfully this is still a free country, and the word of an honest citizen is still worth something. (I don't know if I was being sarcastic at the end, but I certainly was not being totally honest, and I am by no means an American citizen.)