Why Can't We Be Friends

My friend recently traveled to Japan and spent two wonderful weeks exploring the island. Unfortunately on leaving the U.S. and entering Japan he was stopped three times and questioned relentlessly by the anti-terrorist police. Those orange-banded enforcers saw their target from a mile away. It’s the Middle Eastern decent that singles out this friend and he’ll probably be stopped habitually. So in honor of his persecution I post my own terrorist interrogation story. When I moved to Ireland for a year the immigrations officer spotted me as a sex slave extraordinaire. Seriously, an average, educated white girl from the States?

I was standing in a long line of foreigners wanting to shoot myself. I’d left my mom 26 hours ago at DIA and had been crying for nearly as long. I was moving to Dublin and was traveling 2 days after the terrorist attack at Heathrow. Puffy eyed, messy haired, no make-up, ratty white T and sweats, I stood out in the crowd of Euro travelers who actually take time with their appearance. In a state of sleep deprivation I drug my sorry ass and luggage up to customs. The official took one look at me a frowned. Then in rapid Irish, which sounds like a drunk on speed, fired pointed questions at my arrival to his blessed country.

Being illegal (staying over the 90-day limit, no visa and employed) I had been instructed by the family I was working for to say that I was here to stay with friends. What I didn’t know is I needed the address I was staying at, the name of the family (I had met them once and was terrified I wouldn’t recognize them when they picked me up), plans, etc. If I’d been born a charming deviant the lies would easily have dropped from my lips. Unfortunately, I was born with a tendency to blunt truthfulness and a damsel in distress look.

After 30 minutes of unsatisfactory answers from me, the official stamped my passport with a restriction and instructed me to report to the Garda. My story “didn’t add up” and he’d love to “hold me for longer to fill the gaps and get the truth” but obviously I was not the only passenger that needed to be welcomed to Ireland. I marched, er slinked, into the shadowy halls plastered with human trafficking posters.

Every month we’d visit continental Europe. And every month I would receive interrogation coming back to Ireland. The Garda were slightly more forgiving. Probably because Jay and Jodi were with me to answer questions, you know back up my story, or embellish it. He was my proof of residence and had come to vouch for me so I could obtain a visa. I sat to his left with his wife on the other side, whom he also had to vouch for (seriously patriarchal over there). Returning to Dublin for the last time a young guy granted me entry, by cheerfully reading my Irish criminal record. “So ya’re leavin to home in a few days, ar ya? Bin stoppt at yer boyfriends, livin wit ‘im. Still leavin?”

Yeah, I’m leaving. But as a terrorist or sex slave?