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More Canadians than ever are being turned away at the U.S. border -- 30,000 in the first six months of this year, compared to 25,000 in the same period in 2006. U.S. Customs agents have increased their cooperation with Canadian authorities and juiced up their computer network, so running a background check on the RCMP database takes just a few seconds, compared to minutes before, and anyone with a record who hasn't obtained a pardon can expect to be blocked.

But it's not just Canadians with arrests or convictions who have to worry. Queer people can expect greater scrutiny crossing from Canada into the U.S., as I well-know after a recent trip.

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rriving by bus at the Peace Bridge (connecting Fort Erie, Ontario, with Buffalo, New York) customs station, I had only one small backpack. It contained a few articles of clothing, a small quantity of toiletries, two notebooks, and four books: Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, Errico Malatesta's At the Cafe: Conversations on Anarchism, Hakim Bey's Immediatism, and a copy of the York University journal, Public.

My companion and I were on a spontaneous two-day trip to Buffalo, to relax, hang out with a drag-queen friend he knows, and to view an exhibit of queer British artist, Francis Bacon (1909-1992) at Buffalo's Albright-Knox Gallery.

Not everyone undergoes an extensive search and scrutiny of their personal effects. I'm not sure why I was targeted for greater surveillance. It could be because I'm a shade darker than your average white Anglo person. Maybe it was because I mentioned that I was traveling with my partner, pointing to him in the next cubicle. Or it could be simply that I'm Canadian and a university student.

Open Wide

Here is what happened. Our bus pulls into the Customs Inspection Center and we are told to disembark and line up, bringing all our baggage with us. "U.S. Customs and Border Protection" is now under the jurisdiction of the Department of Homeland Security. The official seal, seemingly changed hastily, had been photocopied and affixed above the door leading into the inspection room by scotch tape. That was not an encouraging sign.

I approached the counter and answered the usual questions about where I was going and for how long, including if I had ever been refused entry by customs in the past. I hadn't. For some inexplicable reason the agent decided that a thorough search of my personal effects was in order. He disappeared briefly to don blue latex gloves and returned to remove every item from my backpack, pausing to inspect and scan the books that I had brought with me. Then to my astonishment he flipped through and read my notebooks and journal entries. He stood a full 15 minutes in front of me turning the pages over in my journal and reading my notes. It's hard to describe the feelings of astonishment, anger, and resentment that courses through your body in a moment like this.

In my wildest imagination, I had never anticipated that my personal notebooks would be read by an official of the U.S. government. What are they looking for? Are critical scholars and activists singled out for greater scrutiny at the border? Is your name entered on a database to alert customs agents to you during any future border crossings? I resisted the urge to question the inspecting agent's activities, knowing that my justified anger and astonishment would likely manifest as belligerence. I chose to remain silent.

My notes, hastily written the night before detailing the places of interest a friend suggest I should visit were subjected to close scrutiny, turned over by the blue latex- gloved hand of the customs official. "What does this mean?" he asks gruffly, pointing to the note I made to myself about going to the top of Buffalo's art-deco City Hall, a place where folks could take in a good view of the city.

I assumed that after this grueling inspection, I was free to leave and board the bus. However, a female guard motioned for me to approach the steel inspection table once again. When I protested in a tone of utter stupefaction that my bags had already been thoroughly searched and that even my notebooks had been read by the other guard, she curtly replied, staring fixedly at me, "We can do whatever we want."

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See also:

Flying Air Anonymous
Can travelers leave the burden of identity on the ground?

Policing Borders
In an era of barbed-wire frontiers, no-fly lists, and chipped passports, can we keep travel gay?

Stamp your Own Passport
Securing your right to travel in an age of snooping