Jennifer Carroll is a 21 year old actor and writer. She first began writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos in 2007 when she had the opportunity to share her experiences as a Canadian ambassador for an international conference for women in Dubai. At the beginning of 2008, she moved to Ireland to pursue a career in theatre and film. Far From Home is her monthly account on living and working in Dublin.
Previous
Fenced out
We have been through more than this.
This was monumental to me. My older brother, my mentor and friend, my protector and debater, stood up and said his vows to a woman who has woven herself beautifully into all of our lives. It was a wedding to be remembered, a marriage just beginning, and the day that would introduce one of the most important people in my life to all those whom I love.
My mother says I'm the only person she knows who would move to Ireland and meet a Brazilian. But Davi and I have been together nearly three years, and he's so far entrenched in my life, I can't picture it without him. As my brother's big day loomed ahead of us in giddy anticipation, I excitedly began to dream of introducing him to a country I hold so dearly, my home.
I pictured driving him home from the airport, sun glinting across amber fields, trees on fire upon the crest. I imagined turning into our quiet little town, his tired eyes welcoming the sight of the family home standing proud, waiting to meet my beau. As I would open the door, he would peek into the house I was raised in, where I became quietly creative, where my ambition was born. A part of me. My parents would smile in familiar recognition, ready to welcome Davi with a cold beer and a warm, dusky patio. My imagination trembled in excited anticipation.
And yet geography held a trump card close to its chest. Brazilians are not allowed to enter Canada without a TRV - Temporary Resident Visa. Simple enough, from what I understood: an application, a letter of endorsement, reasonable proof of financial means to travel and a purchased plane ticket. Easy. Several hours on the phone with the immigration section of the High Commission's Office in London (where we needed to apply), and all seemed to be routine.
The application was posted out excitedly. Then sent back. We needed to go to London and apply in person. So off we go. We take the ferry - more romantic in my book, and far more comfortable than a blasted plane. Once at the office, we line up at an unbelievably unnecessary hour. Through security, then a receptionist who checks for completed application packages, followed by an initial screening, ending with a seemingly unending wait - nothing more than inconvenient. My nerves seemed to be all for nothing. We're called back to a tiny booth in the dank back offices of bureaucracy. We saunter back, eager to get official papers in hand. There, we are shattered. We are informed, by a woman with a severe manner and cold eyes, that Davi's temporary student visa in Ireland red flags him as suspect. She believes he's sneaking into Canada to avoid deportation back to Brazil. I am aghast. The sneakery that this would involve is far above my wily capabilities. We are told there is insufficient proof of our ties to Ireland, and we are immediately denied the visa. We are welcome to reapply, if we wish, but they cannot guarantee results.
I was crushed. It all happened so fast, it took until we ejected ourselves from the offices before tears found their way to my eyes. However, the stubborn Carroll that I am, my tears quickly swept from hopelessness to anger, then action. We would just have to laden ourselves with undeniable evidence. The Canadian Embassy in Dublin reassures me that with an encyclopedia of evidence of our ties to the country, our chances will increase exponentially. It is our job to prove without a doubt that we will return. So I do. Notarized letters from attorneys we know personally attesting to our character. Itineraries. Letters of expectation of return from both of our employers. Leases. Bank statements. Contracts. Financial obligations we hold in the country. I cobbled together a paper trail of our life together and sent Davi away again to present our desperately hopeful case in London. I must return to Canada ahead of him. I felt as though my heart was ripped from my body at Dublin airport, waiting for Davi to pick it up on his way to the wedding. I could hardly breathe as I jetted over the ocean, alone.
A week later, I sit in my parent's basement at 4 am, phone clutched to my breast, my lungs hardly sucking in air. The phone rings, and the long line of digits tell me it's international. I answer, terrified. His voice crushes my everlasting optimism. He said he had never been treated with such disdain. My heart crashed back into my chest, broken in half.
I have never been anything but fiercely proud of my warm, welcoming, accepting country. I have boasted for many hours to Davi how much he would love every inch of Canada, just as I do. I could pontificate for hours over how well respected our country is the world over, and how my heart swells every time I mention where I'm from. And yet, alone in those dark hours before daybreak, I felt something new: shame. Deep, deep shame that my country might reject someone I love so much. Frustration and shame.
The wedding was beautiful, and I was so proud of my brother. But I felt slightly hollow as I stood and watched two people begin their life together, an experience I couldn't share except in anecdotes.
This is the first time my country has let me down. I know we're not the first to have our lives interrupted by bureaucracy, and I know he'll see my home one day. But like a glistening pond of pure white paint, once a drop of black ink spills into it, it will never again be anything but grey.
