So, I haven’t got a passport. So why don’t I have a passport? Because:

I was born in France, to Canadian parents (13th generation, I am; we go back before the founding of the country, actually, and my ancestors looted and burned the White House, which Macarnie says is good for a drink on him, should I ever get over to the UK, which is doubtful because, as I remind you, I do not have a passport) on a Canadian airforce base, and brought to Canada at the age of 11 months. See? Here I am, entering the country. From left: raincoaster, Mother, Polly, Random Canadian Airforce Guy whom we shall call Sam Browne.

(Oh yeah, FYI that pic was taken in 1985. Mom was totally New Wave.)

Therein lies the problem. It’s a bit like the-kneebone’s-connected-to-the-shinbone…

I received a Certificate of Foreign Birth, which was what they gave you when you were a Canadian born abroad, obviously. At some point in my travels the card was lost, although Ottawa retains the number and all relevant information. Because I was not born in Canada, I never received a Canadian birth certificate, although when I was sixteen I did get a Social Insurance Number and card; the card was also lost, no doubt thrown out with the wallet when I moved one time and tried to clean up. I should never do that. Clean up. I break things, I lose things, it’s horrible. I should just listen to Quentin Crisp; he says that after the third year the dust never gets any worse, so why bother?

Oh yeah, in the late seventies, apparently, Ottawa decided to discontinue Certificates of Foreign Birth and require all possessors thereof to apply for a newfangled document, Not Quite the Certificate of Foreign Birth or something I think it was called. Naturally, they did not notify us, and naturally after six months they decided to charge money for this newfangled card.

It all makes so much sense. In another universe.

So, right now Ottawa knows who I am, where I was born, and that I am a Canadian citizen. But it will not give me, the person to whom the documents relate, documentation for this. Meanwhile, since I’ve been sick and not working, the government’s left hand is asking for this documentation, and threatening to cut me off unless I provide it. The government’s right hand is happy to provide it, at a cost of ninety dollars. Which, of course, I do not have because I am sick and not generally working and that would represent twenty percent of my monthly income, which income is threatened because I do not have the documentation.

I may distinguish this generation of my family by becoming the first to loot and burn the Peace Tower. I mean, honestly, people. The government, and particularly Libby Davies, my MP, have always been very helpful at assisting refugees from foreign countries in getting their documentation straight, even if they fled in possession of nothing more than a few exotic germs. I contacted Ms. Davies’ office and was informed there was nothing she could do for me, as I am not actually a refugee. “I am considering filing a claim,” I told them.

“From what country?” they asked, not unreasonably.

“From Canada.”