13 Years in America
One Woman’s Pursuit of the American Dream
By Melanie Steele
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many wonderful people. First, many thanks to Scott Herrly, who has been by my side for thirteen years. Warm thanks and appreciation also go to Kathryn Steele, Nyah Samson-Paton, Char Waters, and Lindsy O’Brien, who were very helpful in the revision process. I would also like to thank those who supported the book: Cathy Miller, Nowell, Nyah Samson-Paton, Kathryn Steele, Doug Hammond, Doug Steele, Lynn Fighter, David A. Ray, Don & Pat, and Mary L. Vines. Lastly, I would like to recognize my wonderful daughter, who is an unlimited source of inspiration.
Copyright
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.
www.13yearsinamerica.com
Smashwords Edition August 2012
Author’s Note
In 1998, I moved to America from Canada. This is the story of my 13 Years in America, with some aspects changed in the retelling.
1998
I’m trying hard to enjoy myself as we drive down the Trans-Canada Highway in George’s green and white 1978 VW van. I really am. Over the past two and a half days I’ve told myself a hundred times to focus on the music and the conversation and the incredible changing landscape around me, from ocean, to forests, to mountains, and then to great, vast wheat fields.
But it’s hard to leave Salt Spring Island behind. It’s easier for George and Sophie because they’re just going to a friend’s wedding in Toronto, and they’ll be back in a week. But I'm getting dropped off to spend the whole summer working in Fort Frances, and even when I get back to the West Coast, it won’t be the same. Then, I’ll just be visiting Salt Spring instead of living there. Those days, for now, are over.
I remind myself again to focus on the road ahead instead of the one behind me. We drive through small prairie towns, around Winnipeg, and finally into Ontario. We’re only a couple hours away now.
George turns on to the highway south and glances at Sophie. “What are we going to tell Customs?”
“That we’re just driving through.”
“I hate the border,” George complains, turning down the music. “You know we don’t have any rights there. No right to remain silent or anything. They’ll grill us with questions, and make it into this big deal just to drive through their country.”
“Stop worrying about it,” Sophie says. “You’re making it worse.”
I don’t blame him for being nervous. I know what it’s like to cross the border, with the line-ups and the huge American flag soaring overhead. It’s intimidating. Last year I went down to Seattle with some friends and we got held up, brought inside, and questioned while our car was searched. We weren’t doing anything wrong so they let us go, but we were all shaking for a good hour afterward.
“How ‘bout we just drop Mel off in Fort Frances and then go through Thunder Bay and around to Toronto?” George suggests.
“That’s a good idea,” I yell from the backseat. “Your van’s a hippie-mobile, and with your long hair and Sophie’s nose ring, I bet you’ll get hassled at the border.”
Sophie sighs. “The wedding’s tomorrow,” she reminds us, “and going through the States will save us like six or seven hours.”
“Fine,” George says. “We’ll do it.”
Sophie turns the music up and George tolerates it until we turn left toward Fort Frances. I can see his knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel. Signs say to keep right for the International Bridge.
“Turn here,” I yell. My dad’s place is a mile up on the left. I’ve been here before, but only once, two years ago when I was hitchhiking across the country. I recognize it, but barely.
George stops in front of the garage and turns the van off. My dad and his wife Pat come out to greet us, and George and Sophie say a quick hello while they unload my stuff from the back. Two suitcases, a couple boxes, and a tote bag. My other stuff is stored in boxes at my mom’s in Victoria for when I get back. This is just what I need to get through the summer.
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