O Canada~!

So, I picked up my visa today from the Canadian consulate here in Sydney. The visa means I can spend the year in Toronto doing all the things I've been planning to do... I have to say, having only interacted with US immigration before, Canada was a bit of a breath of fresh air. No appointment necessary - I just waltzed up to the right floor and wandered in to take a place in the queue. The woman at the desk was totally lovely and - this is the best - at the end of the letter which I have been given to present to the borderguards, confirming I have been granted a visa, it says: "Thank you for your interest in Canada."

Aaaaawww. How adorable. Unlike US visa documents which have got 'you should be so lucky' and 'bet you hope I'll pick you' oozing out of them, Canada politely thanks me for even being interested. It reminds me of my own country. (Actually it reminds me a bit of me.) I smiled when I read it, and decided I'd feel quite at home there.

But.

What does it mean to say I'll feel at home there? What processes of history mean that this vastly distant place feels like 'home'? Who had to give up their homes so I could have one? Whose land will I be on? Who got to decide (and enforce) that 'Canada' would be the entity to grant me permission to move to Indigenous land rather than the local Indigenous communities? Who *doesn't* get to fly to Sydney and pick up a visa to work in Canada? Because, aye, moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege.

(Or perhaps I should practice saying 'moving to Canada with a NZ passport is a matter of privilege eh...?)

Privilege. You know, when you get something and don't even have to take the time to realise that you got it. Instantly I find myself feeling mortified all over again, recalling standing with Paul at an airport recently, asking to have a prime seat and the person checking me in finding that the specific seat is, in fact, available. As we turn away from the check-in counter and I held my boarding pass out proudly, announcing I was 'so lucky,' Paul said something like 'yeah because you're a gold frequent flyer. Some poor person who hardly ever gets to travel prebooked that seat and was really excited about getting to sit there and is about to find out it's been given to someone else.' Um. Not lucky. Privileged. (And mortified.) I hadn't even thought about my gold status (acquired for a year and already lapsed last month) when I'd asked for the seat, and if Paul hadn't reminded me of it I could well have kept on believing the great seat just happened to be free when I asked for it. It's the not thinking that makes it privilege. Even though I research, read, write and teach about all kinds of privilege (white, male, straight, middleclass, able-bodied), I was still incapable of noticing privilege in this new context. That's the deep power of privilege: it is barely perceptible; it dresses up and prances around wearing 'logic' (even the dubious but comforting logic of 'luck') rather than running naked and being honest about what's really going on.

So, back to the Canadian consulate.

This morning I stood in line, waiting along with all the other people who were in the queue or sitting in white plastic chairs beside the giant map of Canada and the window that looked out straight onto the harbour bridge. We all had our papers with us: passports, forms, photos, bills, cheques, proof of who we are, who we've been, who we plan to be if we get to Canada. We all had our own systems for organising these small bits of documentary evidence: envelopes, folders, files, plastic wrapping, bags. All of these little systems of organising that make sense to the logic of the person who has filed them, and all of us needing to reconcile our own systems of filing with the logic of the consulate. All of us ends up rifling through bits of paper over and over, looking for the thing that Canada thinks comes next even if they belong in different parts of the pile in our own lives.

We're the lucky ones. We've got paperwork. We've got papers. And for me, I've got a passport from a white Commonwealth country.

I strongly believe you learn things from everyone you connect with - it's just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out the main lesson from a particular person. From a guy I dated for a while in the States, I learned about the black and white Commonwealths. There I was, living in the States, researching and reading and writing about the ongoing processes of colonialism and race... and yet I still didn't know enough about my own privilege to even realise there were two Commonwealths. Pius mentioned that he had applied for a visa to go to a conference in London and without thinking (without thinking) I said 'oh but aren't you travelling on a Nigerian passport?' - baldly revealing the extent of my naivety about how uneven Mother England's love is for her many freckled Children... Pius and I both watched the Commonwealth Games growing up, and we had both scoured our local American supermarkets for Weetabix (closest thing to Weetbix) and Milo. Both of us were deeply shaped by and committed to our respective Indigenous communities, deeply valuing the cultural, linguistic and political inheritance we had acquired from our families and nations. And yet, when Pius and I wanted to travel to London I get to just hop on a plane and chat with the border guard when I get there, whereas he needs to apply for a visa. Sure, we both had passports (unlike millions of undocumented people around the world), we both had money to buy tickets to travel (unlike billions), and we both had educational opportunities beyond the wildest dreams of any people, including our own respective communities. And yet, we had unequal access because of long and deep histories of interaction. Privilege.

On 17th August I will be flying to Canada, one of the lucky ones. The world is organised in such a way that my ability to move to Canada is rare and unusual. (Indeed, my ability to move around depends on some people staying put.)

I'm very excited to be going to Canada. I'm still giggling about moving to a country that thanks me for my interest.

I'm privileged to be going as well.