Cori Chaisson Yule - Wisconsin

Nine years have past since I was stopped at the border and told never to come back. I was treated to a good dose of American authority; there’s nothing like a strip search to keep a young woman from getting argumentative.
I’m legit now, married and employed. Not a flamboyant teenager looking to party it up in Seattle. I bought my plane ticket and I have every right to visit Wisconsin. I am not a criminal.
“Passport?” The customs officer holds out his enormous hand. I place my passport, ticket, driver’s license, and itinerary in a neat row on the counter. He picks up the passport, holds it up so he can look at me with one eye and the passport with the other. He looks for a long time. I feel too self-conscious. I decide I should stare back.
“Why are you going to America?” He asks, still holding up my passport.
“To visit my mom in Wisconsin.” I am speaking too fast. Just be calm.
He picks up my driver’s license and holds it and my passport up, not breaking eye contact.
“You work?” He asks, tapping my ID on the counter.
Shit. I didn’t think about having to tell where I work: A vegetarian restaurant started by draft dodgers called The Naam, and here I am talking to an enormous beef-fed proud American.
“I’m a chef.”
“What’s your specialty?” He straightens up in his chair.
“Vegetarian.” My mouth is dry. His face remains expressionless.
“Vegetarian chef.” He says flatly. I nod.
“Do you ever make that, uh… that tempeh stuff?”
“Sometimes, yes.” I answer.
“How about vegan pancakes?”
I can’t tell if I’m smiling.
“I like that tempeh. S’good barbecued. Have a nice time in Wisconsin.”