Border Crossing

The customs official on the American side of the Peace Bridge asked my brother where he was born.
“Saigon, Vietnam,” Bill answered.
The official craned his neck back and looked at me. “And you?”
“San Jose, California.”
The official, much friendlier than the one who had admitted us all into Canada earlier that day, shuffled our identification papers and driver’s licenses. “And how do you all know each other?” he asked. In his tone, I thought for a split-second that there was something more than mere formality; I thought I’d heard genuine puzzlement. Or curiosity.
Well, sir…officer, I imagined myself saying. My brother came to America when he was eleven years old. He and his wheelchair-bound father escaped Vietnam by boat. They left behind the rest of their family, my brother’s mother and two sisters. Apparently my brother’s father couldn’t convince them to leave. Another man, some kind of uncle, maybe someone not even related by blood, got them passage on a ship leaving the country under cover of night. The boat took them to Malaysia, to a refugee camp which in comparison to life in Saigon my brother would remember as a paradise of palm trees, white beaches, and turquoise waters. They didn’t stay there long. Along with others in that steady flow of refugees from Southeast Asia to the United States, my brother and his father were processed for admittance. They ended up in San Jose, California, where a Protestant church sponsored them, setting the father and son up with a place to live and a job for the father repairing bicycles, which he could do despite his handicap. Within the year, however, my brother’s father died, quietly passing away in the middle of the night. A family belonging to the church offered themselves as a foster family for my future brother, a family my parents knew because they too had adopted and fostered several children. So on Memorial Day weekend 1977, Bill came with my family on a camping trip, and a few days later, came to live with us for good. He was eventually adopted and naturalized as an American citizen. He became a professional ballet dancer, and in one of the many companies he danced with, met his future wife, Susie. They were married in 2000—I was the best man, Officer—and in 2001 their first daughter, Nina, was born. Tomorrow she’ll be six. Camille, the other one, was born in 2004, and as you can see, they are expecting another child any second. As for me, well, I am American Indian, and was adopted at birth by the couple who later adopted him. And that, sir, is how we all know each other.
Fortunately for everyone, I wasn't the one answering the questions. And was wrong about the note of curiosity I thought I heard. The official was just doing his job. Maybe, just maybe, however, he did really wonder. After all, there was a human being behind those aviator glasses and uniform.
“He’s my brother,” said Bill, “and the others are my wife and my daughters.”
“And what brought you to Canada?”
“We went shopping at Ikea. In Burlington.”
“And that’s the merchandise in the trailer?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s its value?” My brother had the figure at the ready. The official walked back, checked out the trailer, and came back to Bill’s window. He handed our passports and driver’s licenses and birth certificates back and said, “Have a nice day.”
“Same to you,” said my brother. With that, we were back, in America, on our way home.