My plans were brutally torn to shreds at Toronto airport by an American immigration official named (as I recall) McCullough. I had spent a week lecturing in Vancouver, at the University of British Columbia, and was now on my way to Oberlin College, Ohio, and, from there, to the University of California at Berkeley. I'd been an itinerant migrant worker for the past decade. It was a way of life I was used to and so, I believed, were the Americans. It was thus with a certain casualness that I placed my papers on the counter.
My cool did not please McCullough, my papers still less. "What visa are you on?" he barked. "A B1/B2," I answered. "But you can't earn money on this," he said. "I can indeed, and have done so a dozen times," I shot back. "Don't raise your voice," said the big fellow, "I don't allow even my father to talk to me like that." Keeping my passport, he directed me to a room to await a meeting with his supervisor.
