I start University tomorrow. It’s exciting, although, I’m not really getting off on the right foot with the administration. I don’t think that they’ve noticed yet, but it’s true. I even feel a little guilty. Most of them are so nice, and they really want to help, but they don’t. They feed me wrong information and make me jump through hoops, over and over again, just because I’m from a minority group that they don’t understand. I’m an American Canadian. That is, an American living in Canada without permanent residency.
My relationship with the administration began back in June. To apply for my study permit, I needed my fees to be changed to the domestic rate, along with a letter stating that they had indeed been changed. Documents in hand, I went to the Student Service Centre at my future University.
The area is very modern looking and they’re very tech savvy there. They have these machines where you type in your business, and then it spits out a ticket with a letter and a number on it. Then they have this T.V. thing that calls out the letter numbers and tells you which desk to go to. It’s very fancy and looks like it costs a lot of money. Suddenly, I know why they take away academic based entrance scholarships from gap year students, like myself. If they gave me my scholarship, we’d all have to stand in line.
Making good use of my money, I grab a ticket and sit. My number is called and I’m instructed to go to Station 4.
“Hi, how are you?” I smile at the lady sitting behind the desk.
“Fine, what do you need?” She answers.
“My parents are here on worker’s permits and pay taxes in Canada, so I qualify for the international tuition fees exemption. I came to get my fees changed to the domestic rate. Once they’re changed, I’ll also need a letter stating my fees in order to apply for my study permit,”I explain.
She scowls, “You should have brought your parents with you, and you need to go to the International Office.”
“Oh,” I say, not quite sure as to how my parents factor into the equation, “My sister’s already a student here and she came here to get her fees changed. I called yesterday too and the lady that I spoke to said to come here as well.”
“Just because your sister had her fees changed doesn’t mean that they automatically transfer over to you. Besides, we can’t do anything until we have your documents,” She snaps.
“ I actually brought all my documents,” I smile, “They’re right here,” I add indicating the folder that I’ve been holding.
She scolds me again for not bringing my parents, emphasizing that they really can’t help me if I don’t have all my documents.
“I really did bring all my documents,” I insist.
“Fine, you can scan them at the front, but you’ll still have to go to the International Office,” She says.
“Okay…thank you?” I reply. She leads me to the front desk, before marching off.
The lady at the front desk is super nice. She tells me that I am in fact in the right place. However, unfortunately, I will have to come back to apply for my letter, as the person in charge of changing fees is on vacation.
After receiving email confirmation that my fees have been changed, I return to the Student Service Centre. This time, I speak with a completely different woman. After checking with her supervisor, she informs me that they just don’t write letters like that, and recommends that I go to the International Office.
I do so. Beth, who works at the International Office, is very nice, and tries to help me hunt down who could possibly write the letter for me. This process leads to several dead ends before we are informed that the International Office does indeed have the power to write me my letter. A fact that only took them several weeks to discover.
Days later, I receive an email from the International Office requesting my presence for a mandatory check- in appointment for international students. “Ridiculous,” I think. After all, I’ve been living in Canada for two years. I graduated from a Canadian High School. I’m practically a native.
So, I tell them that, very nicely of course, in an email and ask, “Is it still necessary for me to come in?”
“Yes…yes it is,” They write back.
I roll my eyes at my computer screen. I hate technicalities. Sighing, I decide that I might as well make the most of the situation–I prep a list of questions.
- Please explain Canadian currency to me. Seriously, there’s no pennies and it’s confusing as hell.
- What’s the best brand of maple syrup?
- Is moose common fare?
- What the fuck does “eh” mean?
- Do you offer classes to learn Canadian? I only speak American.
- Why are there no restrooms?
Unfortunately, I don’t get to ask any of my questions at my mandatory check-in appointment. Upon arriving, I am greeted by the same Beth who helped me get my letter.
“Hi, I’m Beth,” she says cheerfully, “It’s so nice to meet you!”
I stare at her a moment, confused. Has she forgotten about me already? No…that can’t be it–I’m unforgettable. So, I decide that since she lead me around in circles, she must just want a fresh start.
I smile brightly and shake her hand. She leads me into her office and gestures for me to take a seat. Ever obedient, I do so.
“When did you arrive?” She asks.
“Two years ago,” I state.
“Oh, okay. I know that you came in earlier to get a letter for your visa application. Were you able to get your study permit?”
I say yes, noting that she does remember me after all.
For lack of anything better to do, I smile. Beth asks me more questions.
“So are you navigating Toronto okay?”
“Yeah, I’ve been living here for two years,” I inform her.
“Do you have a place to live?” She questions, looking a little worried.
I tell her yes, that I live here with my parents. I have Toronto down to a tee, I work and everything.
Her eyes light up with some kind of hope upon hearing the word, “work”, and I realize that it was probably the wrong thing to say, but it’s too late.
“Great!” She exclaims, “Let’s talk about working as an international student.”
“Ummm…okay,” I smile weakly. I’ve been working in Canada for two years, but I politely wait for her to impart her knowledge.
She informs me that I’m allowed to work on or off campus for up to 20 hours a week, and as much as I want on breaks. Things that I already knew.
“Have you signed up for any orientation events?” She asks changing the subject.
“I went to the one for my program, but I’m really busy this week so I’m not planning on attending any others,” I answer.
This makes Beth frown. “There’s an international student welcome party on Thursday, that you should really come to.”
“I have friends visiting from out of town that day,” I tell her.
“Well if you have extra time you’re welcome to bring your friends,” She says gently.
I just smile. I like smiling. It’s noncommittal.
“On Friday, though, we do have a mandatory international student workshop,” she plows on.
“Does everyone have to come?” I ask.
“Some people can’t come because they arrive late, but then they have to meet with us separately,” She explains, her meaning clear.
I shut up, and sign up for the workshop on the electronic form that she’s pulled up on her computer.
“Are you gonna get to see your family soon? Are they planning on coming up to visit?” Beth asks. I can tell that she’s already worried about me because I didn’t want to sign up for their orientation events.
“Yeah, I actually live with them, so I get to see them every day,” I say cheerfully.
“I keep forgetting,” she gives her head a little shake, “Before you leave, we have a little gift for you.” Beth grabs an envelope out of a box. Setting it on the table, she slides something out of it. It reveals itself to be a six piece puzzle labeled, “Five Factor Model of Resilience”.
“This puzzle shows the five steps of resilience,” Beth explains, “Each piece is labeled with a step, Gratitude, Compassion, Grit, Optimism, and Mindfulness. So, if you’re ever feeling stressed or sad or overwhelmed, you can put it together and it’ll make you feel better. Because if you can put this puzzle together, it means that you have all the ingredients to be resilient.”
My smile slowly grows until I’m beaming. I just can’t believe them, “Thank you so much” I tell her.
Beth smiles back at me. We say our goodbyes and I skedaddle.