For gay man, a quiet and unnecessary deportation

He now lives on a small island in the Caribbean. Until recently, he lived here. We deported him. I will call him Roland. He is gay.

We talked the other day. I was in my office. He was in a bedroom in his parents’ house. His parents were out. They are in their 70s. Roland is 38 years old. He sounded more chipper than you or I would have sounded in similar circumstances. The story, in a nutshell? “I knew I was gay when I was in primary school; Grade 4 or 5. You have that suspicion that something is different. I didn’t have the same attraction . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

He went to a boys’ school. Nothing was stated. Everything was known. Boys are cruel. He did not fit in.

“I was sort of preppy, wellgroomed. On my island, you are black or white, but I was high-coloured. I looked different, not as rugged; I was a target.”

His sister lives in Toronto. He began coming here in 1996. “The first visit, hey, there are gay people. My sister took me out. I saw men holding hands.”

He came back and forth several times; a way to get away from things, a way to find himself, a way to be himself. He thought this would be a good place to live.

He had been a customer service representative in a bank. “In 2001, I applied to come as a skilled worker. I was turned down in 2003; the skills I had were not supervisory or managerial.” After that process played itself out, he applied for refugee status.

He had a decent job with an insurance company, and he has found love, and there are plans for marriage. I’d have thought things looked pretty good. But his claim was recently turned down, in part because Immigration viewed the multiplicity of his visits back and forth as proof that he had nothing to fear. And so Immigration, in your name and mine, picked him up and put him in detention last November. “They kept shuffling me around; two days later they put me on a plane and sent me back with nothing but a change of clothes.”

Word gets around. Roland’s friends would not take him in. There are no shelters or government housing

It is a small island. Word gets around. His friends would not take him in. There are no shelters or government housing. He had nowhere else to go but home. “My dad didn’t want me here. My mother had to beg and plead.” Roland said, “The house is small. I try to keep a low profile.” He does not use the bathroom until his father has finished using it. He cooks on his own. He eats alone. He stays in his room the rest of the time. Such is the tyranny of a small house. “I try not to go out. I’ve been tar- geted with homophobic comments. I avoid situations. At the grocery store the young man packing the bags called me a faggot. His superior was passing by. She chuckled. I knew it didn’t make sense to complain.” Such is the tyranny of a small island. It gets worse. He said, “The church speaks out against homosexuality.” The church is an ass. How does he survive? “I have some savings and RRSPs that I am cashing in. I have a new lawyer in Canada, and I’m budgeting for that. I can last three or four months.” What then? He is uncertain. “The company I was working for has given me a letter saying they’ll rehire me. I’m thinking of marriage, and we’re looking at visas to the States, but my removal may interfere with that. We may have to go to Europe.” At one end of the Immigration spectrum is our treatment of the Roma. At the other end is this. I am ashamed. No, angry. Joe Fiorito appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Email: jfiorito@thestar.ca