No More Worldcons in the United States? [Science fiction community laments Trump immigration "horrors"]

It has to be done, in order to honor a century-old tradition of science fiction.

From its beginnings as a recognized genre in 1926, science fiction has warmly embraced writers and readers from around the world. Hugo Gernsback happily published letters from foreign readers in his magazines and featured stories by several foreign authors. When he established the Science Fiction League in 1934, he included chapters in other nations. The first major science fiction convention in 1939 was proudly named the World Science Fiction Convention, which has been the case for every subsequent event, including two dozen held in foreign countries. Science fiction scholars have also embraced the international community by inviting foreign experts to visit America and having several conferences of the Science Fiction Research Association in other countries. As David G. Hartwell said,

Internationalism has been appealing to the Anglo-American SF community since the 1940s; for more than four decades the colorful fan, agent, and Esperantist Forrest J. Ackerman, for example, has traveled widely to spread the greetings of American SF. In the 1970s there was a large enough international science fiction community among the peoples of the developed nations for Harry Harrison to call a conference in Ireland in order to found World SF, the world SF professional association, which now awards prizes for translations in many languages and promotes the cross-fertilization of SF literatures, inviting international responses to English-language SF.

In sum, science fiction has always welcomed, and should always welcome, writers and fans from all over the world.

Unfortunately, due to the current political situation, we can no longer welcome them to come to the United States.

Every day, there is some new horror story about a foreign visitor to America who, usually for no clear reason, has been detained at the border, thrown into prison, and subjected to brutal behavior until they thankfully are finally released and deported back to their home country. This is precisely the sort of treatment that we can anticipate some foreign fans may experience if they come to Seattle this year.

There are alternatives that should be considered. Even though there will be awkward and expensive cancellations, it should not be too much trouble to move this year’s Worldcon to the nearby city of Vancouver, in Canada, to ensure that none of our friends from other countries are mistreated. If this is impossible, the conference organizers should contact every foreign member, advise them not to come to Seattle, and set up numerous options from them to participate in the conference remotely. And if foreign fans insist on coming, the convention should establish a Legal Defense Fund to assist any of them if they are detained during their stay. As for the 2026 Worldcon, there will be ample time to find an alternate venue. Canceling or moving these conventions will also enable the science fiction community to make its own statement of protest against the government’s unrelenting hostility to all foreigners, including those that come to our country legally.

Today, given recent developments, a resident of a foreign country will have to exercise great care in coming to the United States. Tourists should go someplace else; students should seek advanced degrees in other countries; and science fiction fans should reconsider venturing into our country.

Until our nation returns to treating foreign visitors in a lawful and humane manner, the science fiction community should think long and hard before offering another Worldcon in the United States.

This is my story at the hands of “Friendly Canadians”. Note that this is not the behavior of individual Canadians I was subjected to, but the government officials.

I travelled up to Canada in the late Winter a few years back, just by myself, going on a road trip. I had vacation time and was going to lose it because I had so much of it, a nice “First World Problem”. But it was early in March, and my wife could not take any time off. So I just picked it out of a hat, so to speak, and thought it might be interesting scenery if nothing else.

I was a middle aged, white, short hair, glasses, wearing a military Navy veteran hat.

I had been driving for several hours straight (through northern Maine) when I hit the border. I figured I would stop and use a men’s room at the border crossing facility, which was good, because at that point, I had to go pretty badly.

When I got there, they asked me questions at the window, then told me to pull my car to the side and come inside the building. When I came in (this was around 20:00) there was one person in this big room with benches, and when I asked him if I could use the men’s room, he said no. I had to wait.

I had to urinate pretty badly at this time, but felt like I had no option, so I paced back and forth, getting more and more uncomfortable.

After about five minutes, two border guards came out (male and female) and walked me to my car, asking me questions about whether I owned guns, etc. and then proceeded to take the entire car apart. Took my luggage out and completely emptied it, pulled out floor mats, emptied my glove compartment, emptied my trunk, searched the engine compartment, etc

The female Canadian border guard pulls my container of prescription pills out (to save space when going on short trips, I just take what I need and throw them all into one container) and asks what they were, so I explain each one, and she admonishes me and says “You shouldn’t put them together in one container” which starts to REALLY piss me off. They are pulling other stuff out saying “What’s this? Why do you have this?”, etc.

Then, they pull my secured gun safe from under my seat, and ask if I had a gun in it. I said no, I already told them about a half dozen times I did not have a gun with me. They asked me to open it, and for some reason, the key didn’t work. At this point, I had to go so badly I said “Look. Why don’t you get a crowbar and force it open, I really have to go to the men’s room!” But I did finally get the blamed thing open.

All this took about 30-45 minutes, and by the end of it, as anyone who has ever had to go that badly knows, you almost begin to salivate from the discomfort.

I was pretty pissed, and not from the “chipping of the porcelain” that took place when I got to go, either.

Anyway, I found a hotel, and stayed there the night. The next day, I drove up to Prince Edward Island, and it was pretty dead, as anyone who travels up there in the winter knows. But I was just driving around smoking my pipe, and listening to music. No agenda. No destination. I went to the “Ann of Green Gables” house, but it was closed. It was at this time, as I was leaving the closed grounds, that I got the notice that I my phone was being inactivated due to non-payment or something stupid like that. So I called ATT, and found that somehow, I had roaming on. I ended up only paying a few hundred dollars instead of a few thousand, and was glad for it.

I stopped that evening at a Chinese restaurant in PEI, and it was the most gawd-awful, worst Chinese food swill I ever had in my life, and I had ordered a lot of it because I was really hungry. I usually have a wide latitude for what I will eat and even enjoy for Chinese food, and this fell outside those boundaries. I ate very little of it, it was that bad.

I found out that to serve Chinese food up there, you have to have some kind of “special” license. Figures.

So I stayed overnight and drove back the next day. I was still steaming about the Border crossing the day before, and as I drove South past St. John, Nova Scotia, it was a beautiful, sunny day. There was absolutely NOBODY on this major (for them) highway, but I was tooling along, listening to music.

I passed a police car parked off the road, it was sitting there facing the road, and as I went by, I reflexively looked down at my speedometer, spot on the speed limit as I was using cruise control when driving through localities I am unfamiliar with. I absolutely do not speed in those areas.

I looked in my rearview mirror, and to my surprise, saw the police vehicle pull onto the road and accelerate after me, turning on its lights. Puzzled, I pulled over.

The police officer approached my car as I watched him in the side mirror, and asked to see my license and registration. I am past the point in my life where I ask “Why am I being stopped?” I figure at this point, I should just let them do their thing, and go passively along, so I handed them over. The Canadian police officer asked if I had any firearms in the vehicle, and when I gritted my teeth, I forced myself to answer politely in the negative.

He walked back to his vehicle.

As I sat there on the side of this wide, sunny, deserted highway waiting for them to run my plate or whatever it is they do up in Canada when they stop someone, I saw another police car come zooming up, lights on, and pull up behind the first police car.

Great. Now I have two police cars behind me, as I sat on the side of this deserted highway.

The female Canadian cop saw fit to walk up to my car, and asked if I had any weapons in the vehicle. Now, I am really starting to get pissed, but again, politely answered negatively. I almost blurted out “What the Hell is it with you people up here and guns?” but the vision of having a cavity search performed in a cold cell by an enthusiastic non-binary police officer compelled me to just shut my mouth.

The other cop eventually comes back and says “Do you know why we pulled you over?” I answered no, and he said “We got a call from a gas station about forty miles north of here who said you filled your car with gas but didn’t pay for it.”

I am sure I arched my eyebrows at this, as I am not the stealing type, and said “Yes, I filled up, but I definitely went inside and paid for it. Look, I would have no problem driving back and squaring it away with the gas station. There must be some kind of mistake, because I know I paid for it.”

The cop handed me back my documents, and suggested I go straight back and not take any detours. I agreed, and drove forty miles back.

When I parked and walked inside, the guy at the counter saw me, and his face exploded with all signs of happy familiar recognition, and before I could say anything, he said in a breathless torrent “I’m sorry-I told the police what happened, and that I was sure it was a complete misunderstanding and asked them to go easy on you...”

I turned out I had stopped for gas, filled up and gone inside to pay manually. The pump didn’t like my card for some reason, but told me I had to pay inside after I pumped, which I did. When I went inside, I grabbed a soda, and went up and paid for it with my credit card, which it happily accepted. However, I assumed I was paying for the gas as well, and as the guy behind the counter and I chatted amiably about the weather, non-Canadian credit car rejections, and the empty road, I did not get a receipt (Didn’t need one!) and jumped back in my car to drive away.

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling any love from North of the Border. Don’t feel like going back up to Canada again. I probably never will.

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