Travel On The Red

In other words, respecting the issuance of Diplomatic and Special passports...

In about 6 hours I leave for 'home', aka, where my parents and brother Greg currently are. I've been stuck here in Canada writing my final exams and as such, can only start packing all that I need for my trip home tonight. This particular post in the Caribbean poses an interesting dilemma for the Winter Holidays, as I am bringing more articles with me for my parents; comforts of home that they can't get anywhere else (like Tim Horton's Coffee and Liptons Red Rose Tea), little things that living in Canada one takes for granted. It got me thinking what other 'little things' I guess people take for granted when asking me about my impending trip home... mostly if I know how lucky I am (I do) and how much fun I am going to have (I don't). But most importantly they ask what privileges I get as I travel on my diplomatic passport, a burgundy book seemingly filled with endless law-breaking possibilities.

And so I write.

The diplomatic passport I hold in my hand is the passport I use on 'official travel'; meaning that I can only travel on the red to and from my parents post and nowhere else in the world. Within Canada I have had to use it on a lark, when my regular passport expired and my drivers license was still stuck in last nights clubbing purse. This way the privileges my parents have worked years and years for can and only will apply to the post they are currently serving.

I admit: I go through the significantly smaller 'dips and locals' line at the airport, meaning I clear customs and pick up my baggage long before the pour soul who is caught at the end of the touri line ever makes it halfway. I also go through security pretty seamlessly, but that is more a testament to my innocent demeanour and cooperative and behaved personality. Even when I readily offer to turn on my Ipod or laptop, or mention that I am wearing a necklace, rings, maybe a buckle on my mary-jane shoes to the security guard at the metal detector, I am usually waved on through with no issues whatsoever... but not because I am holding a diplomatic passport; but because I am a good citizen and not a threat.

Movies like Lethal Weapon 2 give the impression that with my diplomatic passport I can shoot a cop in front of another cop without penalty, and events such as the Russian diplomat driving drunk and killing a woman and injuring another give the impression of an impenetrable fortress of immunity from which I and all other diplobrats can disobey any law we feel does not suit our immediate needs. Let me tell you now; that is absolutely NOT true.

Think about it; why would the government issue such power to someone who would abuse it? Does that give a good impression of the country the diplomat is representing if he or she lies, cheats, steals, murders, rapes, or destroys? I don't think so, and neither should you. Sure, if I am accused of a crime at post I will be deported back to Canada for trial, but why would I do that in the first place? Why would I take a full licence at post when here in Canada I can't even get into the front seat of a car without a full G with 5 years experienced driver by my side? Why would I rob a bank or museum or some rich guy at post when I have a good job here in Canada? Why would I do or deal drugs... period? Logically, it doesn't make sense for the representatives of a country to be on their worst behaviour and have the country they portray defend and protect them.

Not to say that immunity is not handy. Oh no; diplomatic immunity was originally issued so that diplomats of both sexes, all races and religions can go about their business without harm. With this protection, each countries diplomats can establish good relations with each other so that their immunity-ace might never need to be played. But you know what, shit happens. Diplomatic immunity is the governments way of protecting the asses of their workers, and in turn, the asses of their countrymen and women visiting other nations. In the end, we are there to help you.

So next time you see a diplomat, or a diplobrat travelling on the red, don't be too harsh or judgemental. We're travelling for you.

Another Day, Another... Dolce?

Myth: All diplomats are filthy rich. Fact: All diplomats are employed and thus paid by the government.

This question, or assumption is one I get quite often, is that because my parents are diplomats then my family must be loaded. Hence the term 'diplobrat' because really, I and all the rest of the children of the foreign service must all be spoiled selfish little brats with no concept of work, money, savings or the meaning of a good hard day's job. Magazines and newspapers splash pictures of us in our fancy dresses drinking champagne and nibbling on exotic meats and cheeses, mingling with royalty and nobility and other high society personnel while snubbing the wait-staff who bring us our snob water, all the while littering wherever we step because 'someone else will clean it up!'.

Except not really. Diplomats, such as my parents, do have money... but that doesn't mean I do.

An ex-boyfriend once shamed me (on my way to work, mind you!) about my supposed "high society" status which made me '100 yards in front of him' and one of 'the lucky girls'... you know, the kind you see on laguna beach who's mothers or fathers or whatevers pay their 4,000$ credit card bills, most of which they spent on hoodies or something ridiculous. I can tell you with absolute certainty that this is NOT the case; at least not with me. Yes, I admit that thanks to the hard work of my father and mother, both of which have been in the service for over 25 years, my brother and I have had more opportunities for education, for advancement, for the pleasures in life that every parent wishes to bestow on their children. While I acknowledge the great sacrifices that my parents have made for the benefit of my brother and I, I will not apologise for my parents choices to reap the benefits of their work in whichever way they so choose to.

I live in an apartment that my parents own. They invested in it and will turn a profit when we sell it, as supposed to sinking money into rent while they are at post. My tuition is taken care of for university, and I get assistance from them if my books cost more than 500$ (which, I can tell you, they do). My mother insists that I am too skinny, so she sends me money to buy food. Everything else that I do/have/need/want, I get for myself.

It's not like they haven't taught me the value of work. I had chores to do as soon as I could do them; I got what I needed but not always what I wanted... and eventually at 16 I discovered that it was a hell of a lot easier to get a job and work for the money I needed to buy the things I wanted than have to justify to another person why I wished to have whatever I wanted at the time. So from the age of 16 to where I am now, 22, I have had a job either part time or full time, while I was going to school. In fact, for the past 6 years that I have been working, I spent 4.5 working 2 jobs at the same time. That's right: a diplobrat working 2 jobs, unglamorous ones too, to buy the nice clothing you see on her today.

I let my girlfriends borrow some pieces from time to time... I enjoy having them 'go shopping' in my closet for outfits they don't want to buy and never wear again. I do it because I am a generous person, and also enjoy shopping in other peoples closets. Most of the time my friends give my clothing back to me; and some of the really lovely ones wash them before returning them. But there have been others who have borrowed piece after piece after piece and have yet to return them. I can't help but wonder why... is it because they think I won't notice? Or is it because I have "so much clothing" that really, what is a dress here or a skirt there?

Well... a dress here or a skirt there, and every subsequent piece hanging in my (or your) closet is actually a much prettier physical representation of the hours of my life spent earning what I wear. I work for my clothing.

Contrary to popular myth, "daddy" did NOT buy it for me. "Daddy" didn't give me the money to buy it either. "Daddy" doesn't even receive the credit card bill at the end of the month. "Daddy" has nothing to do with my shopping because if he did I wouldn't buy half as much clothing/shoes/accessories/purses/shampoo as I do.

I admit that I have a walk-in closet full of clothes. Nice clothes... so many, in fact, that I have run out of hangers to hang and space to put whatever is still folded nicely and not in a pile on my floor. But despite their disheveled appearance and ability to disappear right in front of my eyes, each and every piece of clothing that I own represents the countless numbers of hours that I spent working for the money to buy them. I have been working since I was 16 to buy myself the pretty things I want without having to justify wanting it.

I am no martyr here: my basic necessities of shelter, food and education are met by my parents. I am by NO means struggling, but everything else that you see is all me. I'm just insulted by the fact that as soon as people find out that my parents are diplomats that all of a sudden the past 6 years of my life spent working some really shitty jobs is suddenly erased by the misconception of invisible wealth.

Really. The possessions that I have, be it clothing, shoes, technology... whatever, isn't a testament to my family's supposed wealth. Oh no; it's more a testament to my work ethic, and not to mention, my fabulous taste.