In the Immigration Line

On February 27, 1999, I woke up at 5 and drove three hours to the Immigration Office. I had being waiting for some time, and it was past noon now. The line was very long. The Immigration Officers went to lunch. Everybody had to pass this long line first. I was sleepy and hungry but not food or beverages were allowed.

None in the line looked American, and everybody seemed afraid. Tense faces holding folders in their hands. I had mine too. I had been rejected and was about to present an appeal. Everybody was silent. A man whispered something. His wife nodded.

The friend who drove me was talking to a Mexican girl and told me in Spanish that he was going to check the car outside. The faces looking at me were friendly now. They spoke the same language. The closest asked me to keep his place. He had to go to the restroom.

I tried to focus in the huge amount of photocopies in my folder, but I couldn't. My big American dream had shrunk into the Immigration Office dream, to finish the paper work and get over with this. My mind went back some years ago when I decided to apply. It was during a big ceremony for new citizens in Montichello. The big flag, the band, the judge speaking to the new citizens.

"You have to forget your old ways and learn the American way," the Judge said. How solemn was all that. I saw that some people shed tears.

Back to reality. A young woman appears and goes to the end of the line. She looks different to all of us. She is an American. She is helping a foreigner, perhaps someone from the Church. She laughs at the long line in disbelieve. She is nervous. She assays a joke.

"Is this the line we have to stand up to find out where are we standing up?" Nobody laughs.

Then she waited ten minutes and left. She is not used to wait.

"I will come back in an hour," she said to the foreigner.

I tried to focus on the paper work of my folder, but my mind resisted. It brought images of the book I had just got from Barnes and Noble. It's called "An Illustrated Study of History," by Arnold Toynbee. Images of the barbarians at the gates of Rome. They tried to imitate the Romans but looked silly.

Now the closest in line returned from the bathroom. He didn't seem afraid. He seemed relaxed. He began talking in Spanish.

"I come here every time I have a day off. I have lost my green card and applied for another. It is more than a year now. I'm afraid this people never sent my papers to Texas. Why anybody would want to have my green card? he said. "It has my picture in it."

"Some use it any way," the other answered. "For this people, we all look the same."

I am getting closer to the front desk, and the conversation is now more animated. They are telling stories about long lines in the Immigration Service.

"This line inside the building is nothing," one said. "I remember when I first applied, there was one line outside and another inside. Outside we started at 4 in the morning and I tell you, it was very, very cold. When you finally got inside and formed the other line, you discovered that only 30 were allowed every day, and you had to start the next day all over again."

Everybody laughed. For them was funny, for me it was black humor and I didn't like it.

I finally got to the front desk. On the other side, the officer waited in silence.

"I received this DECISION denying my application, on the bases that I've never sent the documentation required in my first interview," I said.

 "And?" she said.

"I am presenting an appeal. I mailed all the different documentation every time you required. Here are the receipts from the Postal Office, and here is the documentation I have already sent. Would you please sign a copy of all documents I am presenting here? I had to bring this personally because I don't trust the Post Office anymore." I was trying to be polite and not to put the blame on them. They had the power, and frankly I was afraid like anybody else.

The woman browsed slowly over all the documents. I don't think she understood them because they were so many, and I don't understand all of them either. She asked to see the original receipts of the Postal Service. Then she wrote a note and said,

"Take this to the Room 200. There is a big window there. Beneath the window, there is a slot. You put this note there and a supervisor will speak to you. Next, please."

When I found Room 200 (there were no signs but every body told me it was) I went to the window and put the note in the slot below. Then I saw my own face and realized that it was a special window. From this side it worked like a mirror. They could see us but we couldn't see them. I remembered again the book. The Romans were afraid of the barbarians, and the barbarians were in turn afraid of the Romans.

Room 200 was different. There were not long lines, only few chairs with people waiting. All of them were very serious. Nobody talked. An oriental old man, a girl with the hair covered in the Muslim style, and some Hispanics were there.

I was hungry and had a headache and tried to sleep. I felt optimistic though. I thought it was a good chance my presentation would be received and the copies signed. I had my 110 dollars check ready for the appeal.

The waiting was long and depressing because this time nobody talked.

Two hours later I was wondering if somebody took my note on the other side. Then my name was called.

The supervisor opened a door and walked me into his office. He was circumspect.

"Find some chair and take a sit," he told me and started to review my file.

I was surprised that they had my file. I thought it was lost. Otherwise, how can one explain the cause of denial based on the fact that I didn't provide the information?

"I have here your file," he said and started to ask me questions about my life, my former marriage, my divorce, my jobs, my lack of jobs, my tax filing, why I traveled abroad, etc., etc., etc. I was surprised by his accent. He didn't sound American. How that could be? Then I remembered my Illustrated History book. The Romans used barbarians to contain barbarians. Was that the case? He seemed to be proud of his accent.

I felt humiliated and answered reluctantly. The American Dream kept changing from the big ceremony with the flag, to the Room 200 and its anonymous mirror-window, and now a thorough interrogation about all my life.

In the first interview I avoided to talk about my life because I don't do this with anybody, even with the priest. Now I thought it was a mistake, because they got suspicious that I was hiding something. So today, I told everything, always trying to show the bright side, of course. How a good father I was. My children were going to big universities, Columbia, perhaps Harvard. My wife is a doctor. Bla, bla, bla.

I saw my file in his hands. It had a lot of red ink, and the officer started to tear down some pages and put more ink on others. Always serious. Not a single smile.

Then I tried to obtain an appointment for hearing my appeal and to have my photocopies signed.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I've just reversed the decision."

His voice was easy and powerful. He had the keys of America in his hands, and he knew it. He had denied my application because I didn't present the documents required, but now he went over all the documents in my file and reversed the decision. No explanations given. He had just the keys of the gates of America.

I didn't feel any emotions. For some time now, I tried to imagine that this is a play I am watching, that it is not happening to me. I tried to remember the illustrations of my history book and this time I found no parallel with the Roman Empire.

"We have to take your finger prints again," he said. "They are only valid for 15 months and are long overdue. I will get an appointment for you next month. It will not be here. It will be in Alexandria. Then you have to wait until the FBI checks you out."

"Thank you, sir," I said despising myself.

"And I don't see your pictures here. They probably have been lost. So go downstairs, go one block to your right, take other pictures and come back. You don't have to wait this time. Just knock the door."

So I did what I was told. The man, who took my pictures, an immigrant also, told me horror stories of youngsters who had been deported and found themselves in strange places where his parents came from.

"They were very good students. They just had a fight," my photographer said. "In my times it was different. It only took me 2 weeks to get my papers," he added smiling.

In my way back home, I told all of this to my friend. He said,

"What do you complain about? You just tried to file an appeal and had the decision reverted."

"But the American Dream..." I said.

"Ha, ha, ha. You and your theories," he said laughing. "The flag, the barbarians at the gate of Rome, only theories. The reality is very simple. The poor fellow in the Immigration Office was trying to do the dirty job that Americans want but wouldn't say in public. He didn't expect you to keep your receipts from the Postal Service. Barbarians don't send certified letters. If you think about it, they don't want us. They are OK the way they are."

"You are a cynical individual," I said. "You think this is funny." Then after some time, I added,

"I love this country, but now I don't want a public ceremony anymore. I wish I had a private ceremony and whisper in the ear of the judge what they expect me to say!"

My friend laughed for a long time. I was afraid of crashing.

"Ha, ha, ha. Who said that you will ever finish your paper work," he said. "Besides, the judges are all fat ugly old men. You don't want to whisper anything into their ears. Ha, ha, ha."

I had my ceremony the last fourth of July at Montechillo, . My friend was right. The judge was a fat ugly old man.