Open Writing

The challenges associated with leaving the country of one’s birth to live permanently elsewhere are significant. If one could see them all arrayed beforehand, it would probably deter many people. In my own case I was able to avoid some of the potentially most difficult adjustments. Moving from England to the USA obviated the need to learn a new language, though that’s a moot point, and, unlike many immigrants, I had a job to come to and a support group to help ease me into my new life.

When I was going through the application process to obtain the Green Card that would allow me to work without restriction, I had several opportunities to observe the difficulties less fortunate people have to face. In many cases the biggest obstacles were language and the mores of a very different culture from the one they were born into. These stumbling blocks often led them into the clutches of unscrupulous and inept lawyers, who took what little money they had, while purporting to be guiding them through the immigration formalities.

Often, the small amount of self confidence they had was sapped by fear of the unknown or of being repatriated because of some infringement that they had unwittingly committed. While being interviewed in what was the final step in my own application, I witnessed a poignant vignette that was a perfect example of what I mean. When my interviewer asked me to sign my statement, he reached for his pen, only to find that the previous applicant had failed to return it.

He accompanied me back to the waiting room where I was to remain while my green card was prepared, and asked the woman who had preceded me for his pen. The woman was middle aged, and clearly had led a tough and impoverished life in her home country. She was seemingly unconscious of the fact that she was still holding the 50 cent ballpoint pen, and her weather-beaten face blanched visibly when the interviewer pointed to what she had in her hand.

Though she spoke almost no English, it was quite obvious that she was beside herself with fear; little realizing that walking away with the pen was what most of us have done accidentally many times. It took quite an effort on the part of the interviewer and the other waiting applicants to convince her that she hadn’t committed a crime. Experiencing this, for me, small drama, was a powerful message that whatever difficulties I might have experienced, or may yet encounter while getting established in my new country, paled into insignificance at the side of those that face less fortunate immigrants.

I had come to the US on a “Non-resident Alien Visa” that allowed me to work, but needed to be renewed every six months at that time. Each time the renewal date grew closer I would feel the tension building; wondering whether some change in the immigration laws, or some transgression on my part would disqualify me. At that time I was also traveling outside the country regularly, and was always concerned about whether I would be denied re-entry for some reason.

Returning to Kennedy Airport from one such trip, the immigration official seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to study my passport and visa, finally telling me to step into a glass-walled booth behind him. My heart sank as I watched him consult with another official; the two of them alternately looking at my papers and a computer screen, and then over at me. Finally one of them came to the booth and announced that my visa was not in compliance. Apparently I had renewed it in Philadelphia where I lived, but not in Washington, which was also required.

I hadn’t seen my wife and daughter for three weeks, and had visions of perhaps not seeing them again for a much longer time. With considerable apprehension I asked what needed to be done to solve the problem, anticipating at best deportation, and in a worst case scenario, imprisonment while my case was heard. The official, probably sensing my feelings, smilingly told me that a ten dollar processing fee would put things to rights, and in fifteen minutes I was on my way, albeit with legs of jelly.

It was with much relief that I finally obtained a Green Card. In effect this gave me most of the rights of citizenship, except that of voting in an election. I could leave the country and return without constraint, and change my job if I wished. It was as if I had suddenly acquired status and an identity, something most of us can take for granted in the countries of our birth. Becoming a citizen seemed much less consequential, though of course it shouldn’t have.

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