So, we're sitting in the Edmonton International Airport Immigration Pre-Clearance "Bad Room," eh? We've handed over the stack 'o docs to be scrutinized (Employment Authorization Document card, Advance Travel Parole document, I-485 Application Receipt and new I-94 application) to a Man in a blue suit and now we're parked in the "holding room." It occurs to me that there's nothing like owning a document with the word "parole" on it and being in a windowless room with nervous cell mates to convince one that the INS operates on the principle of "guilty until proven innocent." And how is it even possible to construct a room that feels like it's 50 years old, lovingly preserved with original ick-yellow vinyl furniture, in a terminal that's only five years old?
Anyway, there we sit, trading airborne stress contaigens with one obviously distraught big-boned Canadian woman of Eastern European heritage and her cowering spouse. They're holding a muted yet ferocious conversation in rapid-fire staccato shots of Slavic vitriol. While I don't understand a single actual word, the intent is obviously something to the tune of "I TOLD you to take the friggin' document off the kitchen counter. It was RIGHT THERE, under your wallet and keys, for crying out loud! My mother was right about you...."
Next to the happy couple sits Nervous Asia-Pac Dude, hugging a very bulgy backpack close to his chest, sweating impressively. Besides us, the remaining residents are three ball-cap/baggy jeans/skater shoes totin' baby oil-field engineer types who have been denied their TN visas, despite the previous assurance of their immigration lawyer that they would breeze through.
Discussing their situation in loud, above-the-roar-of-a-diesel tones, the red-haired kid with the wild flush in his cheeks explains to his buddies, "The officer says we've got the wrong visa applications." (Translated here for a multi-national reading audience. What is actually said sounds more like "He sehs we goht the wrohng veesa ahhplehcayshun, ahn now they want aboat 900 bucks fohr a differnt one, eh?") Poor sods. Canadians grow up in a world where the rules, generally speaking, are the rules, and everybody has equal access to them. Plus, we keep them pretty simple since they always have to translated into both official languages. Government forms and processes tend to be fairly algebraic: If A=B, and B=C, then A=C. For example, if the rules say people who pay their taxes on time stay out of jail, and I pay my taxes on time, then I get to keep my rainy-day bond money. (Or maybe that's just my interpretation of it, but you get the gist.)
In any case, we have come to expect a high-level of predictability in government-related, rule-driven situations. My experience, however, is that the US immigration process has the all the orderly flow and predictability of the Pamplona Bull Run. And at times, I have felt exactly like one of those skinny Spanish dudes in the white outfits and red bandanas, hoofing it at max warp down a narrow cobblestone street with my heart pounding painfully and my adrenal glands set to full flow. I've got a huge backlog of other runners blocking the path in front of me. Directly behind me thunders a herd of easily-excitable, ridiculously powerful, Mensa rejects with pointy weapons that can make a real dent in your, um, day. (This, by the way, is the actual origin of the question, "What was I thinking?!") So as a compassionate human being, it's painful to watch the baby-engineers realize just what kind of a race they signed up for.
I have to leave them to their fate. We get called to the desk and the nice Man hands over the stamped paperwork. "Sorry for the delay," he says. "Your status is being adjusted."
If you've been tracking my Adventures in Immigration thus far, you will know by now that the cardinal rule for getting through the Bad Room is that under no circumstances do you volunteer ANYTHING, no matter how true or innocent, other than the short answer to a direct question. No questions. No quips. No polite inquiries into the general health and well-being of anyone. Just shut-the-fudge-up until forced to do otherwise. This explains why the whole process, in addition to being apparently completely arbitrary, with inexplicable rules and regulations applied randomly from port to port, and even from officer to officer, has been so difficult for me. Silence: good. Inane babble: bad. Rules? What rules?
Where was I?
Ah yes... the moment the officer casually announces, "Your status is being adjusted." Pardon?! Studiously avoiding an overt exchange of glances, we follow rule #1 and simply accept the stamped paperwork with a "thank you, sir." Then off we scuttle, back out to the sweetness of under-circulated but "free to go to the bathroom or use your cell phone if you want" regular airport air.
Once through security, we are free to ruminate on just what the Man meant. What had he seen on his computer screen? Was there current and actual movement afoot? Would we come home to the long-awaited "Congratulations, and welcome, Alien!" letter in our mailbox? Or was he just confirming that yes, indeed, our green card application was in the final "adjustment of status" phase, therefore our docs were valid, and he could, without fear of reprisal, let us back to the home of our mortgage, jobs, cat, son and laundry left unfolded?
No letter, yet. But stay tuned here: you'll be among the first to know when we're finished running through, er, with the bull.
No comments:
Post a Comment