But alas, this is not the case when it comes to Uncle Sam and Uncle Canada. (Uncle Maple?) An unsuccessful trip to the Social Security Adminsitration office on M street hinges on a contentious debate between Mr. Clerk and myself.
You see, for many years, I had to apply for a work visa on an annual basis. This resulted in a nice stamp that takes up a whole page of my passport. It clearly says I can work, and the date until which the visa is valid. It is the opposite of abstract. Ever since entering the green card process, though, I've noticed that everything is nebulous. Basically, as an applicant for adjustment of status, my case is in a broadly-defined "pending status" that has no expiration. I can pend for years, I suppose.
Furthermore, the only paperwork you get that tells you anything is a letter indicating that U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services has received your application. You get a receipt number, which is the most important alphanumeric identifier in your life during this process; and that's about it. Nothing saying, "this letter grants you the right to remain in the U.S. until x/x/xx." I assume this gets them out of having to move application forward in a timely manner, since they would then have to create a process to allow for people who have been in a pending status for too long to obtain extensions to their letter, etc. So, maybe it's a good policy.
Understand, though, that this is all distinct from employment authorization, which is what caused the whole hullabaloo earlier. The employment authorization card simply allows me to work for the next calendar year. But supposing that my application were to be denied tomorrow, I doubt they would show up and take the card from me. I could come back on a tourist visa and use the card to work - not that I would, but I just want to illustrate the difference between the legal ability to work and the ability to remain in the country.
So, to apply for a new social security card - I lost my old one, not to mention the fact that it is (was?) unflatteringly stamped with a sternly phrased warning - "NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT" which seems a bit outdated - but back to the stem of my sentence, to apply for a new card, you are told to bring proof of your status in the U.S. To me, the only document encompassed by that description is the proof that I have an application for adjustment of status pending (but note the bureaucratic flaw here - I could subsequently have received a notice that my case has been denied, but simply opt not to present the second document whenever I need to get something done.) In any case, evidently, Mr. Clerk didn't quite agree with my understanding of the legal subtleties of my case.
Him: What is this? This is correspondence. We don't issue cards based on correspondence.
Me: No, this letter indicates that my case is pending. It's what gives me legal authority to remain here. And I may need my card for the interview.
Him: Well, come back after your interview. When you have a green card, we can issue you a new social security card. Or when when you have your employment authorization card. Either one, ok?
Me: But..that card is about the right to work. Not about the fact that I'm here legally. Besides, I've had a social security number since 1979 or so, and I've only been able to work in a limited capacity here since 1995, when I became a visiting student...
Him: NO. THAT card is what shows you are here legally. Bring it back and we will initiate the renewal.
Me: I'm happy to do that, but - just so you know - that card shows nothing about my status. Your Web site says to bring proof of my status, which I did. If you want an employment authorization card, you should say that.
Him: That card is your status.
Me: I'm leaving now, but - it's NOT my status. Ok? It's just not. Have a nice day.
Sigh. On to my second errand - a trip to the Canadian consular/visa section on Penn and 5th. I figure it's ok to run this errand second because, come on, what kind of a rush is there on tourist visas to Canada?
Lord waS I wrong about that. Indians and Pakistanis, West Africans and Brazilians, Eastern Europeans and Asians. It's a veritable Ellis Island being run by two security guards whose crowd control skills are limited. They drive the Kenyan lady who was my partner in crime for most of the day to remark that "American blacks never leave the country unless it's on a cruise. They don't even know what a visa is, probably. This process was much more civilized in Dusseldorf."
Well, in I go. Stand in line for 45 minutes. The guards are trying to keep people in line from filling out forms while they wait, but most people ignore them. (The Abstract Citizen had his paperwork filled out in advance, so he alternated between reading Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives - a pretty racy scene, at that - and talking with his new Kenyan friend who works at the World Bank.)
We finally make it to the the head of the snaky line, having discussed a number of current issues du jour. We also confirm our understanding that the Canadian Embassy Web site, while vague, suggests that payments can be made by credit card. One of my pet peeves dealing with them early in the process is that they simply refuse to take questions over the phone - something unheard of, in my experience. US Embassies abroad may charge you per minute (which they do), but at least you have the option of talking to someone before showing up in person.
So, there am I, finally in front of the visa teller window, explaining the purpose of my trip. She is ready to accept the paperwork, but mentions that a fee of exactly $75 is due, and that it must be paid in cash or by cashier's check. That I will have to sand in line again. I almost get annoyed, but simply huff and tell her that I know it's not her fault. So, great. I'm off to find an ATM. I wish my Kenyan friend luck, and head back out into the relatively dry late-morning weather.
Chevy Chase bank ATM + Starbucks (ugh) and I've got the exact amount she needs. Though I noticed that she wasn't quite that exacting with the exchange rate but I had already annoyed one clerk-y type that morning and damn if I going was for two.
I get back, and the security guards are now in full-on literal interpretation mode. For example, there's a sign posted that says that electronic devices must be turned off before entering the building. I left my cell phone on, and only remembered after going through their luggage-check device. I showed them I'd forgotten and turned it off, but one of them made me stop what I was doing, look at him, and he told me, "Sir. Please understand. That device needed to be turned off before you stepped in here. Next time, I'm going to ask you to be more careful." I think, "Next time? Good riddance." I also point out that there is nothing posted about food and drink and that while I'm not crazy about Starbucks coffee, it would have been nice if they'd let me finish it, but again, I'm really trying to choose my battles.
Back in line, back to the racy scene in Bolano's book (that Maria Font! She really gets around!) until I get unexpetedly tapped on the knee a few minutes later. It's my Kenyan buddy. We compare notes, and continue to make agreeable chit chat about all kinds of things. She needles American Blacks a couple more times, something that I'm only now fully digesting, but the conversation is earnest and intelligent and I hope I'm not painting her in an unflattering light here. This was someone who would be as comfortable driving on a clay road from Maputo to South Africa as she would be at Wolftrap, where she does volunteer work. So, we both get through the teller test this time, and end up standing around in the mini-Ellis Island area, waiting for our numbers to be called.
She asks about carnaval in Rio, and a guy next to me chimes in with something about Buzios. He is American, but the two women next to him are Brazilian, as are the 4 guys with large backpacks in another corner. The west African family who was so unwilling to yield their place in line while they filled out paperwork is still here. Every time I turn around, there is a short woman asking to be let by. I watch as, seemingly in slow motion, a small Indian child drops four feet to the floor and lands on his back, the base of his skull producing a deep and sickening thud on contact with the tile that arrests conversations.
The security guard chimes in, "Folks - you gotta watch your kids." THe child is wailing, and I wonder if the parents know that the boy should probably not take a nap in the next few hours. I found out later they didn't. Gradually, the room livens back up. My Kenyan friend gets called and comes over to celebrate her visa. We say an awkward goodbye, without exchanging names. I finally get called up, only to discover that paystubs are not considered by the Canadian to be proof of my employment. They need a letter on letterhead. I want to ask, "If you think I created that business card and those paystubs at home, why would creating letterhead be such a challenge?" but I don't.
It's now close to 1 p.m., and any illusion that I can make it into the office and be productive is just that - an illusion. I opt instead to go home, spend a few hours on email, and hop on my bike to get back down to the Social Security Administration ofice - hoping to get at least get one of my tasks for the day done.
I learn a few things during my second visit. First, more Brazilians! Next to me! Again! As we say, we're like weeds. We grow everywhere. But chief among the things I learn is the fact that a data entry error made way back whenever I got my social security number means that my middle name is "Oliver" and that I was born in Rio de Sanei. But more importantly, I learn that Immigration has not updated their databse to reflect my employment authorization card which is now about two months old - all your info is supposed to be current within 10 days of an event - and that my new card will take considerably longer becuase they will have a harder time verifiny the documentation I provided them. Fantastic.
At home, I'm feeling somewhat battered, but the Hendrick's gin in my martini is deliciously unbruised. Turning to the Olympics and thinking abot my day, I am reminded of the Bob Dylan song "Black Diamond Bay," though I'm not sure of why. The first several verses are a tale of gripping intrigue in a far-off land - the kind of terrain he handles so well in "Angelina," the best eulogy for a fictional Evita that was ever written, and the vastly underappreciated "Changing of the Guard." Black Diamond Bay it will eventually be engulfed by an earthquake, though we din't find this out till after the story climaxes. The narrative shifts thusly in the last verse, going from a third person narration to the following:
I was sittin' home alone one night in L.A.,
Watchin' old Cronkite on the seven o'clock news.
It seems there was an earthquake that
Left nothin' but a Panama hat
And a pair of old Greek shoes.
Didn't seem like much was happenin',
So I turned it off and went to grab another beer.
Seems like every time you turn around
There's another hard-luck story that you're gonna hear
And there's really nothin' anyone can say
And I never did plan to go anyway
To Black Diamond Bay.
On to Wednesday, aka, "God's joke on the working man." (hat tip to Gordon on that.)
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