Every American should spend time here, in this line – at the gates of admission into the country. The gates of administrative admission, in any case, since we’re all undeniably here, physically.
All government waiting rooms are sort of similar, I think, like all DMVs and all doctor’s offices. This is a large rectangular room, with an informal welcome desk and long rows of seats. Everywhere there are people caught up in the seriousness of their own situation: families, couples, none-of-the-above’s. Seriously, is that a gay couple? Is the new America that cool? Or are they siblings? I know for a fact that sibling-based petitions are pretty low on the administrative totem pole, and that today they would be hearing petitions submitted at least fifteen years ago, based on processing times published on the USCIS site. If they are siblings, my imaginary hat was tipped to them. “That thar is a long wait,” I think in my fake Southern drawl.
Some, like us, have backpacks, totebags, luggage, 20 lbs of documents “attesting to a shared life,” as the interview notice describes it. Other have single folders, sleeping babies, or just attorneys. With apologies to Tom Waits, no one brings anything small into this type of waiting room.
I am too nervous to read Bowling Alone, so I fidget nervously and run down my mental checklist of documentation that I might have forgotten. I look around furiously at the groups of people who didn’t bring reading material and are chatting nervously, or distractedly. I am always more perplexed by this behavior than any other. Who are these people who happily ride trains, who wait for buses, who sit in waiting rooms, without reading material? The new thing of course is fidgeting with some phone-type gadget, but in a situation like this, cell phone use is strictly forbidden. And of course, maybe these people already know what I pretend not to – that this isn’t a time for reading anyway. I go over the same paragraph in my book three times, indifferent to the impact of replacing social capital with financial capital in professional politics. I snap the book shut again.
Ms. Abstract Citizen has her organic chemistry textbook open, and we eventually reckon that it’s a better use of our nervous energy if I quiz her on some new compounds. Asking her about alkenes, halides, and other things I don’t understand, it occurs to me that someone might think I am quizzing her on our life, doing some last minute cramming for our greencard exam.
Some stories in the waiting room are clear. He is in his late 40s, white, cell phone clipped to belt. The belt is that thatchy kind with no holes, his dockers are pleated. He is a weekend golfer who spends a lot of time thinking about real estate. She looks Laotian, late 20s. In fantastic shape, Puma sneakers, holding her baby more carefully than her Vuitton. They have been waiting for a long time, he gets up to pace. He picks up brochures that read (no joke), “Are you a refugee or an asylee?” She gets up and stands near him. They speak quietly, intimately, and she lets out a hushed laugh. He touches the side of her head, strokes her hair once before she turns away.
With the families, it’s harder to tell. A family that looks Irish or Scandinavian walks in. They have long hair, and wear shirts that are somewhere between wolf-fashion and high school metal garb. Who is the anchor there, I wonder. An Asian family is led by us, led by the matriarch. She is the go-getter, quick to approach staff and lobby to move up in line. When she speaks, the others in her family listen.
In our case, we think it’s hard for the others to tell what’s what. And truly, it’s so gratifying to see couples where the answer isn’t clear at all. He could be African-American or Bahamian, and she could be Texan or Persian. Not everything boils down to a version of him-dark, she-fair. Every few minutes, Immigration officers come out through one of the four sets of doors and call out names. We instantly figure out the officer we don’t want: she looks pissed, barking out names and not greeting people as they walk in. I pick my guy: he is skinny, with short hair. He seems nice. He greets people by their first name and shakes their hands before leading them into a hallway, into we-don’t-know-where. I hope we get him.
Occasionally, half of a couple returns. The American, we figure. They are holding the other half, asking more questions, not buying their story. I nod to Ms. AC. “That might be you.” She does a good job of projecting calm, and shrugs. It’s over an hour after our interview time. Children and lawyers are getting antsy, but the rest of us are fine. Every now and then the doors spit out a whole set of people, looking happy, relieved. Hands are shook, congratulations proffered. Lives are changing, irrevocably, all around us.
Sitting on a long bench with bags strewn, Ms. AC is working out mnemonic devices for hydrocarbons, and I am remembering how hard it was to learn about alkanes and alkenes from a Scotsman at the British School in Rio, the distinction between those two words disappearing under the knotty turns of his speech. Alkens and alkens. And then, we get called. Or I do, but we both rise and scurry over to meet the nice-looking fellow who is holding the door open and who is carrying the thick stack of papers we mailed to Mesquite, Texas almost two years ago. He isn’t my pick, but he will have to do.
For further reading: part two.
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