The interview: part three

(This is part three; it makes a lot more sense after you've read parts one and two.)


"Well, that's a relief," says Agent G on his way back into his office.

We look back - snap back, really - looking to see if his face is screaming "green card" yet. And quickly I wonder, "With whom did he just meet? Is there a protocol, or does he go talk to someone and say something like, 'So, I've got this couple in here - I think they're for real, everything seems right, but I can't find his OPT stuff. Do we think we screwed this up? Or is he probably ok? I could just tell them to come back another time if we need to see it...'"

And somewhere it hits me that this guy - he's not giving us a hard time. This is by far the nicest and most congenial interaction I've had with anyone in the USCIS or State department apparatus. The tension - the conflict - is entirely on our side of the table.

This guy isn't at all like that jerk at the US Consulate in Brasilia (which bears the name of the Secretary of State, Robert Dulles, of Dulles Airport fame!) who went off on me - all because my dad's secretary in Rio had booked my interview appointment for me. You should know, to share in my complete fury, that you had to use an arcane phone system to book the interview, that the phone system didn't have an international access number, and that once in Brazil, I would have been stuck there until the interview took place (4-6 weeks after it is scheduled, depending on the season.)

"You are old enough to book your own appointments, aren't you?" he asked me in broken Portuguese, but using borderline baby-phrasing (you'w'a' big boy, awen't you?). "The text on the site doesn't give an option for scheduling from abroad," I answered in perfect English. "Well, that's not possible, because I wrote that copy," he answered, in slightly accented English. Suddenly becoming aware of the power structure, I answered, simply, "I'm sure I misread it, then, and I assure you, it will not happen again. I don't enjoy visiting Brasilia anyway."

No, our guy was nothing like that jerk. He wasn't trying to keep me out - and there was no ego on display. He simply wanted to help an American citizen and her spouse settle into their life together here in her country of origin. Suddenly, we understood that we were getting the green card, that all would be fine. "Now," he added pleasantly, nodding toward our wedding album. "Do you guys have some pictures you'd like to show me?"

All of a sudden, it was more like a dinner party than a federal office. We told stories, named people in pictures (I got Sasha's grandmother's name wrong!), and generally had a great time for the next twenty or so minutes. At some point he let it slip that he'd be stamping my passport and that we'd be ok, and we took it in stride, just trying to keep the interview moving forward.

When it came for him to stamp my passport, he showed a completely different side. We had already noticed that this guy was like us - he probably chuckles over "Stuff White People" like and watches "Top Chef" - but now it really came out. "Ok, so, I'm gonna stamp it, but...oh, I'm so bad at this part. I don't think I do this often enough. Ok, so, where's my calendar? The stamp is good for exactly 365 days, so...that means the day BEFORE today's date next year, right? So, June 3 of...2010. Right?"

We smile and try to seem agreeable. He returns the passport to us.

"Wait, can I see that again? I'm just...not used to this or something. I just don't want you to get into trouble if you use that to travel before you get the green card..."

We hand it back over. Then, he tries to ask a few closing questions, but his mind is clearly...unfocused. "Ok, so, I'm going to ask for your passport just ONE MORE TIME, and then if I ask for it again, tell me 'no,' ok? I just want to be super sure that it's right."

He glances at it, and then again at this calendar. Rising suddenly, he says, "Well, that's it. Let's get you out of here before I find an excuse to look at it again." He walks us to the door, and stops. "I was lying. Let me just look at it one more time, ok?"

By this point, we really don't care. I doubt we'll be leaving the country in the next sixty days, and we're just eager to get on with our day - our day in which, as it turns out, I became a lawful permanent resident after years of legal wrangling and forms and fees and lawyers and detours. We get back in the smart car, draw our usual share of glances, and head out, back into a world that was unlargely unchanged by that morning's events.