The "real" America

So, here's a feeble attempt at returning to some semblance of regularly writing here, or at the very least, addressing one of the central topics of this blog: American-ness and non-American-ness.

The other day I found myself in a strange situation, talking to someone at Bethesda Naval Hospital. He was a Vietnam vet, and was classmates at the USNA with Jim Webb and Oliver North (whom he called "Larry North.") He actually told a fairly engaging story about how they all used to box each other, because they were in the same weight, and that Webb fought North in the USNA championship bout - a bit after North had completed a full recovery from a nasty leg fracture. Though Webb knew North couldn't turn to the side of his healed leg, he refused to sneak into North's blindside and give him the business. The rest of the boxers couldn't believe Webb was going easy on a guy with one functional leg. Amazingly, there's a reference to this fight on wikipedia.

Anyway, it turns out this guy's son-in-law is the famous cigar marine. And he is VERY proud of his son-in-law, who is evidently running for office on a cookie-cutter tea party-type platform.

The reason I'm talking about this chortly gregarious fella is because earlier I heard someone ask him if he'd left the United States recently, and he said, "No, I have not left the States. I haven't been to DC." I wasn't sure what he meant at first - was he acknowledging DC's non-stateness? If so, that seemed like a pretty unlikely political statement for this guy to make - but then it dawned on me that he was simply repeating the Palin-type trope about how there are real parts of America and not-so-real parts of America.

I thought about this as we packed up the Smart Car for some tailgating on Labor Day. We went to support Ms. AC's hokies in this debacle. (I should hasten to point out that the game itself was actually highly entertaining despite the result - several lead changes in the second half, etc.) We packed up some beers in the back of the car (there's actually storage back there.) We hopped in our little city car and drove out to some big stadium. We may not have had flags adorning our car, and maybe we mostly don't eat meat. Maybe our pregame music is NPR and rather than Bon Jovi, and maybe one of us wasn't even born here. No matter. What we were doing - packing up the car on a national holiday and heading to a football game - should be eminently recognizable to any American.

I thought of this guy as we loaded up the car, of his conception of America somehow excluding us. I can tell you that, in the parking lot, we chatted with strangers, answered (yes) questions about the tiny car we were driving, and even got chummy with some Boise State people. I still don't understand why our existence in America is any less real than anyone else's.

An immigration quickie

It's fairly embarrassing that I've never linked to this chart, which does its best to explain the legal immigration maze.

Something to remember when angry people in border states complain that people should come here legally. I'm not advocating for illegal immigration, of course - just pointing out that the current clusterfuck of a process, which results in a few tens of thousands of people becoming permanent residents every year, and a couple other tens of thousands being eligible to work here, is beyond broken.

PS. Hat tip to AF for reminding me of this a few weeks ago.

General immigration: things to remember for whenever The Great Debate happens

The U.S. is definitely tightening the screws on H1-B employers, though this really just amounts to doing a better job of enforcing existing laws. It's consistent with what Obama promised during the campaign, and what's more attractive about it, it goes after the employer rather than the employee. We'll know in the coming months whether companies targeted by Immigration and Customs Enforcement are known to be repeated violators, or whether they'll spend their time seemingly harassing companies that happen to hire someone who's not American.

This in the aftermath of some interesting recession-type news: immigration (legal immigration, that is), seems to be down across the board, which means filing fees are going up. There's a bit of Gov 2.0 window-dressing to help petitioners, but transparency sometimes only helps reveal the extent of your dysfunction. (By the way, funny to note the comment about how it might be "several weeks" before you find out that your fingerprints didn't take. Try six months.)

Amidst these developments, some truly touching stories: a sad story about a greencard scam ending in murder; and an uplifting tale about a doctor whose emotionally devastating volunteer work includes evaluating the survivors of torture who are applying for refugee status.

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.

The interview: part two

[This is part two of a (likely) three-part series. Part one is here.]

“Hello, I’m Officer G____.” And into the hallways we go, into what should have felt epic and labyrinthine but which was instead sorta…sterile and office-y.

I take an instant liking to him, but don’t really know how to make small talk. Are we together in this? Do I assume he’s having a bad day because they’re obviously running behind? Or is running late par for the course, and would any suggestion that he must be having a bad day sound like I’m making a passive-aggressive comment about how much I think my time is worth?

We go into his office, and sit down across a desk from him. He plops our file in front of him, and this is the first time we’ve gotten a clear look at just how bad the pile looks.

“I know it looks like these have been sitting out in the rain for the past few weeks,” he offers by way of an apology. Actually, it looks like it was rained on and then dragged through the mud. It looks like the file was stepped on repeatedly before being buried in a mausoleum with a deceased emperor a few thousand years ago, and like it was only recently recovered by a team of intrepid National Geographic explorers. The yellowed corners are peeling upward, and we’re both a little disappointed that something we put so much into – making it look crisp and approval-worthy – has been negated by administrative indifference.

“No problem at all,” we reassure him, almost simultaneously. “No worries whatsoever,” I add, and I realize that our cadence – the fact that both Ms. AC and I say almost the same thing, with almost the same beat, should already be a dead giveaway that we have been together for a long time.

“First things first, then. Can you tell me her name and place of birth?”
“Ms. Abstract Citizen, born in Randomtown, New York, on xx/xx/xx.”
“Great. And his?”
“Mr. Abstract Citizen, born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on xx/xx/xx.”
Except that her xx/xx is off by a day. I want to lead her, but I’m afraid of looking like I’m coaching her. He raises an eyebrow. We sit in silence for a second.
“XX/XX! I mean XX/XX! I always get it wrong.”
Whew. No harm, no, foul.

Turning to me, he says, “Ok, let’s start with your arrival. When did you arrive here?”

I purse my lips at an angle. “Which, um, time? On which visa?”
He turns back to my thick stack of correspondence from USCIS. I’ve arranged it chronologically, starting with H1B visa in February 2000. I’m sure most of the cases he sees are much simpler than mine, but I’m used to that feeling by now. “On the J-2. When did you arrive on a J-2?”

I dig around for my old passport, the one with a picture of a 12-year old me, back when I was a little brown boy wearing a shirt commemorating the 1988 Seoul Olympics. “Early 1990s. 1992, I want to say. But note that I have a waiver on the two-year home residency requirement for J visas – a copy of the letter is in the correspondence in that pile.”

Relieved, he looks through his stack and finds the letter letting my mom off the hook for her two-year residency in Brazil following the Fulbright.
“I see that – she got a waiver. But did you get one?” he asks, somewhat nervously. He’s not good at being bad cop.

“Well, I was her dependent when I came in, right? So the waiver should apply to me as well?”

We go back and forth, and he ultimately determines that this is not a big deal. That being disposed of, I’m sure we’re about to move to, you know, this decade, when he says, instead, “Ok, then, let’s jump to 1996. You became an F? Did you bring your college diploma, by any chance?”

Sigh. This is exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of. I want to say, “No, goddamnit, I don’t have my college diploma. Why is that relevant to the fact that I’m married to a U.S. citizen? I would think my international certificate of vaccination – necessary to re-enter the U.S. after travel to certain African countries – would be more germane to the question of whether I ought to remain here than my major in college.” But I just shake my head. I tell him I saw it just that morning – which is true – but didn’t think to grab it.

He doesn’t push it, and so we move on. I’m relieved until I realize that he’s moving on to…something else for which I have no documentation. As he begins to ask me about my first year after college – the crucial transition from F to H visa status – I get that familiar awful feeling, the kind you have in those dreams where you show up for class only to find it’s exam day. (Amusingly, my version of that dream – about not being prepared for something – always takes place at an airport. I am showing up for a flight with no ticket, passport, luggage, and no idea of my destination.)

He is asking me about 1999, the year when I had an optional practical training (OPT) visa that you apply for to work in the field you’ve studied. In my case, part of the reason I applied for my job was because it was the only one in the mega-employment issue of the Washington Post in January of 1999 that said “English or journalism major preferred.” The thinking is that you will work in your field of study, and if your employer likes you enough, they will sponsor you for a work visa – the H1 visa – which you can have for up to 7 years. The move to the H was not simple for me, partly due to the aforementioned Fulbright/2-year-residency rule. You also have to demonstrate that you have unique expertise (like, you wouldn’t be a pure administrative assistant and be able to get an H1 visa), and to go from there to an employer-sponsored permanent resident status can include the requirement that your job be advertised in newspapers and in your workplace.

I can tell you from experience that having your salary posted in the kitchen at work to demonstrate a “recruitment effort” is terrifying and oddly liberating. In any case, that first year – the transition from OPT to the H1 visa - was a pretty traumatic year, now that I think about it. And to think that I cannot remember getting any documentation from USCIS, nor did I have any in the correspondence I’d been saving for years. Ai ai ai.

As a quick sidenote, just imagine how daunting the steps outlined above are for a foreign national graduating from a US college today – into an economy with close to double-digit unemployment, where employers are feeling very pinched. Does anyone think a 21-year old stands a chance of convincing an employer in one year that they are worth an investment of time and money (slightly over $1000 before attorney’s fees) and getting on a track toward a work visa and, possibly, toward citizenship? It seems improbable, doesn’t it, especially as the number of unemployed Americans grows? I wonder whether this will have any measurable effect on the number of people who cobble a life together out of many different visa status classifications the way I did.

But still, I am eager to move on. Except that we don’t. “Well, I’m not seeing how you go from being an F to an H. We really need some of that OPT paperwork. I think,” he says. We are silent. “Maybe,” he goes on, “I should talk to someone. To figure out whether we need to go down this path or not. Because if we do, things will get a little complicated. So, tell you what. I’ll be right back, ok? Would you guys mind waiting for me here?”

He leaves, and I nervously tap the arm of my chair. I look over at Ms. AC. Eyebrows raised. I want to ask if I should freak out, or if she is, or if I’m the only one who thought the guy’s statement was incredibly ominous. But we say nothing, choosing instead to sit nervously for what must have been the most interminable five minutes of my life, and maybe of hers too.

The interview: part one

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.

In which I maybe, soon, become the "abstract permanent resident."

June 4, people. I may be planning some sort of greencard party the following night. Stay tuned!

This week in immigration story highlights

The cover piece from the Washington Post's Sunday mag is pretty well fleshed out.

To paraphrase something Huckabee said when Romney was trying to score points off of him in a Republican primary debate, aren't we a better country than one that punishes children for what their parents did? Don't we want these kids to grow up to be contributing members of society? Don't we want them to be taxpayers? I know it's not that simple, of course, but this seems like one of those cases where the rule-making should also allow for common sense.

I think if this kid's lifestory were put to a popular vote, a sizable majority of Americans would vote to let him stay. Maybe that's just me being notoriously bad at reading the popular mood, though. Immigration, particularly of the illegal kind, is one of those fun issues where any notion of left and right quickly disappear, and people get very emotional very quickly.

This piece is not from this week, but it's still topical, since it was just over a year ago that Ms. Abstract Citizen and I listened to this This American Life show on our drive back from a lovely wedding annviersary visit to the Inn at Little Washington. I had just found out that my employment authorization was screwed up, and went on a 4-week long leave of absence that led to the creation of this blog. We didn't know what would happen or how USCIS would look on the whole situation. Act Two (This American Wife) had us silently contemplating just how tenuous life can be when you marry someone from another country.

Lessons learned: life is best when you can avoid dealing with governments and forms. Whenever possible, live in the country you were born in. And marry people from that country. Otherwise, you won't be able to abide by lesson one above, since a good portion of your free time (and mental energy) will be dedicated to dealing with governments and forms.

on checking the "other" box

Are Brazilians latinos? I say we aren’t. Let’s start with the evolution of ethnic nomenclature. It used to be that Brazilians might feel obligated to check the “Hispanic” box. Maybe some kind of pan-American guilt or a sense of Latin American camaraderie might impel us to do so. Except, obviously, we don’t speak Spanish. Nor are we of Spanish descent. (And what about Guyana, Surinam, and French Guyana?? Brazil isn't the only country in South American that doesn't speak Spanish!)

But the bigger problem with “Hispanic” – as a general term – is that it is used to describe central and South American people who are probably more likely to be predominantly of indigenous ancestry as opposed to be European. I mean here’s an Argentine (the odious Cannigia) who can be described as “Hispanic”:






















Definitely of European descent, right? And here’s someone who might also be described as Hispanic – Evo Morales, president of Bolivia.





What do Morales and Cannigia have in common? Basically, these two guys share a language, and probably nothing else. So, “Hispanic” doesn’t describe ethnicity, it just describes the language you speak. Why should it not include Europeans who speak Spanish, then?

Beyond this definitional issue, it’s a bit irksome that there is a distinction between indigenous Americans and Americans of European descent – but that it only applies in the U.S. Once you're in Mexico or below, only language matters, I guess.

The personal issue I had with “Hispanic” was also that, even if I overlooked all of these problems, there would still be the fact that Brazilians were specifically excluded from the definition by national societies, especially for purposes of scholarships and other kinds of recognition. I will absolutely not have my accomplishments in any way counted toward a demographic group that has excluded me from any of the benefits available to its other members. (Would I capitulate if I could get something out of it? I don't think so. But I would be more happy to get a bit sloppy and sing, 'Who am I / to blow against the wind?')

“Hispanic” then became “Latino,” presumably to make the concept a bit more inclusive – and on the whole, “Latino” is probably more correct than “Hispanic.” But doesn’t it still suffer from a similar language problem? It means that you speak a language derived from Latin? Wouldn’t Italians and the French then also be “latino”? I can get behind Latin American – in fact, I can get behind American, because before the word was co-opted to mean a U.S. American (years before Miss Teen South Carolina immortalized the phrase) it meant, in general terms, both North and South America.

And again, even if I were predisposed to overlook these issues, there’s still the fact that, again, Brazilians are specifically excluded from the definition.

So, don’t hate the Doobie Brothers, and don’t hate Rita Lee. I'm not doing this because I'm finnicky - I'm doing it because we’re all Americans - U.S. American or other-American. Some of us like black beans, and some of us are Canadian, which is also a kind of American. Some of us play football with our feet, and some of us play a game of football that rarely involves touching a ball with one’s feet. No worries. Let’s be all European Union about this and just feel groovy about our shared American-ness, and let’s all start checking the “other” box as soon as possible, because in some way, I guarantee, you are not someone else’s idea of what makes an American.

Further Evidence of My Lack of Bad-Assness

Returning to the States from Canada this past Wednesday with Sprucey, a co-worker. This is my first time traveling using my "parole" documents, and just a note to clarify: for some reason, flying back from Montreal to DCA, you go through customs and immigration on the Canadian side. I have no idea why, or if this is true for all flights going back to the U.S., but without that bit of knowledge, this story won’t make too much sense.

As you may recall from a previous post, according to the forms, the agent at the border is making a decision as to whether I should be "paroled" into the States or not. Accordingly, I hand over all my paperwork and wait nervously for questions at the passport control booth. The agent flips through my passport, stops to look at my visa. I mention that it's expired, and he nods. "I saw your advanced parole," he says. Then he snaps my passport shut, gets up, and says, "Ok, follow me." And he leaves his little booth and starts leading me somewhere. I hesitate, and he says, "We need to get this stamped now."

So, I'm still not sure if I'm in the clear, and as I'm being led into this glass-encased room, my colleague Sprucey has a somewhat confused look on her face. She gives me a half-wave and a half-quizzical smile, maybe thinking, "Just in case this is the last time I see you..." I don't want to shout out, "Hey, don't worry, I'll catch up in a second," so I half-wave back because I'm still not sure what's going to happen. But then the agent asks her if she'd like to join me in there, which she very kindly does. So there we sit, waiting for me to be called in for a mini-interview.

When I do get called in, here's how I remember the exchange:

Him: So, sir, where you are going today?
Me: To DCA.
[silence]
Me: Uh, National Airport.
[silence]
Me: Home to my wife...?
[he perks up]
Him: Oh, home to your wife? So who's that out there waiting for you?
Me: Oh, no no no...she's a co-worker. We were here for a convention and wanted to sight-see, so we -
Him: What's your social?
Me: xxx-xx-xxxx.
Him: And what's your occupation?
Me: Well, I work for a health care organization that is primarily a standards-setting and accreditation body for blood banks, cellular therapy, and other parts of the lab. My primary job function is -....
[he gets up, leaves without saying a word. Returns two minutes later.]
Him: Well, Mr. Noonyez, have a nice trip.

So now, we’re positive that we are in the clear. My parole is good, and Sprucey – well, she’s like a human version of mom-and-apple-pie. I can’t imagine anyone taking any kind of issue with her. She is sweet, kind, warm, genuine – a shining example of the best that the American South has to offer. We make our way to the secured area for our security check, and suddenly agents are converging on Sprucey. The minute she approaches the conveyor belt and puts her stuff down, a female security guard approaches her, asks for her boarding pass, and basically pulls her aside. Meanwhile, no one even looks at my boarding pass! I am chopped liver. I go through security without a problem, while Sprucey is being given the treatment – so much so that I'm surprised there was even anyone left to look at my bags when they were being scanned!

Now I'm standing off to the side, putting my belt back on, tying my shoelaces, while Sprucey is being scrutinized. They're emptying one bag, and then they're emptying the other. They've got their hands all over her. They're speaking to her in hushed tones, she is nodding or shaking her head, and I'm standing there with this dumbfounded look on my face because Sprucey is LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME. She's got her back to me, so I can't see everything that's going on, but if you were there, listening to her laugh, it would have you believing that this is about the most enjoyable thing that could happen to a person.

Afterwards, she mentioned that it was a little ticklish, all the reaching and groping, and that the woman's running commentary on her carry-ons was worth the price of admission. As in:

Security: Oh my, you certainly have a lot of things in here.
Sprucey: It's ok, you can take it out.
Security: But then I have to put back in!!
Sprucey: Oh, that...yeah, I like jewelry.
Security: Yes, this I can see!
[Security takes out her make-up bag]
Security: Why, you have every color here!!

And so forth. In any case, the woman also warns Sprucey that she will be subjected to this a second time because we are flying to National. We are confused and unsure as to how this will take place, considering that we are now on our way to the gate, but alas. Meanwhile, I'm feeling totally invisible - remember that no one even checked my boarding pass to make sure I was in the right terminal. Clearly, this is a little emasculating for me, since I'd like to believe that, between the two of us, I am the one more likely to be perceived as a threat. But no, it turns out that a blonde Southerner with a kind disposition has been keeping these security folks up at night, while I'm barely an afterthought.

Onward to the terminal bar to blow the last of our Canadian dollars on family-sized gin and tonics. When we finally make it to the gate, we find that it is encased in glass with - you guessed it - a second security set up. I am instantly and uncomplicatedly waved off to the side, while Sprucey is again subjected to the vagaries of airport security for a second time. At this point, I’d just about had enough. Why aren't they worried about ME??? I’m the FOREIGNER! And I’ve been working out! I'm STRONG! Well, almost strong…but I am taken with radical notions about how health care ought to be a right, and how diplomacy is not such a bad thing! Except no, I'm not. I'm puny, and Sprucey is the threat. Outgunned by kindness, once again…

Find a city, find yourself a city to live in

StopSmiling's reviewof "The Dark Knight" is a shining example of why that particular magazine is the coolest magazine on the planet. But more importantly, I think it correctly grasps what is the most important theme in the new crop of Batman films: urbanism.

Nolan's unsubtle play in the new Batman series suggests that Gotham is our collective soul - hopelessly complicated, easily corrupted, given to mass hysteria and savagery, and not necessarily a place worth saving. Virtually all of my favorite superhero stories have an element of this "urban landscape as heart of darkness" - certainly Robocop and The Watchmen, but also some less high-minded fare like Darkman.

I also note that the modern city becomes especially scary to the consumer of pop culture sometime around the late 1970s and early 1980s, though I'm not sure what broader conclusion suggested by this. An economist would talk about the fact that this tide shifted back sometime in the mid-90s, during a period of massive growth. A two-bit sociologist might point to the end of the cold war and the advent of political correctness leading to an embrace of the "other." Truth is, there are so many trends - the rise of hip hop and the use of the word "urban" as code for black culture, for example - that it seems silly to say that it happened for any one reason. But what does interest me is that in other countries, living in the city is often perceived as a happy accident borne of necessity, whereas in America, there are a number of people who see cities simply as an inconvenience, a distraction from their real lives.

The gap between urban and non-urban was one of my "themes" a few years ago - I saw just about everything as evidence of this, from consumer behavior to gastronomy and national election results. My formative years were spent in a teeming mess of a city, where I was routinely mugged, where bus routes were fluid and open to interpretation, and where being a self-described native means that you have successfully navigated one of the most complex environments invented by humans.

Even when I thought I was likely to move away from urban areas entirely, I still thought cities were absolultely vital to human enterprise, while suburbs were the opposite of all authentic human experience. Moving to the U.S. suburbs in the early 1990s was disorienting, like being placed into a sealed container or something. Where was the streetlife, where did people congregate, why weren't there more bus routes? But I did grow accustomed to that rhythm after a while, at least until graduating from college and realizing that I didn't want any part of a suburban life.

I had a professor in college who used to describe the ideal suburban weekend: car rolls into garage, garage door closes - family is sealed in. The door will not open again until it is time for work and school on Monday morning because the family is in a self-contained unit. This is facile and I don't want to suggest that everyone in the suburbs is drab while all in the city are vibrant - far from it, in fact, and I think the line between the two is fairly blurry.

I didn't know Rubert Putnam's "Bowling Alone" or anything about social capital, nor had I read Jane Jacobs at this point, but I could see that I thought living in a city would mean, in the most basic terms, more entertainment. More action that had little to do with me, and a greater likelihood that I would be a supporting actor in another story (as opposed to always feeling like the protagonist of my story.)

There was a New Yorker "Talk of the Town" piece where Wynton Marsalis, speaking to a school assembly in New York City, used the word "cosmopolitan." Someone asked him what it meant, and he replied something like, "It means that you belong wherever you go." Or something along those lines, I can't seem to find the exact wording. But clearly, it's an idea I like - not because it implies that there's a universal fraternity of urban centers, but because it suggests to me that cities teach valuable life skills: about talking to people directly, about living outside of your own head, about asking questions and about not being such a bumbling idiot just because you happen to be out of your element, and also about the individual's relationship with their environment being a two-way street.

Of course, you can learn these skills and lessons elsewhere. And I've always thought that the people who pride themselves on their urbanity are the most likely to be from Des Moines (no offense, Iowa!) Seriously - remember that Bill Murray's character in "Groundhog Day," who made it clear that he hated central PA, was from Pittsburgh - not exactly a cosmpolitan center, though it is a city that kicks Washington's ass in terms of regional pride and strength of character.

I spent a good chunk of the summer outside of cities, in between them, or in cities that I plain just don't like a lot (hello, San Diego!) It feels good to be home, picking thai chilies off the pot that grows on our windowsill, our tiny spice garden overlooking an infinitely more messy and unweeded garden gone to the proverbial Shakesperean fie.

Of governments and forms

The Abstract Citizen's tentacles are plunging into a number of different governmental cauldrons. In the homeland, there are issues having to do with my taxpayer id that were thankfully solved over the phone - without requiring the Abstract Citizen to manifest himself concretely, in other words.

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.)

Non(citizens) on parole

[and if you got the “Police Academy” reference above – shame on you. And me too, I guess.]

The following text appears on the documents that allow me to re-enter the United States after international travel - known as an "advanced parole" document:

Parole is not admission into the United States. Presentation of this authorization will allow a CBP [Customs and Border Patrol] Inspector at a port-of-entry to parole you into the United States, which will allow you to resume your application for adjustment of status. Parole is not “admission” so even after your parole you will remain an “applicant for admission.” …

Parole into the United States is not guaranteed. In all cases, you are still subject to immigration inspection at a port-of-entry to determine whether you are eligible to come into the United States via the terms of this document. Even if you have previously been granted parole, the Department of Homeland Security retains discretion to deny you parole if the Department determines approving your parole application would not serve the public interest of the United States.

I’m pretty sure this speaks for itself, though I’m completely befuddled as to what it actually says.

They scheduled our interview!

We just received the notice! Which is both exciting and scary. Scary because if they don't believe us, I can be arrested and deported instantly - exciting because, well, it's forward progress. All the same, if you stop hearing from me around July-ish, you'll have a good idea what happend.

The Internets are full of cautionary tales and notes about what we can expect. I think this lawyer's blog and this rambling post give a pretty good idea of the kinds of questions we might get. I've heard this described as somewhere between "utterly demeaning" and "completely horrifying." No matter which was you cut it, it's pretty obvious that we are going to have FUN.