Legal Alien Homesick Blues

On the 30th August 2004 I had my green card interview. It was, in the words of the immigration officer, a slam dunk. The card would be with me in two weeks.

It is now almost ten months later and my green card has not arrived. I have a stamp in my passport which is, in effect, a temporary green card. It expires on August 30th 2005, at which point I will be in England. Without a green card I cannot re-enter the USA, except as a tourist.

We rang the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services disinformation line a few months ago and were advised to delay taking any action to find out where the card was. “Wait and see” was the tone of the advice. With six weeks left before we board a plane for the UK, waiting is no longer a sensible option.

Courtney booked us an interview at our nearest immigration office, which happens to be a convenient twenty minute drive away in Sacramento and so at 2.00pm today we joined the queue at 650 Capitol Mall. In front of us were several hispanic couples, an asian couple and a white woman with a green passport. “Which countries issue green passports?” Courtney mused. Just as we walked through the door to offer our I.D.s to the security guards, remove our shoes and walk through the metal detector, a policeman came up behind us and told the guards to clear us out of the building. Me, Courtney, the couples, and the single woman were all shooed out of the building, across the little plaza outside and onto the other side of the road, where a chequered-shirted drunk dozed in the shade of a small maple.

Our hearts sinking at this latest setback, we stood and watched developments in the federal building. Two more police officers rode up on bikes. A couple of patrol cars nosed lazily around. A steady stream of cheesed-off people emerged from the building; frustrated resident applicants, I assumed. A little later they were followed by the staff with their plastic passes dangling round their necks, chatting and smiling as they enjoyed their unscheduled break in the sun.

Ten minutes later a fire engine arrived, claxon blaring. The unconscious drunk didn’t even stir. Three firefighters alighted from the truck, looped hoses over their shoulders and ambled in through the front doors. Another fire engine approached from the opposite direction. Two more firefighters got out and nonchalantly taped off the sidewalk 100 yards either side of the entrance.

What was going on? Sacramento is hardly a likely target for a bomb threat, and the response was far too slow. One bystander surmised that it could have been a fire caused during remodelling of the interior, but when we were ejected there was no fire alarm. Besides, you’d imagine a federal government building would have a swifter response time. What kind of emergency causes an evacuation, and yet inspires such a lacklustre response?

Whatever the cause, the outcome is that once more we have been frustrated in our attempts to get my green card in a timely manner. Courtney rang the disinformation line again. After ten minutes on hold someone took her query and curtly dumped her on hold again for a further five minutes. An immigration officer finally picked up and, after hearing our whole story twice, taking various pieces of information from both Courtney and me, he proceeded to tell us that my green card has not yet been printed. The reason? The only way we can find out is to have an interview at the nearest USCIS office, which is what we’d just tried to do.

We’re trying again on Thursday. I’m not getting my hopes up. Every time we have any dealings with the immigration system it’s a mind-bendingly frustrating experience, like trying to herd cats. I think next time I’ll make sure I’m appropriately dressed. Does anyone know where I can find a t-shirt with the slogan “Just deport me and have done with it”?