Posts
Here's a little piece of advice: No matter how smart you are or look, no matter how many lives you are going to save with your stellar research, no matter how far and often you travel, if you're an International student in the US, DO NOT FORGET YOUR STUDENT PAPERS WHEN YOU LEAVE THE COUNTRY. I did, just this once, in 2004, and boy, did they do a good job of making sure I never repeated that mistake again...
Here's the story.
This is their first trick - no one says a thing when you leave the US. Not a whimper. Just a "Hello sir, how are you. Have a nice flight." No mention of student papers. so you leave the US, fly by the national airline of some breakaway Soviet republic because they offer you the cheapest tickets even though it means three days of flying and six stops in countries that have landing strips in the middle of meadows. And you finally land wherever you're going. For my story, this was England to meet a soon-to-be-extinguished flame (which we are NOT going to discuss today). Now this whole flame story was burning strong back then, so I had a great three weeks without so much as a thought about the case in the bottom draw of my closet, which is where my student papers were stuck.
At the end of three glorious weeks, I head back to the States. We land, and I walk right up to the people at immigration counters with my passport in hand. I stand in line, looking at the people in front of me, the counters, and America proper in the distance, beyond the glass doors. Sure enough, I get pulled out of the line at random ("Uh, security procedures, sir."), and get sent to another line that also has randomly chosen people. They're all randomly chosen brown men. We're all standing somewhat nervously now, because our line clearly has beefed up security, a couple of not-so-friendly dogs, and their even more not-so-friendly handlers. Plus there was a huge poster of the twin towers burning with the caption "Never to forget". Aware that we were being watched really closely, I ignore the overwhelming urge to scratch my butt, lest they think I've hidden something up there, and try to look like a confident, erudite, yet non-threatening intellectual. I think I ended up looking confidently constipated.
Anyway, one of these officials walks past, giving individual passports a quick look through. Soon its my turn, and I hand mine over. He takes a quick look : "Kedar eh? (he pronounces it something like Kaydaah) Rhymes with Al-Qaida, eh? Haw-haw-haw!" I laugh nervously, but the line inches forward, so he lets me go without any further ado. The poor sod behind me is named Mohammed Iqbal, so that calms my somewhat jangled nerves. Eventually though, its my turn, and I put on my best smile, determined to be friendly as I walk up to this lady. She looks like a pibull that's just lost a close fight.
"Hey there, how are you doing dear?"
"Passport please."
"Uh, OK." And I hand it over.
"Student papers."
"W-what?"
And then she takes her eyes off her desk and looks at me. Right into my eyes. Through my eyes into my brain. And through my brain stem into the depths of my soul. I feel an icy fist take a vice-like hold of my insides.
"Student. Papers."
It takes about a second for my neurons to fire off three quick messages to my brain :
1. She wants your student papers.
2. If you don't have your student papers, you're screwed.
3. Your student papers are in the bottom draw of your closet with your underwear.
and then with the finality of a denial-of-visa stamp :
4. You're screwed.
The cold sweat, nausea and the giant block of ice in the pit of my stomach follow, but I manage to stay standing and stammer out "B-b-but I-I dont have my p-p-papers on me..."
Now I don't know whether she signalled by hand, or pushed a button, or blew a whistle - I was busy witnessing my life flash in front of me. Either way, I was surrounded by blue shirts before you could say Terror Suspect. The one guy is busy whispering to the others, obviously about how my name rhymes with a terrorist organization. I want to shove his baton up his poetic ass, but I realize I'm the one in trouble so I try to keep a brave face on what is a rapidly deteriorating situation.
So they lead me to the "holding area", which really is a euphemism for "Jail cell where we interrogate terror suspects trying to gain entry into and cause harm to the citizens of the United States of America". On my way there I see they've set the dogs on my backpack. Everyone in all the lines is trying to get a better look at the
potential terrorist that the vigilant immigration officials have successfully nabbed. They make me sit in the holding area. It wasn't quite the cement bed and iron bar look that I was expecting; there were a couple of couches and even a potted plant in the corner. Plus a couple of copies of "Immigration handbook for foreign nationals" on a table, just in case I wanted to read what was in store for me. I'm glad there are a bunch of rules, because the cops who had guns looked like they were itching to use them. I pick up the immigration handbook and pretend to read it. The way I saw it, I was going to be sent back to India on a rowboat, forever condemned to live my life in disgrace, forever known as the bright kid who threw away a promising scientific career because he forgot a piece of paper. Either that, or I was going to the Baltimore Supermax correctional facility, sure to become a man-bitch for Bubba. I pray for the rowboat.
Finally two cops come up and start talking to me. They want to know everything about me. I mean everything right from where I was born to what I'd had for lunch. And they do this classic good-cop bad-cop thing. McBride is the pleasant one (he tells me to call him marty). Lopez is the bastard. Each time this guy is yelling about how I can't trick him and how America is such an accommodating country and people like me are screwing it up and making his life miserable his eyeballs are an inch away from mine and he spraying bits of half-eaten doritos all over my face. I'm thinking the sonofabitch or his dad probably jumped a fence to get here, but I try to be as contrite and polite as possible. After a bit he takes a break and he leaves to go to the next room, leaving the door ajar. I'm sure he does this on purpose, because I can CLEARLY see a box of latex gloves and vaseline on the table. And this is where I have to admit, I really, really thought things were going to end badly. Missing papers or not, the possibility of a detention center rendezvous with Lopez and his vaselined glove was not the way I thought I would be welcomed into this country. Marty must've seen my ashen face, because he moves over to block my view and continues his questions about my work. This is where I get a gigantic break - as we chat he mentions his wife was treated for colon cancer at Johns Hopkins. I immediately tell him that my work may some day help find a cure for cancer (it won't, but I was doing all I could to avoid Lopez and his glove). We start chatting about it, and as luck would have it, Marty buys all my crapola, and leaves to talk to Lopez. Both come back, and Lopez grunts "OK, you get your one call". He's clearly disappointed he didn't get to do a cavity check.
The rest, fortunately, was easy if not quick. I called my landlady, an absolutely wonderful lady, and she rummaged though my underwear to get my little case that had my papers. She brought it over to the airport, and three hours later (glove box and vaseline untouched), I stagger out of Baltimore-Washington International airport and head back home. The air never smelled sweeter in the free world...
Here's the story.
This is their first trick - no one says a thing when you leave the US. Not a whimper. Just a "Hello sir, how are you. Have a nice flight." No mention of student papers. so you leave the US, fly by the national airline of some breakaway Soviet republic because they offer you the cheapest tickets even though it means three days of flying and six stops in countries that have landing strips in the middle of meadows. And you finally land wherever you're going. For my story, this was England to meet a soon-to-be-extinguished flame (which we are NOT going to discuss today). Now this whole flame story was burning strong back then, so I had a great three weeks without so much as a thought about the case in the bottom draw of my closet, which is where my student papers were stuck.
At the end of three glorious weeks, I head back to the States. We land, and I walk right up to the people at immigration counters with my passport in hand. I stand in line, looking at the people in front of me, the counters, and America proper in the distance, beyond the glass doors. Sure enough, I get pulled out of the line at random ("Uh, security procedures, sir."), and get sent to another line that also has randomly chosen people. They're all randomly chosen brown men. We're all standing somewhat nervously now, because our line clearly has beefed up security, a couple of not-so-friendly dogs, and their even more not-so-friendly handlers. Plus there was a huge poster of the twin towers burning with the caption "Never to forget". Aware that we were being watched really closely, I ignore the overwhelming urge to scratch my butt, lest they think I've hidden something up there, and try to look like a confident, erudite, yet non-threatening intellectual. I think I ended up looking confidently constipated.
Anyway, one of these officials walks past, giving individual passports a quick look through. Soon its my turn, and I hand mine over. He takes a quick look : "Kedar eh? (he pronounces it something like Kaydaah) Rhymes with Al-Qaida, eh? Haw-haw-haw!" I laugh nervously, but the line inches forward, so he lets me go without any further ado. The poor sod behind me is named Mohammed Iqbal, so that calms my somewhat jangled nerves. Eventually though, its my turn, and I put on my best smile, determined to be friendly as I walk up to this lady. She looks like a pibull that's just lost a close fight.
"Hey there, how are you doing dear?"
"Passport please."
"Uh, OK." And I hand it over.
"Student papers."
"W-what?"
And then she takes her eyes off her desk and looks at me. Right into my eyes. Through my eyes into my brain. And through my brain stem into the depths of my soul. I feel an icy fist take a vice-like hold of my insides.
"Student. Papers."
It takes about a second for my neurons to fire off three quick messages to my brain :
1. She wants your student papers.
2. If you don't have your student papers, you're screwed.
3. Your student papers are in the bottom draw of your closet with your underwear.
and then with the finality of a denial-of-visa stamp :
4. You're screwed.
The cold sweat, nausea and the giant block of ice in the pit of my stomach follow, but I manage to stay standing and stammer out "B-b-but I-I dont have my p-p-papers on me..."
Now I don't know whether she signalled by hand, or pushed a button, or blew a whistle - I was busy witnessing my life flash in front of me. Either way, I was surrounded by blue shirts before you could say Terror Suspect. The one guy is busy whispering to the others, obviously about how my name rhymes with a terrorist organization. I want to shove his baton up his poetic ass, but I realize I'm the one in trouble so I try to keep a brave face on what is a rapidly deteriorating situation.
So they lead me to the "holding area", which really is a euphemism for "Jail cell where we interrogate terror suspects trying to gain entry into and cause harm to the citizens of the United States of America". On my way there I see they've set the dogs on my backpack. Everyone in all the lines is trying to get a better look at the
potential terrorist that the vigilant immigration officials have successfully nabbed. They make me sit in the holding area. It wasn't quite the cement bed and iron bar look that I was expecting; there were a couple of couches and even a potted plant in the corner. Plus a couple of copies of "Immigration handbook for foreign nationals" on a table, just in case I wanted to read what was in store for me. I'm glad there are a bunch of rules, because the cops who had guns looked like they were itching to use them. I pick up the immigration handbook and pretend to read it. The way I saw it, I was going to be sent back to India on a rowboat, forever condemned to live my life in disgrace, forever known as the bright kid who threw away a promising scientific career because he forgot a piece of paper. Either that, or I was going to the Baltimore Supermax correctional facility, sure to become a man-bitch for Bubba. I pray for the rowboat.
Finally two cops come up and start talking to me. They want to know everything about me. I mean everything right from where I was born to what I'd had for lunch. And they do this classic good-cop bad-cop thing. McBride is the pleasant one (he tells me to call him marty). Lopez is the bastard. Each time this guy is yelling about how I can't trick him and how America is such an accommodating country and people like me are screwing it up and making his life miserable his eyeballs are an inch away from mine and he spraying bits of half-eaten doritos all over my face. I'm thinking the sonofabitch or his dad probably jumped a fence to get here, but I try to be as contrite and polite as possible. After a bit he takes a break and he leaves to go to the next room, leaving the door ajar. I'm sure he does this on purpose, because I can CLEARLY see a box of latex gloves and vaseline on the table. And this is where I have to admit, I really, really thought things were going to end badly. Missing papers or not, the possibility of a detention center rendezvous with Lopez and his vaselined glove was not the way I thought I would be welcomed into this country. Marty must've seen my ashen face, because he moves over to block my view and continues his questions about my work. This is where I get a gigantic break - as we chat he mentions his wife was treated for colon cancer at Johns Hopkins. I immediately tell him that my work may some day help find a cure for cancer (it won't, but I was doing all I could to avoid Lopez and his glove). We start chatting about it, and as luck would have it, Marty buys all my crapola, and leaves to talk to Lopez. Both come back, and Lopez grunts "OK, you get your one call". He's clearly disappointed he didn't get to do a cavity check.
The rest, fortunately, was easy if not quick. I called my landlady, an absolutely wonderful lady, and she rummaged though my underwear to get my little case that had my papers. She brought it over to the airport, and three hours later (glove box and vaseline untouched), I stagger out of Baltimore-Washington International airport and head back home. The air never smelled sweeter in the free world...
No comments:
Post a Comment