Immigration Nation

We recieved some good news in the mail on Monday and around here, that has been hard to come by of late.

Dealing with immigration paperwork is time consuming and expensive.  We started the process shortly after we were married.  The “process” includes gathering birth certificates, translating materials from French to English, taking passport photos (I called mine “My Wife, the criminal.  It looked like a mug shot), and taking ALL OF YOUR MONEY to the Post Office to purchase money orders to pay for it. 

Oh yes, and there are three billion forms to fill out.

I had to gather a year’s worth of bank statements and sign an affidavit that I would support Ismael financially for ten years, even if we got divorced.  We filled out forms detailing every other detail of our history together and apart.

We had to provide copies of leases, insurance cards, basically anything that had our names on it together, which was tough because we had been married such a short time.

A month later, the envelope was returned, its contents intact.  After reading the legalese that was the explanation for the return, I was at a loss.  My best guess was that the protocol is to paper clip each money order to each different form so they don’t have to match them up themselves.  Our hard earned $1500 in there and they can’t do a little matchy matchy?  I paper-clipped, mailed, and didn’t hear anything for months.

A few months later we received two letters: one summoning both of us to be jointly interviewed and another for Ismael to report for “biometrics.”

Ismael was fingerprinted, and together, we were interviewed, ironically on his birthday.  Some happy birthday.  We sat across the desk from the Homeland Security officer detailing how we had met, flashing our papers,  and answering various questions.  I was a nervous wreck.

Oddly enough, what she seemed most interested in was my photo album. I had brought it as an afterthought because it had pictures from our wedding in it as well as a trip we had taken to visit my sister in law.  Good thing I had started scrapbooking that year, otherwise I would have been at home searching for pictures while Ismael sat across from the officer, alone, shrugging his shoulders.

We left the immigration office that day and celebrated his birthday with lunch at a Lebanese restaurant.  And then we waited.   Hummus and pita bread made it seem like everything would be okay.

The employment card came first and then in the summer, the “Green Card.”   Of course it isn’t really green, but it’s a green light in so many ways.

However, because we had been married less than two years at the time of application it was granted on a two – year conditional status rather than the ten year “permanent” status.

I was entirely grumpy about the conditional status.  We had been told by the interviewing officer to save all joint paperwork on anything we do or buy together during that time.  We would need it to prove our marriage.

I held my tongue and told Ismael when we left that if we ever were blessed with a baby then THAT would be our joint project. I would take the baby and a dirty diaper to the next interview, plunk him or her down on the desk, and say, “See?  We did this.  We made this. Satisfied?”

So remember I said there was good news?  There is, bear with me.

We had to start the process all over again a few months ago to remove the conditional status.   We filled out forms, paid ANOTHER $500, and provided proof of Adam’s birth and parentage.  Lest they fail to believe it, I included the most drugged up picture of me right after the c-section with Ismael and our new baby by my side.  I’m a sight so ghastly that they HAVE to believe he loved me enough to stick around and not run screaming from that entire operating room horror show. 

The good news? No interview, no further proof needed, just a plain white letter in a plain white envelope this week that stated the “conditional status has been removed for your residency.”

Ismael’s conditional residency has been removed and he is a permanent resident, which according to the US Government is a period of eight more years.  They should call it abbreviated residency because there is nothing permanent about it.

There are so many hot tempers surrounding the immigration debate, but please remember that these policies affect real people, real families.  People who may not have the means to pay these exhorbinant paperwork fees, who lack the understanding to read and complete the forms, who risk being torn from their loved ones.   It’s a human problem that needs human compassion.

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