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one had been.
So I started the engine again, instructed the kids to hold tight to their drinks and popcorn, and backed
out of our position. There was a horrible wrenching noise.
"You should probably put the speaker back on the post before you drive off," observed Bradley
sagely.
"You're quite right, Bradley," I agreed. "Still, this cord might come in handy if I need to garotte
anyone."
Bradley announced that he had spilled his drink again and needed to go to the bathroom. So I gave
Bradley yet another wipe-down and took the kids for more refreshments. By the time we got back,
the movie was finishing. Between us, we had watched seventeen minutes of it, about eight minutes
with sound.
"Next time you want to waste twenty-two dollars on some harebrained notion, let me know and I'll
send a check in the post, and then we can stay at home and watch TV," my wife suggested.
"Excellent idea," I agreed.
DROWNING IN RED TAPE
I'm not even going to begin to tell you about the frustration of trying to get a foreign-born spouse or
other loved one registered as a legal resident in the United States because I haven't the space, and
anyway it is much too boring. Also, I can't talk about it without weeping copiously. Also, you would
think I was making most of it up.
You would scoff, I am quite sure, if I told you that an acquaintance of ours-an English academic of
high standing-sat open-mouthed while his daughter was asked such questions as "Have you ever
engaged in any unlawful commercial vice, including, but not limited to, illegal gambling?" and
"Have you ever been a member of, or in any way affiliated with, the Communist Party or any other
totalitarian party?" and-my particular favorite-" Do you plan to practice polygamy in the U. S.?" His
daughter, I should point out, was five years old. You see, I am weeping already. There is something
seriously wrong with a government that asks such questions of any person, not merely because the
questions are intrusive and irrelevant, and not merely because inquiries into one's political affinities
fly in the face of our treasured Constitution, but because they are such a preposterous and
monumental waste of everyone's time. Who, after all, when asked if he intends to engage in
genocide, espionage, multiple marriages, or any other of an extremely long and interestingly
paranoid list of undesirable activities, is going to say: "I certainly do! Say, will this harm my
chances of getting in?"
If all that was involved was answering a list of pointless questions under oath, then I would just sigh
and let it be. But it is infinitely more than that. Acquiring legal status in America involves
fingerprints, medical examinations, blood tests, letters of affidavit, birth and marriage certificates,
employment records, proof of financial standing, and much else-and all of it must be assembled,
validated, presented, and paid for in very
78 specific ways. My wife recently had to make a 250-mile round trip to give a blood sample at a
clinic recognized by the U. S. Immigration and Naturalization Service even though one of the finest
university-affiliated hospitals in America is here in the town in which we live.
There are endless forms to fill out, each with pages of instructions, which often contradict other
instructions and almost always lead to the need for more forms. Here, exactly as written, is a typical
fragment of instructions regarding the presentation of fingerprints:
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Submit a complete set of fingerprints on Form FD-258.... Complete the information on the top of the
chart and write your A# (if any) in the space marked "Your no. OCA " or "Miscellaneous no. MNU.
"
If you don't have form FD-258 (and you don't) or aren't sure which is your MNU number (and you
aren't), you can spend days repeatedly dialing a phone number that is forever busy, only to be told by
a weary, overworked-sounding voice when you finally do get through that you must call another
number, which the person tells you once in a mumble and you don't quite catch, so that you have to
go through the entire process again. After a while you begin to understand why flinty-eyed cowpokes
in places like Montana turn their ranches into fortresses and threaten to shoot any government officer
fool enough to walk into the crosshairs.
And it's no good just filling in the forms to the best of your ability, because if anything is even a jot
out of order, it is all sent back. My wife had her file returned once because the distance between her
chin and hairline on a passport-sized photograph was out by one-eighth of an inch.
This has been going on for two years for us. Understand, my wife does not want to practice brain
surgery, engage in espionage, assist or collude in the trafficking of drugs, participate in the
overthrow of the
American government (though, frankly, I would not stand in her way), or take part in any other
proscribed activity. She just wants to do a little shopping and be legally resident with her family.
Doesn't seem too much to ask.
Goodness knows what the holdup is. Occasionally we get a request for some additional document.
Every few months I write to ask what is happening, occasionally imploring to be put in touch with a
real person, some actual human who wiH surely see that it is a ridiculous waste of government
money and everyone's time to infinitely prolong a process that ought to be routine, but I never get a
response.
Three weeks ago, we received a letter from the INS office in London, which we thought must be the
official approval at last. Good joke! It was a computer-generated letter saying that because her
application had been inactive for twelve months it was being canceled. Inactive! Canceled! Show
me to the gun cabinet, please.
All this is a very roundabout way of getting to a story concerning some British friends of ours here in
Hanover. The husband is a professor at Dartmouth. Eighteen months ago, he and his family went
back to
England for a year's sabbatical.
When they arrived at Heathrow airport, excited to be back home, the immigration officer asked them
how long they were staying.
"A year," my friend answered brightly. "And what about the American child?" the officer asked with
a cocked eyebrow.
Their youngest, you see, had been born in America, and they had never bothered to register him as [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]