One Day in The Life of a (legal) Alien

6.01 I am rudely yanked into consciousness. I hope the inventor of the buzzer alarm in my clock experiences his creation every day. Didn’t want to mess with my regular radio alarm. With any luck, registering is a once-in-a-blue-moon type deal.

6.43 Showered and dressed, I remember to make a wakeup call to Abby.

7.01 This is good - the car’s ice free, it’s not that cold, and I am almost on time.

7.30 Alewife T parking lot. I fit rather snugly between two monster SUVs. No reason to fear dings, I reason, hopefully I’ll be back long before them.

7.55 The T’s surprisingly empty. I change at Park Street for Government Center.

8.02 It’s a short jaunt to the JFK building. For once, the metal detector doesn’t go off. Must be color blind, I suppose. Large signs direct me to E-51 for the INS Customer Center and Registration Interviews.

8.03 Unfriendly customer center person directs me to bored-looking security guard who directs me to a short queue. "Sure am glad we’re in the short one," quips the friendly lady in front of me, gesturing towards the general INS waiting line, snaking along a corridor. I agree wholeheartedly, and we strike up a conversation. She turns out to be an immigration lawyer, holding the place for her (presumably) out-of-status client. Apparently, she’s done this a few times already - not for the same client, of course. Sure wish I had a lawyer.

8.10 It’s been a few minutes but the line hasn’t budged. Bit of a commotion behind me - a loud, hearty gentleman leads a number of disoriented looking people towards me. "You guys in line for registration?" I nod politely in assent. The hearty gentleman, followers in tow, joins the party.

8.15 Am involved in furiously animated conversation with the hearty gentleman. Well, he’s animated anyway. Another lawyer, this one really has been here every weekday for the last month. "You see, the Patriot Act expressly forbids the singling out of Arab-Americans or any other group under the guise of security," he explains in a nasal tone. "It’s only a matter of time before somebody takes Ashcroft to court. It was a decree, plain and simple, that made this happen. You won’t find a piece of legislation authorizing the rounding up of ordinary people."

"This is bound to make people resentful," the other lawyer chimes in.

"You bet I’m resentful," I say with much feeling. "I had to get up at 6 this morning." Good-natured laughter ensues all around.

8.20 Finally, we make it to the INS official inspecting passports and handing out forms of some sort. The early-bird lawyer has to step out of line - her client isn’t there, and no, she can’t pick up forms on his behalf even if she has his passport. Disappointed, she steps aside. I move up.

"Passport?"

I hand it over.

The official thumbs through it. "From Pakistan?"

I nod silently.

"Last name Ahmed? A-H-M-E-D?" He spells it out carefully.

More nodding.

"Please fill these out." He hands me a sheaf of papers. "All four pages please. If a section is not applicable to you, just skip over it."

I accept a blunt pencil and head for the nearest chair. There are about ten people in the room. Most are just staring into space. Some are chatting in low undertones.

I start on the form. It’s mostly biographical - sex, date of birth, weight, height, eye-color, hair-color, current address, employer’s address, school address. Two references; I have to wrack my brains for Bhayeea’s phone number - curse speed-dial. Parents’ names, addresses, dates of birth, places of birth. The names and address(es) I can handle - the years of birth I fumble with. "Gee, he’s definitely not sixty, so rough estimate - 1944? 1946?" I settle for the former hoping that my (?) notation will give me credible deniability later. I print out my permanent home address three times: once for myself, once each for the folks. There’s no magic "same-as-above" check box, so the blunt pencil gets blunter.

8.27 I’m done with the forms. The INS official accepts them ungraciously. "Please have a seat, someone will call out your number shortly."

I resume my seat. The hearty lawyer has found another poor soul to vent on. Bits of conversation drift over. "You see Chirac was actually ambassador to Lebanon. The French have always been interested in the Middle East."

"Mmmph, mmph," his new companion is a low-talker.

Hearty lawyer nods pleasantly. "That’s right, Syria and Lebanon have always been under their influence. Now during the Lebanese civil war..."

I turn my attention to The Jungle - just so happens to be what I had grabbed from the bookshelf earlier in the morning.

"Shouldn’t be too long," I reason. "They open at 7 - must be halfway to number 9 by now."

8.45 "Number 0, number 0?" A pale, lanky INS official walks through the room, hawking his wares, so to speak.

Never before have I disliked the number 0 so much.

A bald, elderly gent rises slowly to his feet. "Number 0?" the official queries. "Yes," replies the gent, and the two walk over to a nearby office. The door closes behind them.

8.55 More fragments of conversation drift my way: "No, it was the Phalange who were responsible for Sabra-Shatila - Israeli involvement was one of quiescence at best." Hearty lawyer is still at it.

I turn over the phrase ’at best’ in my mind. Semantic incongruities emerge.

9.00 A portly, imposing gentleman assumes the seat beside me. A faint, sickly sweet smell of expensive tobacco assaults my nostrils. He smiles pleasantly at me.

"Indian?" Familiar question-in-a-word.

"No, I’m from Pakistan." Familiar answer-in-a-phrase.

"Pretty much the same actually," I add after a pause.

The portly gentleman nods in agreement.

"I’m from Lebanon." Long pause. "Our countries are far apart, but we get to meet here." He waxes philosophically, accent and all. "Deeper meaning, no? Something good?"

"At least someone sees something good in this," I answer, only half in jest.

I turn my attention to Sinclair and the Chicago meatpackers.

9.20 I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. Boy, this thin cushion is pretty harsh on your butt. The hearty lawyer tries for eye contact - rejected. He seems to have lost his conversation buddy.

9.35 "Sir, you’ll have to come upstairs with us." I look up. Two buff agents are leading a bespectacled young man outside. "Upstairs" sounds rather ominous. A vivid memory of "drawing room trips" emerges unbidden - a reference from a popular TV show from my childhood, "drawing room" being a euphemism for a police interrogation/torture center. Not related to this of course, but the linguistic analogy amuses me.

9.45 A couple of numbers are called in rapid succession. "Number 7, number 8?" I stir in anticipation.

"What number do you have?" A fellow asks from across the room.

I tell him.

"That’s interesting, I have 6. They skipped right over me."

For a while, we conjecture over the rationale behind a random enumeration.

9.50 "Yes, hi, I was wondering if you could give me one of those forms." I look up. "I have a number of clients and it helps if they have it filled out prior to coming in." An elderly suit is engaging the surly INS official.

"Can’t do that, I’m afraid, sir." Surly official manages to look surlier. "We change these forms every few days, so I can’t give you one that might become useless."

"Every few days, hmmm." The suit appears pensive. "So you think I should just bring my clients in tomorrow and have them fill it out here?"

"That would be best, sir," says surly official firmly.

"The key to successful policy," hearty lawyer has found his companion again, "is consistency. Imagine, changing forms every day."

10.03 Stumble across an amusing bit in my book:

"So they drove downtown and stopped before an imposing granite building, in which they interviewed an official, who had the papers all ready, with only the names to be filled in. So each man in turn took an oath of which he did not understand a word, and then was presented with a handsome ornamented document with a big red seal and the shield of the United States upon it, and was told that he had become a citizen of the Republic and the equal of the President himself."

Things sure are a lot harder these days.

10.15 "Number 9, number 9?" I spring up, book in one hand, gloves and documents in another. "Number 9? Mr. Ahmed?" She smiles pleasantly. "Follow me please."

Number 6 gives me a baleful look as I walk into the Sub-Adjudicator’s office. The door closes in Number 6’s face.

"Right then, let’s get started." The Sub-Adjudicator is all business. "Place your right index finger here," she gestures at a compact device. I obey, and repeat with the left index finger soon thereafter.

"Since you’ve already been fingerprinted when you entered the US last month, the computer" - she pats it lovingly - "can just look you up."

"Of course, I could just use your FINS number." I nod in mock understanding. FINS number? Huh?

"You know what, let’s just try - let’s see if we can find you." Tap, tap, tap on keyboard.

I attempt some friendly chit-chat. "So you mean this thing can look me up by my fingerprints alone?"

Sub-Adjudicator, database query issued, smiles charmingly. "Yes, that’s the point of it. Eventually, we’ll have a fingerprint database of all visitors to the US."

Seconds tick by. "Very impressive," I remark.

Long pause. "Must be hard times for those fingerprint-experts on Perry Mason," my lame attempt at humor. One eye on the monitor, she laughs politely.

More banter.

A couple of minutes later, the query is still running. A frown creases the lovely brow of the Sub-Adjudicator. "That’s strange," she murmurs, "shouldn’t really be taking this long."

"It’s an Oracle database, you know." She smiles knowingly. I cringe in anticipation. "Sure this isn’t your fault?" She laughs at her witticism.

I smile back gamely. "It’s a large company," I manage to look guilty. "I might work there but they didn’t put me in charge of this particular piece of software."

She smiles, enjoying my discomfort.

10.21 "Aha, here you are." Triumphant, eureka moment. "Ninety percent match."

Her face falls. "No, that’s not you."

I glance over at her screen. No, I am most certainly not a Chinese woman. "That’s amazing, you have almost identical right index prints." Sub-Adjudicator refuses to be beaten.

The second match is a hit. There I am, resplendent in a grumpy-faced airport picture. Standard photograph joke follows.

"Right, then." Sub-Adjudicator appears to have a new lease on life. "Almost done now. I’ll need your driver’s license, your social security card and a credit card."

My hand stops midway to my wallet pocket.

"What, you’re charging me money for this?" I mouth in disbelief.

"Oh no, it’s just so we have you on record. It’s perfectly legal, I assure you, and safe. This computer is not on the Internet." She gestures to another PC behind her. "I use this other machine for Internet stuff."

"So you just want a credit card number?" Disbelief persists.

Sub-Adjudicator nods vigorously. "It’s been through the process and everything. Some people challenged it earlier and everything’s perfectly clear."

"Yeah, clear to you lady," to myself now.

"In any case, all this information is out there anyway." Boring narration on how she got her mortgage and how a bunch of lenders called her home and knew her social security number and how much her house was worth.

I’m just trying to get out of here. I hand over - in order - license, social security card and a credit card.

"They’ll soon start doing this for everybody, you know." Sub-Adjudicator tries another lame defense. "All of our credit cards will be on record somewhere."

Tens of privacy law references leap into my head but I keep my mouth shut.

"Oh, one more thing. Can you please write down your permanent home address here? It doesn’t seem to be in the computer."

I grab her proffered pen, and jot down a Karachi address for the fourth time.

More keyboard tap-tap. "All right then, Mr. Ahmed, you’re all set." Muttering unintelligible words of thanks, I stand up. "See you next year," she chirps.

I walk out of Sub-Adjudicator’s office, past the roomful of anxious immigrants, past the unfriendly official and the security guards, past the metal detector, into a frigid Boston morning.

10.55 Back at Alewife, can’t believe they charge 4.50 for parking now.

11.30 Back at work. Feel much safer knowing all the scary people are on record now.