“Real Americans” Have Costco Cards
“Don’t forget the picture album,” he calls to me as he runs to the backyard to pull the car out of the driveway. Grabbing the album, along with my bag and keys, I quickly exit the apartment and join him in the car. We’re running late, and parking is likely to be challenging in the part of town that’s home to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) building.
We arrive at the ugly building that looks like most ugly federal buildings and are met by a series of guards who instruct us to follow the procedures usually reserved for air travel as we are nudged toward the metal detector. “Take off your shoes, miss,” he barks at me, “and put them in this bin with your bag.” I roll my eyes and comply, the first of many instances on this day in which I would reluctantly do so while signaling my disdain for the agency’s procedures — and its mere existence, for that matter.
We are in the belly of the beast, the agency whose existence is responsible for so much physical and emotional violence for so many in this country. We are here because Ari wishes to replace his visa, a document that had to regularly be renewed, with a green card that would enable him to avoid the time, fees, and unease accompanying each re-application process permitting him to continue residing in his adopted home of San Francisco. After dating for just over a year, the question was raised: Would I be willing to navigate this process with him so that he would no longer have to undergo this pain year after year? Agnostic on the question of marriage, I reluctantly agreed, mostly because I could see how much he wanted it. Who was I to deny him something that, to him, was a big deal, simply for ideological reasons (not wishing to get married) when it came at little to no cost to me? So, here we were.
After checking in at the front desk we are given a number and shown to a waiting room, from which we are told we will be called when the officer assigned to our case is ready for us. I survey the room and observe that most of the individuals awaiting their turn appear anxious. A fair sentiment, I suppose, when your entire life is placed under the microscope with your fate (and likely that of your family) in the hands of some thick-necked, red faced ICE official who may be having a bad day. Well-circulated are the tales of horror experienced by many an immigrant from the planet’s less affluent countries, particularly if the inhabitants in question are Black or Brown.
For my part, I am anything but nervous. If anything, I’m defiant. I recognize (and acknowledge) to anyone with whom I share this sentiment that my defiance is directly linked to the degree of privilege I possess, both in terms of my skin color and the accidental geography of my birth. As to the latter, I mean “privilege” in the sense of being legally entitled to reside in the political entity in which those anxiously sitting in the room, for whichever set of reasons, are seeking permanent access. For Ari’s part, he was seeking this same access primarily because he had built a community and home here. He also wanted to continue to live here with me, his girlfriend of over a year.
Our name is called. We’re guided down the nondescript hall that clearly hasn’t been renovated since at least the Nixon Administration. The drop ceilings and harsh fluorescent lighting conjure memories of the decrepit infrastructure of the public high school I attended back in South Carolina, the state where my family, unaware of today’s proceedings, all reside. Carrying banking documents showing a recently opened shared account, a car title, apartment lease, and other assorted “proof” that we are, indeed, a couple, I glance over to make sure Ari has the photo book we had assembled for today’s little presentation, pictorial evidence that we are actually building a shared life together. Satisfied that he does, in fact, have Exhibit A, I let my attention wander back to the question plaguing me: Who the fuck would want to work for this godawful operation?
Before that thought has time to play out, we arrive at the door of Officer Bennet (name changed for the sake of protecting the identity of the individual who apparently does want to work in the aforementioned scenario), who “greets” us — and by greet, I mean barks at us to come in, close the door, and sit in the metal chairs in front of his desk. I hate this man already. The redness of his face is accentuated by the drab button-up shirt tucked into his pleated pants, an outfit that communicates he’s a rule-following kind of guy. The kind of guy who stands for the pledge of allegiance and probably has a few guns at home, the possession of which is his god-given American right.
He opens the file on his desk. “What’s the date you got married?” he barks at us. Thankfully, Ari remembers. Given that we had done it inconspicuously at City Hall on a day that was like any other day — and had told literally no one — I couldn’t immediately recall the date. “What proof did you bring with you today?” he inquires, glaring at us. Ari hands him a folder containing our shared bank statement, the apartment lease, and other assorted documents suggesting that we are two normal twenty somethings starting to build a life together. “This is all you’ve got?” he barks at us. I respond, “No, we also brought this photo book with pictures of us visiting his family in Israel, my family in South Carolina, and a recent trip to visit my friends in France and Amsterdam. You know, proof that we have taken several international trips together — and have spent time with each other’s families.” Unimpressed, he shuts the book and retorts, “This isn’t proof. Tell me, do you plan to have kids — and if I called your family in South Carolina and asked this, would they confirm it?” Growing increasingly agitated, I tell him that, no, in fact, I do not intend to reproduce. “But that’s what people do,” he argues. Losing my patience altogether, I retort, “Well, maybe some people do, but I do not. Have you considered what the world is going to be like in 50 years with climate change? Also, I’m a PhD student. This is the United States. Do you know how much educators make and how expensive it is to raise children?” He eyes me suspiciously. Unsatisfied that our months of traveling together in various countries proves we are anything more than two people who perhaps met on Craig’s List and settled on a satisfactory sum that would sufficiently compensate me for my time and frustration, he moves down his list and barks at me, “You have to give me more than this. Do you at least have a Costco card together?”
No longer able to contain my growing fury, I roll my eyes and yell back at him, “No, we do not have a Costco card. We neither have children, nor do we have consumption habits that require purchasing giant tubs of ketchup or industrial size packs of toilet paper. We live in a studio apartment in San Francisco and shop at the markets in our neighborhood.” I hit a nerve. Officer Bennet’s face takes on a deeper shade of red. Appalled by my anti-capitalist, downright unpatriotic, attitude, he looks at me quizzically and, trying to usher his thoughts into a response that would convey he wouldn’t tolerate such insubordination, clumsily stumbles on his words before uttering, “Alright, you two are getting the special treatment.” Pointing to me, he hisses, “You — you go down the hall to the left. You’re going to wait there while I question him and then come get you to answer the same questions.” Utterly unable to feign the slightest bit of respect at this point, I smirk at him and reply, “How exciting. I’ve always wanted to be on the dating game. I guess today’s my lucky day.” The redness of his face deepens still more. “I finally understand you. You’re one of these academic types who think you don’t have to play by the rules. I’ve got news for you,” he thunders at me. “Are there magazines in the waiting room?” I inquire, “I won’t sit in a waiting room that doesn’t have People magazine.” “Out,” he yells, “down the hall!” “Yes sir,” I mutter as I leave the room, “I promise, I’ve learned my lesson…next time I marry a non-US citizen, I’ll make sure to do my patriotic duty to the gods of capitalism and get a Costco card. In the meantime, I really hope there’s a People magazine in that room!”