Relax! It cannot go that bad...can it?
“I have always been a little superstitious, and wonder why I didn’t sense the subtle warning signs sent by the universe that something disastrous was lurking in the nearest future. On afterthought, they weren’t so subtle, quite bold, actually: First, there was the premonition days before the trip; my intuition lead to the decision of renting a small unit at a storage facility. All valuables were to be transferred from my flat and stored temporarily while on vacation. At the time there was no reason behind the decision, and it seemed quite unnecessary to add an additional task to the schedule only days before leaving. My partner at Int. Humanitarian Alliance, Sanam, did not object when asked to help, but I could sense that she, too, thought it to be a rather strange idea. Then, on the day of the departure, there was the malfunction of the handle on the ever-so-overpacked suitcase. Somehow, one of the Anton Berg marzipan chocolate bars found its way into a crease and jammed the automatic handlebar device, which left me with no other choice than to lock myself into a bathroom stall at Copenhagen Airport and figure out a way to remove the device. The other choice was to open the suitcase and search for the candy bar gone rogue, but there was no time for that. After great efforts, I succeeded in breaking off the handlebar, thereafter rushing awkwardly with the suitcase (now with no handle) to the check-in line. I made it, just in time, as the unforeseen challenge put me behind schedule. A misunderstanding between my Italian friend and myself resulted in him being non-present when I arrived. This may very well have been another warning sign of my vacation about to spiral out of control. The incident lead to a brief ride in a taxi toward the hotel, only to have the taxi ride disrupted once I ordered the driver to return to the airport. Eighty Euros for a ten Euro taxi ride? No way! I may be a Rome-touring novice, but naive I am not! Shortly thereafter, I arrived at Fiumicino Airport (again). The taxi driver snickered and mumbled something in Italian (which I am quite sure was not a compliment) when he realized that I was not going to pay anything after his little scam was exposed. I retrieved the luggage from the trunk of the taxi, and staggered inside the airport- and to my surprise there he was, the friend deemed missing in action; waiting for me in front of the wrong gate, and by the wrong flight. Excited to be back on track and in the presence of a friend, I forgot about the omens. The next morning, after safely arriving London (with no challenges), and as I had time to spare, I wandered the airport. A venti sized latté was purchased at Starbuck’s, and off I went to the gate where the American Airlines Boing B777 stood prepared to fly a plane full of passengers to Dallas. Except for one of the passengers was being flown in grand style right into an American immigration nightmare…guess who!
Between the Red Bull and the oversized coffee I was left with no hangover; instead, I was left with the inability to sleep (what-so-ever) on the 9-hour flight. As the airplane neared the final destination, I was too tired to be excited about the arrival. (Afterthought: probably, I should not have toured the city of Rome into the early morning hours!) Dragging myself to yet another airport line, this time, the U.S Customs, I stood ready with the passport and the boarding pass to yet another and final flight, and with my carry-on luggage, which was, thank heavens, still intact. And thus began the immigration madness.
Before I go on, it is important to inform of the fact that I take pride in properly preparing for any event. Prior to the journey, I contacted several American authorities, only to make sure that I wasn’t in for any surprises. ‘No,’ I was told- all clear! However, the officer inspecting my passport had quite another opinion. Let’s go back in time for a minute: as I departed the United States of America in the year of 2011, I went through the proper procedure of Voluntary Departure (quite a story in itself), and by the assistance of several Department of Homeland Security agents. On the day of the departure I was escorted by the three agents, and traveled in comfort with two of them to New York. Even the section chief showed up at the airport that day and shook my hand farewell. Shortly after arriving in Denmark that year, I appeared in front of an officer from Department of State at the U.S Embassy in Copenhagen, and dutifully followed instructions by getting the proper signatures on documents ensuring the agents in charge of my physical presence in Denmark, in order to close my case. Voila! I should, according to rules and regulations be eligible to re-enter the USA, provided that a proper visa was obtained. Except, rules and regulations seemed to have no meaning that day landing in Dallas, Texas- even with a valid passport, an ESTA approval as well as a copy of the document with signatures of the clearing officer from the Department of State which had been forwarded to the Department of Homeland Security. Last, but not least: entering on the Visa Waiver Program extended to Danish citizens by the USA. None of that seemed to have any significance that day. Throughout the short but grueling period within the borders of the USA, significant mistakes were made by American authorities, which I am not about to ignore. If these mistakes were made in my case, I wonder how many are being made on a daily basis inside the circus ring of the immigration arena. And, does anyone consider the significant negative impact such mistakes have on innocent immigrants trying, to the best of their ability, of complying with the rules? Furthermore, how will such mistakes, the shards of the shattered immigration system ever serve a purpose to act as pieces of evidence, proving that the U.S immigration system is in need of a lot more change than what is offered in form of reform as defined by the S.744 bill, if these mistakes aren’t addressed? As I have briefly explained how I departed America in 2011 (with a promise to go into detail of my bizarre case at a later point, as the case is to me a legal enigma), now let me tell you what immigration officers had to say about my status: The gentleman behind the counter decided to inform me of my immigration history and status, claiming that I had abandoned my ‘permanent resident’ status. Except for one thing: I hadn’t. (‘Voluntary Departure’, remember?) began the countless mistakes done by American authorities… The story he [the officer] rapidly concocted was a far cry from reality (much like everything else I was about to experience).
I was too tired to plea my case, and asked for another officer to be present as I could smell a potential argument about to take place, and sensed therefore that I was in need of a witness. He looked at me in disbelief: ‘A second officer to be present?’...’Yes,’ I mentally replied and wondered if I had stuttered when I asked him the question, and done so in an outmost courteous manner. Rolling his eyes, he waved to me, but not in the ‘pass-through-the-line-please’ kind of way. No, the wave I received was the ‘you-may-go step-to-the-other-room-for-further-inspection’ type of a wave… I knew that wave, as I had seen it done before, to others; and, regretfully so, to myself. Flashback to the nineties: coming back from a fishing/scuba diving holiday in Mexico, I received ‘that’ wave; ‘that’ wave resulted in hours of interrogation (even though I was a Permanent Resident), due to an accusation of bringing counterfeit merchandise into the USA- in this case, the Dooney and Bourke, as mentioned in the previous blog. What wasn’t mentioned, is that, in addition to the insult of being interrogated about something so ridiculous, the officer decided to confiscate my Danish passport, even though I was released and allowed to enter the United States. Until this day, not one single American government official has been able to explain to me why that passport remained in the possession of ICE all these years rather than being returned to me, or in worst case, to Danish authorities, as the passport was the property of Denmark. The passport resurfaced the day of my departure in 2011, and given to me by one of the agents... no less than twenty years after it was taken from me.
Anyway, so here I was, given ‘that’ wave, again. ‘Oh boy, here we go!’ I thought to myself. I could feel my already paled face caused by fatigue shift to yet another ghastly shade of pale. As I was waiting to be ‘further inspected’ I was observing the other individuals in the room moving toward the counter, one by one, in order to plea their cases and to convince U.S Customs to let them enter the country. They all had that slow walk familiar only to us whom have been the through this experience: moving at the pace of a sloth toward the counter, buying time to contemplate the story which will be presented to the officer holding the power of ‘yea or nay’ of entrance. As my name was called, I found myself walking that particular walk, unaware of my fate, like a cow to the slaughterhouse. Trying to calm myself while mentally coaching myself to speak slowly and clearly, and with calm, hoping in every way that nothing I said would be used against me. I looked at the officer, whom proceeded to give me a wave toward another room. The wave, ‘go to another room’ while already in the room is never a sign of anything good to come, and I realized just then that this was not going to be sorted out within the hour. I was proven right. All immigration stories differ from one another; the stress which derives from any encounter with U.S immigration is, nonetheless, the same. It is emotionally tolling , and drains to various degrees physically as well as mentally. It drains surrounding family members as well. Inevitably, they are forced to live the experience in a passive way, in addition to experiencing the loss of the loved one finding himself/herself caught in the web of immigration bureaucracy. Whether such a person is able to stay in the United States, there is still a loss as the person usually is emotionally unavailable to his/her family while going through immense immigration legal battles. I know what I am talking about. I have been that person, emotionally unavailable to my family because of the immense pressure of immigration legal issues. As I entered the room-within-a-room, I knew that I was about to re-live the emotionally tolling nightmare of such immigration bureaucracy. Worse yet, my children would be subjected to the insanity of the broken immigration system…again.
After a brief session of a very mundane interrogation, a female officer entered. She looked at me and asked: ‘Do you know why we are here, C. ?’ I had no idea, but this had to be an elaborate prank constructed by my children as a welcome home joke, I thought. As our family are known to pull pranks on one another from time to time, this thought made sense. I was waiting for someone to smile and say: ‘we’re joking- you are free to go…have a nice day!’ Except, no one did. Instead the female officer, whom now was i in charge, began searching my luggage, without explaining what it was she was looking for. Another gentleman entered the room with what he claimed to be a warrant for my arrest. Surely, this was a mistake? I had to think fast, and reminded myself to remain calm. Instead of arguing, I asked for permission to arrange for the luggage to be forwarded to the final destination. I would argue the preposterous allegation against me at a later point. Now was not the time. I placed a phone call to my daughter, and briefly explained to her that I most definitely was not going to be on the expected flight, and if she would be so kind to pick up my luggage…no, I had no time to explain what was going on…no, I wasn’t drunk…and no, this wasn’t a joke…yes, I believe I will be arriving in plenty of time to attend the wedding… and so ended our conversation.
And as I hung up, the holiday took a whole new direction, with a whole new set of events, which was definitely not on the original agenda. Before I could speak, I was thrown up against the wall and placed under arrest. The female officer, who was not an immigration officer, was apparently too busy to read to me my rights (that’s right-no Miranda rights read), being the standard procedure in America when a person is placed under arrest. The first time I heard anything resembling ‘Miranda’ anything, was a week after the initial incarceration. Instead, she frisked me with excessive force and in the most humiliating way in front of male officers. The allegation which lead to a sightseeing tour through America’s detention system for the next 45 days: GRAND THEFT AUTO!"
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