Immigration and Naturalization Services
“Sir, can you please make sure you move your seat forward?” I wake up as the flight attendant, Nichole I think it was, smiles down at me. I have fallen asleep, and we are already descending to a level that means we are soon landing. “I’m sorry miss” I say as I rub my eyes and look up at her. She smiles down at me and continues:” Make sure you have your seat belt fastened as well. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you would we?” she bends over as to see if the belt is fastened, which I need to adjust. “What are you doing in New York? “
“I’m moving to New York for a while”
“For a while” She asks, still smiling, as an invitation to continue the conversation
“Well, I’m moving to New York.” A little more determination is in my voice, as it might sound like I do not really believe that I am on my way to move to the United States, and I try to convince myself that this is actually happening.
“Well, make sure that you keep that seat belt tight, and if you feel lonely, call me” She hands me a card with her name and a Pan Am logo on it, with a hand written phone number across the front.
“Well, I might just do that” I don’t know why I say that, and why I don’t say that I am married and thank you but no, I will probably not call you. I am married, newly married as well, but I don’t say that to the pretty flight attendant.
“I am Jessie” I say back at her and she smiles at me again.
“Nice to meet you Jessie”
Shortly after I hear the Captain tells the flight crew to get ready for landing, followed by the customary three beeps that are indicating that we are a few seconds away from the landing strip at JFK. I have been looking through the window, but it is basically just the Atlantic Ocean and nothing interesting to see. The Empire State Building and Twin Towers are not to be seen from JFK, and I sit back. I see some houses in line and think of the opening credits from All in the Family TV show. Below me, I can see a neighborhood just like what the show supposedly is set in. I smile as I think of Edith Bunker singing with the squeaky voice, and how my dad and I used to love that show. That and The Jefferson’s, but Archie Bunker was the best. I hear the wheels burn a little, we take a short hop, but the heavy Jumbo Jet lands smoothly like an old albatross sliding on to a smooth wave-free ocean. With a skip and very little bang at all, I’m in America.
I have little knowledge of the process of immigrating to the United States, other than what I have read about, and stories I have heard. I know that there are more descendants of Norwegians in America than actual Norwegians in Norway, but they all mostly immigrated a hundred and forty years ago, so the process must be very different. I have recently seen the move Green Card, that will probably have an effect of the scrutinizing of any foreigner coming in to New York, but I am sure reality is a bit differently. My thoughts s is of naive nature, and I think of Godfather 2, where Vito is at Ellis Island in quarantine for a few weeks, and they change his name to Corleone, because he is from the Village of Corleone Sicily. I speak English, and we are some eighty years beyond Vito’s arrival and are sure that they will not name me Jessie Nesodden. I think of the William Moberg book The Emigrants, and I have somewhat a similar naïve and careless thoughts of the immigration process, but I am sure I will be all right. I also have a friend and x colleague that is married to an African diplomat, and I just heard that he is trying to get in through a lottery process. It’s not like I am in some kind of hard ship, I can always take the next plane back to Oslo if it comes to any kind of problems. My knowledge of New York is mainly from the Movies, and mostly from 4-5 movies. Annie, Goodfella’s, Godfather 1 and Godfather 2 have given me little knowledge but a romantic view of the capital of the world. Not exactly much to write home about, and most likely very far from the true New York. But I have a smiling, naive, not afraid of failing and “the world at my feet” attitude, and failure has never been in my thoughts. I will conquer The Big Apple, just like all the people that have come here before me.
I walk off the plane, smile “thank you” to the flight attendant, that looks at me and puts her hand to her ear with the thumb and pinky fingers extended as she whispers with large mouth movements “call me?” as I walk of the plane. I had already forgotten that she gave me her card earlier during the flight, but I wave to her smilingly and walk through the exit door and down to the pass port clearance area. The Immigration area is as it was last time I came to New York, packed with people from all over the world, and I notice that they have two huge lines marked US Citizens and Non-Citizens, and I place my body behind the long Non-Citizen line. I hate lines, not sure why, but I always get irritable when I stand in one. As a child when they showed a movie on Sundays at the local community center, all the kids went to the movies. I went once, but after realizing that I had to stand in line for a couple of hours to get a descent seat, the seats was on the flat community center floor, and in the back you could see or hear anything, I stopped going , even if all my buddies went. Just could stand the line. Here I am, the line is moving slow, but finally after about twenty minutes of sweating it is my turn.
“What is the purpose of your visit Mr. Andersen?” The serious looking officer looks at my passport, then up at me and then down again, before freezing his eyes on mine. For some reason I am nervous. I have a 6 month tourist visa, and I’m free to come in as far as I am concerned. With his mid-level bureaucrat attitude and short shaved hair cup he reminds me of your typical Nazi officer scrutinizing some enemy of the Third Reich. I always think that without all these previously powerless people Nazi Germany could not have happened. Hitler gave the little people power and responsibilities and they didn’t flinch a second, took it to a new level where order and abuse of power was thriving.
“I am actually moving to New York” I answer him smiling and confident that I am telling the truth and have nothing to worry about.
This “Obersturmfuhrer” dressed up in a New York police uniform look at me and says sharply; “But sir, how are you moving planning on here, you only have a tourist visa.”
“Well, that is a temporary situation; I just got married and plan on moving here” Mistake number two; Number one was to tell the truth, I should have said I was visiting New York, and I would have already been in a taxi towards Manhattan by now, Mistake number two was to elaborate.
Fritz the American Obersturmfuhrer looks at my papers and asks again: “You are moving to the United States Mr. Andersen?”
“Yes sir” I answer in my polite, still smiling but not as much as previously. “I am moving to New York City”
“Come here with me sir” he tells me.
I am guided in to a room, over to the side, and he walks me to a room down the hall way. “Sit here and wait and an immigration officer will come and ask you some questions.
“I sit down on the chair towards one of the walls. There is a counter with a brisk woman, in a similar uniform as the previous officer behind it, and she does not even look up at me. There is five Latinos’ sitting chatting in a deep discussion about something on the opposite wall. I am dressed in newly purchased slacks and a jacket, with a mustard colored shirt underneath, and I am sweating, quietly cursing Pan Am for making us wear uncomfortable clothes while travelling on a free pass. I think that they probably are keeping it warm in these kinds of rooms, just so that we actually will sweat, and they have an upper hand on the folks trying to beat the system. I am not a person that dos well with authority and this is a situation that I less than thrive in. But I am trying to keep my, cool, I haven’t done anything wrong and it is just a formal process I say. Damn, why didn’t I just tell the guy that I was on vacation as a tourist? I had hadn’t even thought of it, and had wanted to start my new relationship with this country with honesty. But in these situations, a white lie would probably have been ok, I think as I want to kick myself.
It’s taking forever. Nothing happens, and the woman behind the counter keeps tapping on her computer, and doesn’t look up. A door opens and he speaks in Spanish to one of the dudes on the other wall, and they get in a discussion. He looks at their paperwork and says something again, but suddenly leave, with their passports in his hand. My passport is gone, as the Nazi looking American officer have handed them to the woman behind the counter. I stand up, and walk over to her. She looks at me and says;
” An Officer will be right with you sir. “
I sit down again, a few minutes later a new officer comes in. I see my Norwegian Red passport in his hand, and the blue customs papers inside of it. He looks at me and start talking
“Mr. Andersen, you have indicated that you are moving to the Unites States, is that right?”
“Yes sir, that is correct” I have already said this, so there is no way I can start changing my story, so I am going with what I had said.
“You know that you will have to apply for a temporary residency if you are planning on moving to the United States right? If you are visiting as a tourist, you will need tourist visa, just like what you have already. But since you are planning on moving to the US and have plans on settling, you will have to apply for a different visa that will take some time. You can’t enter the country on a tourist visa, with the intention of a permanent residency. You understand that right?”
I look at him. He is definitely being clear about what the rules are and what I have done is not the correct way of entering the country. I know that I have made a mistake, I should not have told him about my intentions. But I don’t want to clutter it even more up by starting to lie in front of the immigration officer.
“I totally understand sir.”
”OK. Just wait here”
I sit there thinking. Sweating even more than I was earlier, and it is not getting any cooler. I realize that I am in deep shit, and that I can get thrown out of the country for good, before I even have set foot on any New York ground. I look at the Latino’s on the other side of the cramped room. They are all probably in a different situation that me. Can’t figure out where they are from, but they seem like nice guys, but with a whole different story than mine. I am sure that they are in some kind of hardship, and contrary to me, they have most likely studied what the procedures are for coming in to the US. It does not look like they are getting a break either, as another officer has been there and spoken with them several time. They are half laying, half sitting, there are bags with clothes at their feet, and they are all dressed in shorts and sneakers. I wait. Nothing happens for at least another hour, and I am getting anxious. These guys are not to be fooled with and I am sure they have heard just about any story there is to hear. Then the officer comes out, and looks at me:
“Mr. Andersen. These guys over there are applying for a permanent visa in the US. I see that you have a Tourist Visa right?” Has he is saying this he moves head up and down slowly as he wants me to agree. I nod with him.
“You have indicated that you are applying for a permanent visa in the US and want to move here. This was a mistake right?” He nods slowly again and I nod with him.
“Correct?”
“Yes sir, Correct” I answer slowly
“You don’t want a permanent residency here in the US do you?”
“No sir, I do not”
“And as you had made a mistake, you are only here to visit as a tourist right?”
“Yes. I am visiting New Your City as a tourist”
“Well, that clears it all out then. “ He walks over to the woman behind the counter; she writes a few numbers in my passport, stamps it with an official seal and hands it back to the officer that precedes to hand it to me.
“Here you go Mr. Andersen. I am sorry for the misunderstanding. Have a nice visit in New York”
I look at the officer and I smile as I look over at the poor Latinos. They are not getting the same break that I have just received, but what do I care at this point. I have received my break and I am on my way.
I slide through customs with my two suitcases and three bags without any problems. Its late afternoon, and the trip by taxi from the airport is done in the dark, where we can see the lights of the skyscrapers in Manhattan in front of us as we are approaching Queensboro Bridge. I see some of the familiar buildings, and notice that there actually is another building that looks just like the Empire State building. “That is the Chrysler building” the Middle Eastern cab driver explains, and I keep peaking our just like a kid. Last time I came to New York, I came through LaGuardia and the scenery was totally different. Not at all like what you will see in the movies, but run down houses, and the huge apartment blocks of lower Bronx and upper Manhattan. I remember that I was not all excited that time, but more scared of all the bad stories I had heard, and seen on TV. It’s just like another place, just so much bigger, I had told myself, but it isn’t at all like any other place on earth. It is a melting pot with people from all over the world, from every corner of the world, people that have been chasing a dream of a better life, and a dream of hitting it big. Everyone had at some point started from scratch and it is the same opportunity for everyone, well At least on paper. If you can make it New York, you can make it anywhere, goes the saying, and it is probably true. I am an outsider, looking in, I am in awe as we drive over the long bridge, and I can feel my heart racing from my excitement. I think of the character in one of my favorite mafia movies, Sergio Leone’s: Once upon a Time in America, where the young teen ager Max is sitting on a carriage with his mother and all their belongings as he is meeting up with Noodles. It all sounds like a cliché, but they both start out with nothing and end up making it big. Make it big as gangsters of course, and it is of course all a cliché, but still, the opportunity is there, for whoever wants to go out and get it, whatever it is for them. I think of a quote that I have read somewhere and feel that this is what whoever wrote it meant when he wrote it. –The world lies in the hands of those that have the courage to dream and who take the risk of living out their dreams – each according to his or her own talent. – This fits so well in to what I am looking at, I think to myself, as we drive off the bridge and in between the tall buildings.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” I have been watching the pharmacist behind
the counter and I am shocked. Shocked not only by the fact that he asked the question, but shocked and surprised of the tone and the pure rudeness in his voice.
“I was looking at you “is all I can say, as I look at him again. I have always carried myself with a certain confidence, even if not always been the most confident, and I am learning that In New York, its best to at least look confident. I was just looking to pass time, as I was waiting for the guy to finish what he was doing before I asked him a question.
“Do I amuse you; do you think I am funny? “I just look at him and stay silent. I have seen Goddfella’s several times and love Joe Pesci in the movie, but I am not sure if this guy is quoting Tommy DeVito or if he is serious. I turn around and mumble something to myself as I hear him continue to swear. I have been in the “Big Apple” for a week, and realize that I must look like a tourist, a foreigner, (which I of course happen to be), or at least have a glow of naivety around me, because I am being taken advantage of. Maybe it is refreshing for the women, because I have never met females that are so forward ass to the girls of New York. Waiting for a table at a café’ the other day the hostess asked me where I had bought my jeans, looking me up and down. Again, I answered dumbfounded that they were purchased at “Gert’s” in Oslo, as she looked me up and down. A Taxi driver took me two times through Central Park before I realized what he was doing and when I asked him, he said something in Arabic that sounded like the pharmacist I just encountered. I have stepped over hundreds of homeless people on the subway and after feeling sorry for the pitiful souls and giving them dollar after dollar I realized that I would most likely end up broke and sleeping in a box soon if I didn’t stop handing out cash. Everyone is looking to make a buck, and I realize I look like the perfect target. I do realize that here, it can be an advantage to be a bit different. I want to be a part of this town, but I don’t want to blend in too much. All advertising is good advertising, and being a bit unusual or at least memorable can’t hurt trying to make it here. Everyone looks dead serious. There are thousands of people on the subway, crammed together but no one is giving away anything. Eye contact is none existing and if you do look in to a person’s eyes, you get a look back that says -stay away you fucking creep. The English spoken in New York is colorful and full of expressions that I have only heard in movies and TV shows, expressions that you can’t learn unless you live here, and I am eager to learn.
First day at work, my new boss handed me ten bucks and asked if I could go down across the street to the coffee joint and get him a coffee, milk and sugar and a buddabagle, get yourself one as well he says as I am walking out the door. “Sure” I said and headed down, curious as to what the hell a “buddabagle” is, as I say the word over and over again to remember it when I get to the coffee shop. At the counter I look at the Latino behind the busy counter and look straight at him and say, confidently”: Two coffees, milk and sugar, and two “Buddabagle”. I have no idea what I have asked for and no idea what is coming my way. Chocolate Buddha for all I now, but after a few minutes he hands me the paper bag with the food and the two coffee. I pay and get out of there. Back in the office, I give him his food, bread that looks like a couple of hard doughnuts with butter on them. I later realize that this is a bagel, something I have never seen or heard of before, and definitely never ordered, or eaten. I laugh at myself and laugh to myself, A Buttered Bagel, in New York, sounds like buddabagle but find quickly out that it does taste delicious, especially with Buddha on it. It doesn’t take long before I adapt the slang and attitude that is needed in New York, but I don’t stop smiling. I keep smiling as I always have had the opinion that if you smile to the world, the world smiles at you.
26 Federal Plaza, New York, INS. US Immigration and Naturalization Services; this is not a place for an impatient person like me. I am going in through the doors after having been to a passport picture photograph that just charged me thirty five dollars for a couple of pictures. I am sweating in the pictures that were taken, which most likely was appropriate, because I am already sweating with the prospect of what lies ahead. I am sure it will be a similar experience as the one at JFK, but I have the entire day ahead of me and I am sure I will be fine. Nervous as usual, I am starting to wonder if the nervousness comes from my disgust with authorities. I have inherited the lack of respect for authorities from my father, he always tried to push the limits for what he could get away when, and not prone to following the rules of society I have no patience for people that don’t look beyond the papers that they have in front of them. I walk in the door, and see a huge line. It is hot and I know immediately that I have chosen the wrong clothes. Slack, shirt, and a coat is not what the thousands of others have dressed in, they are all for the most dressed in comfortable shorts and tee shirts. Then again, different cannot be bad, but different here is not comfortable. It is warm and sticky in the room. I get in line, and wait. AND wait and wait, for about two hours I wait, before I arrive at a counter. The woman behind the counter does not look much like she is very interested and ask me:
Why are you here, and what kind of Visa are you applying for?”
“I am seeking a permanent residency please” I say smiling.
“OK, here is a ticket with a number that will get you to the right person. Just wait for the number to be called. ”
I wait, I sweat, and I wait.
About one hour later, I hear my number called and I walk up to the counter where the person has called my number.
“Here are the forms that you will need to fill out sir. “
I look at the pile she has given me, and realize that this will take a little longer than I had expected. I have been there for three hours, and haven’t done anything but standing in line, received a pile of paperwork. I go out, and look around. The paperwork needs to be filled out, and I decide to find a coffee shop, order a Buttered Bagel, and a coffee, and start filling out the paperwork. An hour later I am back at 26 Federal Plaza, confident that it will be just a few minutes before I can leave and get this behind me. Wrong. I ask the security guard at the door, what I need to do, and he points to the line: “You gotta get in line for a ticket number so that you can get with an agent to review your paperwork”
I look at the line. It is a line that I am very familiar with as I have already spends an hour in it earlier that day, and it is not shorter than it was this morning. What the hell are all these foreigners doing here I ask myself, as I plant my uncomfortable shoes at the floor in the back of the line.
I wait, and I wait. I feel like someone is pressing two bricks on each side of my head, and feel like I am running out of air. It is waiting in line at the movies all over again, but this time for an entire day, only there is no movie at the end of the line; just an unpleasant government paper pusher that is hired just to make life uncomfortable for the likes of me. Dreamers just like me that think they can come in to this country and live the American Dream. If you want in, you will have to come past us the government officials with uniforms that prove we are something and have responsibilities and power. We are the grumpy middle aged bored to death officials that have heard all your stories before, We are weeding out losers like you one at the time, we have all day, and we know exactly how to push your buttons so you fall apart, falter and give up and get your ass back to where you came from.
I get to the end of the line, finally, were I am face to face with the same woman as I was a few hours earlier, she is even more bored and more irritable, and she briefly look up and hand me a ticket with a number.
“Wait over there until your number is called sir”
“I have to wait more? Seriously?”
“Yes sir, you need to wait until your number is called”
I sit down and wait, and wait, until, same as earlier, and hour later I hear my number called and jump out of my seat to hand my papers over so I can get the hell out of here.
“Here you go” I hand the papers to the woman behind the counter. She looks at me and starts skimming through the papers I have just given her.
“Let me just see that everything is in order sit I hear she say, not even looking at me. I am just a number; there are no feelings or way to influence her. I wait. Then she looks at me:
“Sir, you need to fill out this again. You have scratched out one of your boxes here, and written over it again. We will not be able to process these papers as they are. You will have to get new papers and fill them out again.”
“What do you mean?” I am scared of her answer, but I have to get clarification of what she is saying.
“You will need to fill out the paperwork again sir. “
“Can you give me the paperwork so I can correct it here with you?”
“No sir, I can’t do that. You will have to get in line and get a new set of paperwork.”
“Are you kidding, what kind of place is this?” I ask her. I am upset and I just can’t hide it.
“Sir, you need to calm down; you have made a mistake, and you need to fill out the paperwork again. Thank you” She hands me my pile and I look back at her. I am sweating. I look over at the line, the line I have spent a total of four hours in today and a line that I despise. I want to jump over the counter and strangle her and all her buddies in the entire office, but I just stare at her with a look that tells her everything. A look I am certain that she had seen plenty of times before, and a look I am sure she loves getting. It is the proof that confirms that she has the power to piss people off, and that there is nothing they can do about it. I have been here for a total of six hours, seven including the time at the coffee shop since I arrived this morning. I started at 8:30 am this morning and I have not accomplished anything except getting frustrated and irritated. I will have to get in line again, but not today. I have had it today and will return tomorrow with a positive and fresh attitude.
Next day I am back at 26 Federal Plaza and this time I am dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans and a colored t shirt.
-I get in the line that I have renamed the two hour line, as it takes just exactly two hours for the third time. I get my ticket to get in the waiting line for the paperwork.
An hour later I get in front of the person that hands me the pile of paperwork that needs to be filled out. I thank him and get out of there. Back at the coffee shop I take my time. No mistakes this time, I tell myself, because if I get rejected again, I will kill someone, that I know.
Back at my least favorite place in the world, I get in line. One hour and fifty five minutes later, I get a ticket, and I sit down and wait. My name is called at exactly 12:30PM, and I go to the counter. It is the same woman that I yelled at yesterday, and I feel a couple of drops of sweat roll down from my forehead. I hand her the paperwork. She looks at it, studies it and looks back up at me. I know that she recognizes me from yesterday, and I can feel that she enjoys the moment, the power and the fact that my life is in some screwed up way in her hands.
“You can come back at 2:30PM later today Mr. Andersen. You will need to go to the fourth floor, were an officer will call your name. Thank you”
She keeps my paperwork and I smile. Finally, I am in the system.
At 2:15, I arrive back at the offices. I remember back at my first job back when I was only nineteen, One morning I was late after parting hard all week end, and my boss, an x lieutenant in the army took me aside and told me two life lessons that I have always lived by since: You can be a hero at night, but you also need to be a hero in the morning. Then he said” Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable”. It has become some kind of an obsession, and I am always early, and definitely to face an immigration officer, I will not be late.
I hear my name being called, by a woman officer, and look up at the voice; it is a very familiar voice, it is the voice from below on the first floor, it is the same woman that I had yelled at and the same woman that knows that I hate her, and that have read my face and seen that I despise her. The belt is strapped tight and manage to squeeze her belly in half , so resemble a cartoon character, and makes her look even more overweight than she really is, if that is possible of course. The very same woman dressed in a too tight uniform, in too short pants, strapped in half by the too short belt is indeed assigned as my case officer.
