I never had much of an opinion about immigrants until I married one.
When Peter and I decided to get married, we knew there would be several positive outcomes mostly involving my ability to feed him and his ability to wash dishes, but we also knew that making our relationship legally binding meant the government had to take Peter’s green card application more seriously. I mean, sure, there’s the whole thing about loving each other and this act of matrimony being an expression of that love, but let’s get real. Why get the law involved if we’re not going to get a few legally mandated benefits out of it?
What I didn’t realize is that when it comes to immigration, all the carrots are for Peter and the stick is for me. Let me explain.
Before Peter and I met, he was a responsible immigrant with a work visa that allowed him to teach at our university. The university served as his sponsor and advised him to hire a legal team to oversee his green card application. Peter arduously studied the application, providing the lawyers with financial information, a birth certificate, and medical records translated in English (did you know diphtheria is spelled pretty much the same across the board?).
After we married, Peter submitted paperwork to make me his official sponsor. Suddenly the green card application wasn’t about him, it was about me. To put together a convincing dossier, the lawyers demanded bank reconciliations, tax records, a driver’s license, and my birth certificate. They wanted to know when and where my parents were born and the various places I’ve lived in the U.S. I’ve had rectal exams that were less intrusive.
Meanwhile, Peter continued to fill out questionnaires that asked about his criminal past as well as his desire, in the past, present, and/or future, to overthrow the United States government. He made a firm mark in the “no” oval on that one. The questions seemed ludicrous to me. Would anyone really ‘fess up to a desire to overthrow the government if he/she wanted a green card?
As he continued to work through the form, Peter read me more questions. Then, just as I thought I should bust out a chorus of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” to ward off the smoky outline of Joe McCarthy forming above Peter’s head, the question I’d been dreading came: Peter, are you now or have you ever been a member of the communist party?
Seriously?!? Riiiiinnnggggg……Hello? Department of Homeland Security? It’s the 1950s calling, and we’d like our ignorant, back-ass-ward prejudices back.
Peter, of course, blackened in the “no” oval, but I couldn’t help arguing with him. What does it matter what your political affiliations are? Isn’t political pluralism one of the founding principles of this country’s government? Don’t answer that question! It’s none of their damn business!
And this was only the beginning. Next, as Arlo Guthrie so poetically stated, Peter was to undergo “injections, inspections, detections, and all kinds of mean and nasty things.” We drove several hundred miles over the span of a month for physicals, vaccinations, booster shots, and an official reading of Peter’s biometrics (retinal scan, fingerprints).
And then we waited. The next step was a formal interview by immigration officials. Like a desperate teenager a week before the prom, I checked our voice mail messages hourly and ran to the mailbox seconds after the postal carrier descended our steps.
After a few months of waiting, it finally arrived. Our invitation to the prom, or in this case, the Department of Homeland Security in Helena, Montana. We arranged for colleagues to take our classes (the Department of Homeland Security didn’t care about our teaching schedules) and headed north to Helena.
At the immigration office, we stepped into Officer X’s office, and before we sat, we were told to raise our right hands and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Determined not to speak unless spoken to (yeah, that was pretty tough for me), I looked around X’s office. Among U.S. flags and bald eagle paperweights, I found myself flanked by two large posters. On my left, Ronald Reagan eyed me warily, and on my right, George H.W. Bush looked on disapprovingly. It was as though the last twenty years hadn’t happened. No wonder the questionnaire was so outdated. The Department of Homeland Security was too busy redecorating its offices circa 1992 to bother updating its immigration questions.
Officer X interrupted my reverie by asking if I had met Peter’s parents. I answered yes, and she nodded commenting that Peter had just recently celebrated a birthday. Yes, I responded. Peter’s birthday is the day before my mother’s birthday, and we’d had a nice time celebrating both days together. Without missing a beat, Officer X asked, “When is Peter’s birthday?” I started to laugh, thinking she was joking. What idiot would forget the date she was just talking about? Officer X’s eyes betrayed no humor, so I swallowed my laughter and told her Peter’s birthday.
Then, Officer X explained my responsibilities as Peter’s sponsor. Peter would be given a green card, conditional on our staying married for the next two years and on my legal obligation to keep us on financially stable ground.
That’s right, folks. If Peter loses his job during this conditional period, I am financially responsible for keeping him off welfare.
This isn’t a difficult role for me to fill. I have tenure at a thriving university, and I have little reason to believe I’ll lose my job in the next two years. I should be able to keep us afloat if something happens to Peter’s job at the university. What shocks me is that I now have legal obligation to both Peter and the government.
In my mind, because of the green card, Peter and I have entered into an uncomfortable threesome with the U.S. government. It’s an odd balancing act, with the government always perched on the edge of our bed, the third guest at our dining room table who also reclines in the backseat of our car. We must always consider its reaction to our travels, purchases, and financial choices. And if it doesn’t like what we’re doing, it can always use its stick to shove the carrot it dangles down our throats.
But two years from now when Peter and I are still happily married, I look forward to kicking the government’s ass out of our lives. It’s a blanket stealer.
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