The New Americans

When we’d been back in Sacramento for five years, I mentioned to a friend that I needed to apply to have the children's citizenship changed from Canadian to U.S. (because they were both born in Canada).

"What for?”

"Oh, because we live here, and they will go to college here, and they might want to vote one day."

She shrugged. "I'm sure that after a while, it’s just automatic."

Automatic. 

So, after "a while," the United States government would decide, kindly, to waive all fees (which are considerable), to fill out the paperwork for us, and to mail us certificates of U.S. citizenship for our children, possibly along with a coupon for a free sundae. 

They wouldn’t need photos, and they’d waive any time-consuming interviews that involved taking time off work.

We simply had to wait.

Well, since I was fairly certain that it would not happen that way, I took action, on my own, like a slightly plump spy. My husband wasn’t thrilled about the idea, so I left him out of it.

My sister printed forms from the Internet and we filled them out. I collected the 400 or so documents that the government required to even attempt the transaction. 

I took the children to be photographed, from the shoulder up, head turned to the side, showing the right ear. They didn’t find this odd (which was odd) and asked no questions.

Then came the morning when I pretended to leave for work as usual but actually took my place in line, at 7:00 in the morning, at 650 Capitol Mall, in downtown Sacramento. I was waiting my turn at the Immigration and Naturalization Service. 

As I stood there, clandestine documents clutched to my chest, I noted, frowning, that there were already 50 people in line in front of me. I was fascinated, though, to see people from so many cultures in one place—Asians, East Indians, Russians, Mexicans—and all of us there to ask for the government's permission to get on with our lives.

Well, first they had us squeeze, in small groups, through the glass slabs of a revolving door—a turnstile, if you can believe it. The burly and blank-faced security guard in charge of the “rotation” of this incredibly ineffective entry point obviously did not much care how many fatalities resulted.

He almost killed the very frail, very old Japanese lady in front of me. She was not all the way through when he impatiently advanced the revolving doors.

I gave him a scathing look as I passed but he was busy glaring at something just over my head. Already furious, I took the escalator to the second floor, just to take my place in yet another line. This line wound back and forth, like the lines at Disneyland, except it was nothing like being at Disneyland. 

The same 50 people stood in front of me there, too, and it dawned on me that the one INS inspector at the window at the front of the line was merely directing us to yet another room and to yet more lines!

Keep in mind, all I had to do was turn in my forms and pay the fees. That's all. Did they maybe have a line for people just submitting forms and paying fees?  

Had such an innovation yet been imagined??

I stood in the first line for two hours, weaving back and forth, and since I had nothing else to do, I made an astute observation.

I noticed that, without exception, only the women held the paperwork, and most of the people there were women—grandmothers, mothers, and daughters. 

So after two full hours of winding back and forth, standing the whole time, I was able, finally, to approach the Keeper of the Numbers. I advanced, feeling vaguely like a criminal. 

"Hello," I began in my most professional tone. "I need to submit N-600 forms for my children."

"How many children?"

"Two." 

I was suddenly ridiculously glad that I didn’t have five. Two sounded like a nice, responsible number.

"Are you a U.S. citizen?"

"Yes." I knew that for certain.

He glanced up at me for the first time.

"Well, you look organized."

He could tell just by looking at me.

"I think I am."

He shuffled my forms from one spot to another and then handed me a number.

"Go to Room 230 and they'll call your number."

I thanked him and moved along. Room 230, across the hall, was a large room filled with row upon row of benches, like a church or a courtroom. Glass booths lined the front of the room, displaying to advantage two or three almost motionless immigration inspectors. 

We all craned our necks to watch the big, red numbers on the wall. I noted that not only did I have a splitting headache but that they were on number 8. 

I had number 30.

You may think that’s not so bad—only 22 people in front of me. Except that I can scarcely describe to you the ineptitude of the INS officer in Booth A, who was slated to be “my guy.” 

I had a perfect view of the side part in his thick, graying hair, held stiffly by some dense substance, mostly because his head was down and at an angle most of the time, as if he were in deep thought, or hard at work, both of which seemed highly unlikely. 

This was his routine. He would turn his head, ever so slightly, and consider the stack of files to his left. With practiced precision, he would extend his left arm, not too abruptly lest the stack be unduly jostled, and would gingerly lift the top file, pulling it firmly toward him, and place it, as if it were coming in for a delicate landing, on the counter in front of him.

I could almost sense his relief when he realized that the file had arrived in front of him without mishap. 

Now to advance the number on the wall! He moved his arm in exactly the same motion, placed his fingers in the general vicinity of the number machine, and without moving the rest of his body, gave the button a decisive jab.

There.

Did it.

Changed the number.

Next, he had to choose a pen. For this particular file, would he need a red pen or a blue pen? Would he need a highlighter??

His gaze traveled slowly heavenward as he considered his options. All perceptible movement ceased. I held my breath. Yes—it would be the red pen. With an air of renewed purpose, he turned to his right and carefully selected one of the five identical red pens in the holder.

Unfortunately, that movement halted the entire, riveting process as he then had to recall what he was doing before the pen-selecting venture threw him hopelessly off course. 

But at last, he was ready to open the file. I couldn't help but glance at the red numbers on the wall. I’d been sitting there for an hour and a half already and he was on number 13. 

You do the math.

Grasping the front of the folder, my guy opened it—very slowly, like he was expecting one of those striped rubber snakes to spring from its pages. Still—success! He got it all the way open and patted it down a few times to make sure it didn’t snap shut again, like a clam. 

Painstakingly, he reviewed what could only have been the first couple of words on the document, and froze. 

Had he changed his mind about the pen? No, there it was, still held snugly in his hand. But a slight frown formed above the black rim of his dated glasses—what in God’s name had gone wrong?? 

Then with his other hand he reached, always in slow motion, for a yellow highlighter. Ah—this file would require the red pen and the yellow highlighter.

Well, we’d been on number 13 for about thirty minutes, and I saw no actual people at his window. What the hell was he doing? 

Tape! He needed tape! Repairs were required! And with the care that would be taken by a particularly conscientious brain surgeon, he tore off a small strip of tape and applied it carefully to a piece of paper in the file. 

I looked around wildly for the people who had number 13.

By now, the inspector was out of surgery but was consulting his computer screen for additional “data.” 

He turned his whole body this time, completing the movement in record time only because his chair swiveled. He tapped one key on the keyboard, paused, then tapped another key, ever so gently. 

Peering over his thick glasses, he looked genuinely astonished when something actually appeared on the screen. It must have, though, because he started checking around again for the highlighter.

He found it but then—the unthinkable. He dropped it! We’d been on number 13, with no people at the window, for an hour now!

I thought he might consult with the other inspectors on how best to retrieve the wayward writing tool, but no. Instead, he seemed to abandon the whole endeavor and made a critical announcement over the PA system. 

Apparently (he relayed this information in an eerily animated manner) one of the inspectors was going on a break, and we might notice the numbers moving more slowly than usual.   

Impossible! I wondered how in the hell the numbers could move any more slowly and why any of them would need a break when they weren’t actually doing anything that could possibly tire them!

Well, before I could even finish this rather acrimonious thought, fully half of his body abruptly disappeared as he hunted down the meandering highlighter. It took a while, but he eventually emerged triumphant. 

It looked as if he might turn his full attention back to the file, but then the pesky officer next door brought over a mysterious document. They murmured in low tones, in a highly conspiring manner, and took turns shaking their heads. 

That took some time.

By now, we were still on number 13 with the non-existent people and I was almost in tears. How was he going to get to number 30 before the next millennium?? I’d been there since 7:00 that morning, it was now noon, and he still sat there with his square chin propped up in his hand, doing nothing! 

He had not yet made it past the first page of that file. I was furious and I had to go to the bathroom.

Two hours later, when he flipped the number to 22 in his strange, sloth-like manner, we were treated to yet another informative announcement.

"Folks (now we were folks), you may have noticed that the numbers have kind of stopped (kind of??) moving. Unfortunately, our computer system seems to have shut down on us, and um...the problem could be in Dallas...or in Washington D.C…or um...we don't know. Hopefully, it will be back up soon, but all I can say is to hold on to those numbers, and um...there are refreshments in the cafeteria…I bet you're tired of hearing me talk about refreshments..."

Yes, that was our main gripe. He had his finger firmly on the pulse of our discontent—the refreshment problem.  

Suddenly, as if the sun had burst through the clouds, the woman officer returned from her break and took over my guy's line! What did it mean?? Was I better off or worse off now?? 

I had so many questions and only mildly competent INS officers behind bulletproof glass to answer them.

After waiting six full hours, I spoke to the female officer for exactly forty seconds. She sorted my documents, checked them, stapled them, and walked me over to the cashier.

That was it.

I paid my $320 and literally bolted outside into the July sunshine. 

I found out later (when I had waited six months and still not received anything from the INS) that the average processing time for this office was 12 to 15 MONTHS!

By some miracle, they managed to complete the process in 9 months, and sent me a notice to come in for a final interview. I was petrified (could they still reject our applications??) but took the day off of work, again, took the kids out of school, and went back.

That time, the inspector was very nice and very accommodating. He said that the children (all this time) had only had “temporary” residence status, which should have been renewed about four years ago (ooops), but that they were now covered under a new law.

He asked Sara if she wanted to become an American citizen.

“Absolutely,” she quipped.

He asked Adam if he wanted to become a citizen.

“Well, okay, but when I am an adult I may switch back.”

I shrugged, pretending I hadn’t heard him. 

At one point, Sara whispered something to Adam and he snapped, “Quiet! Don’t you know we’re in a post office!”

But somehow, even after all that, the inspector graciously handed each of them a certificate of U.S. citizenship and it was done.

And he handed them over (the blessed man), with a smile.