February 14th with the INS

Last week, I was lucky enough to have my fiancée visit Houston during Valentine’s Day weekend. He recently moved to NYC and though we have had a hard time adjusting to the move, his trip down here wasn’t for me this time. Adil was in town to get registered with the INS since he is currently working with an H-1 visa. Having heard all the bizarre hearsay that’s been circulating throughout the Houston community about the registration process, I was petrified and insisted on accompanying him to the INS office. I vowed to fight tooth and nail with anybody that tried to detain him or revoke the visa that allows him to live 1400 miles away from me. Coincidentally, we decided on the Friday after he arrived which just happened to be Valentine’s Day. Adil picked me up early in the morning and we made our way down Interstate 45. As we got close, my apprehensions grew and worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind. All of them contained a frantic-Sara clutching to a police officer’s arm while hollering and hooting for the release of her fiancée.

Once in the parking lot, we gathered an obese folder filled with Adil’s transcripts, visa applications, receipts, pay stubs, and pretty much everything else he could muster up. We had to go a block down from the parking lot to reach the INS building and as I sluggishly walked, I spotted an old desi man sitting on the side of the road, waiting patiently. His hair was completely gray and he wore a starched beige kurta shalwar. Luckily, Houston weather was cooperating and I immediately felt empathy for this man that reminded me so much of my Abbu (paternal grandfather). We stumbled inside past the metal detectors and into a hoard of men sitting silently in a waiting room. A TV was set to CNN and most people glanced uneasily at the Security Council Meeting being televised. There were probably fifty men waiting to be registered and I only spotted two women (both white) seated. Both were sitting next to desi men that refused to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. I looked around and wondered if I would even be allowed to accompany Adil to the Immigration Officer’s office. As I curiously looked around the room, I saw mostly desi men, sprinkled in with a few Arabs. The desi men were all various ages. Some college guys that had come in together debated loudly about the recent cricket game. Some desi middle-aged men sat stiffly in their business suits and sported aggravated facial expressions. A few conversed about safe topics and avoided discussion of American politics. Then there were the 16 or 17-year-old boys that sat with their fathers; no doubt bored by the nonstop instructions being given to them about how to appease the Immigration Officers. “…Don’t look so badmash”, one dad muttered to his adolescent and my interest tapered off just as the boy did an exaggerated eye rolling face. Next I observed the old desi men sitting with more patience than anyone else in the room. They all mostly wore kurta shalwar and some even sported the traditional Pakistani topi. I had even smelled itaar on one of these men as I passed by to take a seat. Being a softie for the elderly, I felt miserable for the predicament these men faced. What if some of them didn’t speak English properly? What if an officer insulted them and they found no voice to stop their own humiliation? I felt so distraught to be an American at that point. National security be damned but what kind of people allow for such disrespect and disheartenment of the elderly? Obviously I wasn’t rational and my emotions were running high. Two hours into the wait, Adil suggested I go and grab some lunch for us.

As I arrived back with some food and parked Adil’s car, my heart completely stopped beating. There sat the old man by the grass exactly as I had seen him hours ago. My heart wrenched and I contemplated approaching him. Maybe he was waiting for someone but did he know he could wait inside? Could I offer him some of my food without seeming inappropriate? In the end after much procrastination, I walked back into the INS office and ate lunch with Adil. After several more hours of waiting, our turn finally came up to see an Immigration Officer. I hurried out into the hall after Adil and told the officer that I would be joining them. “Why?” he blurted out, obviously not used to being accosted. “Because I’m scared”, I replied and it appeared to be a sufficient enough reply because soon after that, I was ushered into a tiny office with Adil. I glanced around the room and found no photographs to compliment and no comic strips to laugh at. There hung a single painting by Monet and I racked my brain trying to find something clever to say. So…. that moment passed and the officer began his questions. I honestly have only vague memories of the actual interview; save for the few insults the immigration officer threw my way. He wanted to know why we were engaged, how we met and when we were planning on getting married. My fiancée answered as straight forwardly as possible even though the officer was insinuating that our relationship was a hoax. As an explanation, the officer said, “…this is the season for insincere marriages.” I kept my mouth firmly shut. As I sat adjacent to Adil, grinning from sheer nervousness, the officer looked straight at me and asked, “Are you two cousins?” and before I could stop myself, I shrieked “Yuck…why would you say that? Do we look like cousins?” The officer looked at me disdainfully and said, “I was under the impression that this type of stuff was common in your culture. Should I assume otherwise?” He waited for me to answer as I sat there completely dumbfounded. Was he or was he NOT insulting me?? Adil jumped in and explained that since I was raised here, I wasn’t very comfortable with the concept of inter-family marriages. Great, always blame everything on the ABCD status. Even at the INS! I fumed and vowed to remain silent throughout the rest of the interview but it was really difficult when the officer began drilling Adil about tedious information from years ago. At one point, he insisted on knowing the name of the airline Adil flew on when he first came to the United States, SIX years ago. Adil didn’t have the slightest idea but the officer insistently threw PIA, Air France, etc. around trying to get my poor fiancée to give an answer. I contemplated why this would be such critical information in the War Against Terrorism but came to no successful rationalization. After a few more bumps in the road, Adil was stamped and we were booted out to the exit.

Elation swept through me and now we could finally celebrate Adil’s trip and of course, the most romantic day of the year deemed by my country. Making our way to the car, my stomach dropped as I saw the elderly man sitting exactly where we had seen him six hours ago. He sat diligently and didn’t seem bothered by the long wait. Remorse flooded my body and a huge lump formed in my throat. I harassed Adil into approaching the man and making sure he was all right. The man was sweet and told us his son was inside and he had been waiting for eight hours. Yes he knew he could wait inside and no, there wasn’t anything we could do to help him. He was so pleasant and congratulated my fiancée in successfully getting registered. Adil and I walked back to the car and I burst into tears as we drove out. I was so relieved for my fiancée but felt so helpless for the uncertainty that awaited so many people still inside. I looked back as we drove off and intently watched the elderly man until the distance and the tears mingled and he became a tiny speck disappearing into the Houston afternoon.