At the end of 2002, Julie had just graduated and our daughter had just turned one. We made plans to take her back to Australia to visit the family.
I had applied for a Green Card, but I had to file for another document called “Alien Parole” while the paperwork was in the system. It was a couple of pages long, and I folded it up and stuck it in the back of my passport with my student visa, which was also a couple of pages long.
We spent a couple of weeks in my hometown, taking my daughter to the beach I grew up at. My dad had bought a new Macadamia nut farm in an area I held dear to my heart, and we spent some time there. It was a chance for Julie and me to explore and show her meaningful places to me of my homeland.
It was a challenging process to leave and come back to the United States. The most frequent question family and friends asked was, “When are you moving back.” I didn’t know how to answer that question because I didn’t know how to make that kind of decision. Life was in limbo. I didn’t know what I wanted for my future, and I didn’t know where home was to me.
Packing my bag, I stocked up on all my favorite treats. Lollies and snacks that I loved but couldn’t find in the US. I also had a 30 pack of VB cans, my favorite beer, which my brother had given me for Christmas. They were in a cube box, a Holiday pack different from the typical box. I reinforced the box’s edges with duct tape, put it in a huge plastic bag tied off in a knot to make a handle, and checked in with our other bags.
With the copious amounts of baggage we had for ourselves and our little one, taking a box of beer along was mortifying to Julie.
The 14-hour flight to Los Angeles was exhausting, especially with a toddler whose lack of sleep caused hours of frustration for Julie and me. We gave her Benedryl, and it had the opposite effect. She was hyper, and we had to entertain her and keep her quiet not to disturb the other passengers. And we needed some sleep, which we didn’t get.
When we landed and came through customs, it was my first time going in the line for US Citizens and their families. It felt like a privilege and that we would just breeze through. Maybe with a “welcome home” instead of “welcome to America.”
The Customs agent spent a significant amount of time going over my papers. He would flick through them and then look at me with strange, questioning glances.
Then in a rush, he folded everything up and said, “I can’t let you through. You need to get to the Secondary Screening Room.” He handed me our passports and documents, pointing to the sign that proclaimed our next stop.
My anxiety went through the roof.
Another guard came over and escorted us to the room. We pushed the stroller and carried our bags. Wondering, what does this mean? Will I not be allowed in the country? Will I have to fly all the way home?
As we entered the room, three or four guards sat behind a counter on the left. The counter was elevated above the level we stood on like a judges bench.
The room was small and lit by fluorescent lights. It was full of people clustered together as families. There were rows of seats and people sitting on the linoleum floor. Everyone looked beyond travel weary.
We handed our documents over to the guards and made our way to the back of the room.
One of the guards was yelling and barking orders at the top of his voice. He was terrifying. Even when he was with someone at the counter, he shouted for all the room to hear.
He yelled out a name. He was calling them up to the bench. It was a young Hispanic kid, maybe fifteen or eighteen. The kid was clean-cut and dressed smartly. He was struggling with responding to the questions the guard screamed at him. I could tell he was scared and his English was not all that good.
The only part of the conversation I remember is the guard taking the issue to the kid’s shoes. “How did you get those expensive sneakers?” He was wearing brand new Nike basketball shoes, maybe Air Jordan’s. The boy had a hard time answering, and whatever he said, the guard was having none of it.
He was threatening, loud, demeaning, and verbally abusive. He sent the kid to return to his seat. He sat alone.
I was called up next. It seemed strange as there were so many others in the room waiting, and I thought they would go before me.
My heart pounded out of my chest, and I tried to smile and be friendly. The guard I spoke to seemed threatening, and the screaming guard was the next one over to the right.
Our conversation was brief:
“What’s your Alien Number?”
“I don’t know, sir, you have all my papers,” I replied.
Then the screaming guard yells at me, “You need to have your Alien Number memorized.”
All I could respond with was, “Ok.” And turned back to my guard.
My guard asked me where I got my papers. I let him know my attorney filed them in Denver when she submitted my Green Card application.
At this point, I still didn’t know what the problem was. No one had pointed out what was wrong. But I realized they think I forged these documents.
It turns out the people at the Immigration Office made a typo on my birth date. Instead of 04 for April, it was 40. So the date of my papers was not possible.
They let me go with instructions to reapply for Alien Parole and check all documents for mistakes before entering the country again. And the yelling guard told me to memorize my number because “It’s the Alien Number you will always have, you need to know it.”
I rejoined Julie, who awkwardly tried to open the door and push the baby stroller through. We couldn’t get out of there quick enough. I think she even tried to tell “thank you” as we left.
The release I felt stepping out of the room and into the expanse of the airport terminal was terrific. I’m confident the outcome would have been different had I been from Mexico.
There was no one left from our flight when we made it to our baggage carousel. They had all made it through. The baggage carousel was empty, and we found our suitcase taken off and set to the side.
The only thing left going around on the carousel was the 30 pack of VB in a plastic bag tied up in the knot.
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