Building a wall along the southern border to prevent illegal crossing has been headlining for weeks. For a country, borders manifest sovereignty. For individuals who wish to crossover, they can either be symbolic stopping points that cause minor inconvenience or major hurdles that can be life-changing.
Years ago, before one of her visits, mom told me that, while in North America, she wanted to go to Canada visiting friends. To avoid any complications, I drove from Kent, Ohio with a friend to Buffalo, New York to apply for a tourist visa in advance. In the early afternoon, the waiting room at the Consulate was crowded with people of various ethnicities and ages. Families of multiple generations sat together. Some with apparent legal representatives. People talked quietly. There’s tension in the air.
My friend looked around and said, “This is where everyone is equal.” I disagreed. Although all applications would be processed based on the same regulations, some applicants definitely had better chances of having their wishes granted. One’s origin, which happened not by choice, matters; one’s financial stability, which supports one’s activities while in hosting country, matters; one’s personal history—education, religion, professional records and, in some cases, marital status—matters. Concerning these legal matters, I always consider myself among the privileged ones. Yet, even someone like me could encounter challenges crossing borders.
My first student visa that allowed me to enter this country came with a heavy price. Back then, all foreign students had to provide “evidence” of financial adequacy for the entire first year—tuition, books, room & board plus miscellanies expenses. This regulation, for many ambitious youngsters, had proven to be a deterrence. Without mom’s support, I would never have the opportunity to begin a new life in the States.
As I transferred from school to school and matriculated through the degree system, I had to renew my visa and/or obtain new visas—not without drama. By the time that I completed all the course work and began the preparations for my dissertation, I knew that, in order to pursue my dream of becoming a professional musician/ researcher, I had much work to do. I needed to be at a place where I could find information to support my research. I also need to be at a place where I could continue to polish up my skills and to gain more experiences. The United States seemed to be the right place for me professionally.
But, first, I wanted to make a trip to Europe. To save some money, my travel agent Donna, who helped me long-distance from Omaha, Nebraska, suggested that I flew into Germany and traveled by train from there. I heard wonderful things about the rail system in Europe. So, I gladly agreed.
In pre-European-Union time, traveling with a Republic of China passport meant that I needed multiple visas to get around. Donna was superb in finding great deals and planning trips. However, she never worked with anyone that needed a visa for every stop. She called German and Italian Consulates in Detroit and was told by high ranking officers that I would be able to apply for visas at their offices.
Things went OK at German Consulate. I only needed to make another trip to pick up the visa—since I would be leaving in a week. But my application went nowhere at the Italian Consulate. They said that, since I wanted to study at a University, I would have to go back to my country of origin to apply for the proper visa. The bad news infuriated Donna. She tracked down the lady who gave her the “go-ahead” and got a new verdict: If I would show up when they opened the door on Monday morning with my documents, they would grant me a visa.
I got up in the middle of the night; made the four-hour trip and stood right in front of the office. The gentleman who opened the door seemed shocked to see me. But, right away, he realized who I must have been and ushered me in. The lady who promised me a visa also came out to greet me. I got the visa and their blessing.
Two days later, I flew out to Frankfurt. No one checked my documents as I passed the entry door. (I must have looked “American” enough.) No one looked at my paper on the train until we got to the Austrian border.
Uniformed officials got on board. I handed one of them all the papers. He yelled for 70 Marks. I only had US Dollars. So, he removed me from the train and took me to a room with Interpol fugitives photos/images posted on the walls. Several officials surrounding me started arguing. Here and there I picked up a few words. Apparently, my transit visa for Germany had expired—Donna and I forgot to calculate in the time difference. And, I didn’t have a transit visa to go through Austria—even though I wouldn’t be getting off the train. Eventually, they decided to let me through and told me to pay for the visa.
I went to the currency exchange window and asked for 70 Marks. The gentleman asked me why I needed that amount. I told him what happened on the train. As it turned out, a visa would not cost that much. He gave me the correct exchange and wished me bon voyage. I got back on the train as all my fellow passengers looked at me strangely. LESSON LEARNED.
Half year later, before making my return trip, I went to Rome and got all the correct documents. My passport and US visa were current. But I got held up at the Northwest check-in counter at Frankfurt airport. The first Golf War just ended. All airports were on high alert. For whatever reason the ticket agent felt that I was suspicious, she refused to issue me a boarding pass!!! (AND, SHE WASN’T GOING TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME.) Out of desperation, I pulled out an introductory letter from my dissertation advisor—it was meant for research purposes. Very reluctantly, the agent checked me in.
Following these traumatic experiences, I began a 14-year self-imposed exile which deserves a separate post. During those years, I was asked many times why I couldn’t just become a US citizen. My long and twisted answers only confused my friends further. If someone like me—who has the means to always go through the proper channels in order to stay on the right side of the law—could run into so many difficulties crossing the borders, try to imagine what an insurmountable challenge it could be for a refugee and/or a poor person. Every immigration application comes with a long story. I respect the law but wish that more people can have the chances of having their stories heard.