Welcome to America...Now Bugger off Home!

I first came to this country in the summer of 1990 and it’s a miracle I didn’t turn around and go right back home. It wasn’t because of the people I met on the plane and it certainly wasn’t because of the kind shuttle van driver and the Disneyland Hotel employees who helped me find the hotel I was actually supposed to be staying at—some off-the-beaten-path hole-in-the-wall. No, my first impression of the United States--and the one that almost got me back on the plane—came from the folks in airport immigration.

Picture this: you’re young, free and single, living the carefree, but ultimately unfulfilling life of the singleton, when one day, you meet the person of your dreams. They’re adventurous and fun-loving, they’re wealthy and gregarious; they’re the most popular person around and everyone wants to be them or be around them. Perfect. So, you take the plunge. Then they say, “I want to take you home to meet my folks.” No problem, you think. So, you pull up outside your prospective in-laws’ beautiful home and you think, wow, this is the life for me, but then, out they come. They’re stony-faced and appear to be in foul moods and you can already tell they’re not going to like you. But, you put on your best smile to make sure they understand what a good, kind person you are and you eagerly await being welcomed into their home as one of the family, so they can get to know you and realize what a perfect match you are for their beloved offspring. But instead, they keep you out on the sidewalk and begin their interrogation.

“Why do you want to date my son?”
“How long do you plan on dating him?”
“How do you plan to spend your time with him?”
“Do you have any contagious diseases?”
“Do you have any plants, snails or other living things?”

And all through the interrogation, they fix you with a steely gaze, just waiting for that twitch of the eye that tells them you’re lying, just looking for a reason to say, “No. We don’t think you’re suitable for our son. Go back to your life of misery.”

Now, even if you do pass the test and they allow you in to their home, do you really want to go after all that? What if the whole family’s that way? What if your fabulous boyfriend, Mr. Wonderful himself, turns out to be the same kind of unpleasant xenophobe as his parents? Hmm, perhaps there’s a reason he’s single after all. So, you turn and run back to your home.

At 20 years old, my Mr. Wonderful was a country 6,000 miles away from my home. It had everything I was looking for--opportunity, a carefree spirit, and lots and lots of sunshine--but my own person in-laws-from-hell, the INS inquisitors, were terrifying. Now, I’m a fine upstanding citizen and while I admit that I’m not exactly saving lives and changing the world here, I think I’m a valuable addition to society as a whole. I can hold a conversation using words of more than two syllables, I work hard and pay my taxes—on time, even; I’m kind to children and small animals and help old ladies across the street—well, what I mean is that I don’t actually aim for them, which by Los Angeles’ standards is the same thing--so why wouldn’t they want me here?

You never get a second chance to make a first impression and my first impression was grim. Thankfully, I stuck it out long enough to learn that most of the people in my newly adopted family were much more pleasant. So, come on INS, what does a smile or a kind word really cost? Foreigners are people, too, you know. And you never know, you might be scaring away the next great brain surgeon, the next budding California Governor, or even your very own Ms. Wonderful.