Immigration Games

Passing through the U.S. Immigrations has officially lost it's novelty value for me by now. Yesterday, when Tina and I arrived at Newark International, I was swiftly marched off to their intimidating waiting area while Tina was left to struggle with six 75lb suitcases.

Fortunately, she found some helpful men to assist her. I wasn't so lucky.

After sitting around for half an hour, a gruff Immigrations Officer examined my passport. He looked me in the eye and said: "You're lucky to be here, what with working illegally and all."

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You were working illegally in America. By rights you should be banned from the country."

My face blanched. "No, I wasn't."

There was an interminable pause.

"No," the officer eventually admitted. "You weren't." He silently handed me back my passport.

Slightly numb, I walked off out of the immigrations office.

It was a game, of course. They accuse their victims of something and maybe one in a hundred - somebody actually guilty of some violation - will admit to it thinking the BCIS has discovered their secret.

I've been on the Immigration merry go round for about five years now and until this point, I'd never thought anything truly negative about the department. The officers were gruff and humourless - I could understand that. This was just a little sinister.

But thirty minutes after I'd arrived, Tina and I rendezvoused at the carousel and emerged into an overcast American afternoon - residents, no longer guests, in the United States of America.