Thursday, July 27, 2006
trials and tribulations of being Canadian in the USA's Immagration system
As promised, here is "liz" with her tales of woe when dealing with the Immagration services....
It’s No Fun Being an Illegal Alien
Before anyone gets all excited about my Texas comment, I should say that rage makes people say crazy things. I am not Marge Schott here but I truly have a legitimate bitch about anyone from any country that gets into the U.S. illegally. Don’t think that I am not sympathetic to the plight of illegal aliens who work their entire lives in the U.S., I am. And I do feel sorry that there is no big blanket solution that will solve that issue but it’s like Matt Damon’s character says in Dead Poet’s Society “No matter how much you stretch it, it’s never enough.”
I really have a problem with people that employ illegal’s saying they will be “devastated” by the loss of immigrant workers. If employers actually had to pay the fees, fill out the forms and get a Visa for every worker, they might think twice about bitching. I would like to invite that guy who picks up 50 day laborers to pay $1,000 for each person, get medical exams for them and then list every single visit each of them has ever made to the United States since birth. I understand about “jobs that no one else wants to do” but I cannot feel sorry for people who justify paying someone less than a livable wage so they can cut costs. I bust my ass everyday and I still have to choose between eating and paying my electric bill.
You would think that once the ball was rolling that some things would be easier, but no. Since we are already married, border crossings are a totally new kind of Hell. For some reason it’s not enough that we are “in the process” of his immigration. And I can assure you that no one in this country knows less about the immigration process that people working at the border. Then there is the laundry list of items that we must be certain not to carry into the country. On various trips, we have been asked about: plants, guns, drugs, knives, needles, pharmaceutical supplies, citrus fruit, live chickens, dog food, beef and beef products, monkeys and snakes. Apparently, there were strippers attempting to cross with monkeys and snakes so every car had to be searched. Truly that was not the time to make the “once I made a raft out of dead monkeys” joke.
I have spent considerable time, effort and cash to get my husband into the country. We have filled out paperwork that could stretch for miles and answered some of the most inane questions imaginable. Soon we might just begin to shit red tape. It’s worth every single penny to me because I want to wake up next to the man I love. So, it burns a hole right through my skull when people talk about degradation and persecution. Some jackass with a picket sign is going to tell me about the rights of the people.
Yoo-hoo! I am the fucking people. I vote and I pay taxes so that gives me some rights in this place. I have had history and government shoved down my gullet since Kindergarten and I was always led to believe that America was this wonderful open place where people came to be free. I must have missed the class when they changed the part on the Statue of Liberty from “give me your tired…” to “fill out this form, pay this fee.” If I could re-create the entire immigration process, it would be like that scene from Planes, Trains and Automobiles where Steve Martin tries to rent the car. After an angry, frustrating, heart wrenching, obscenity-filled tirade Edie McClurg flatly tells him “You’re fucked.”
Is the melting pot is so full at this point that we have to make it next to impossible for worthy people to get in? It’s not as if my husband is the real-life equivalent of a Deliverance hillbilly. He speaks 5 languages, has more degrees than the weather report, and has an extensive professional background. Yet, somehow it is necessary to prove he is worthy to live with his American wife. The whole process is not only tedious and lengthy but also demeaning and depressing. You have to be able to document every breath you have taken since you were shot from the womb and put a date to every time you wiped your ass or blew your nose. Maybe if he were a rock star or a pro athlete it would be easier.
Or, better yet, if he had huge fake tits, fake lips, fucked Tommy Lee, married Kid Rock and had hepatitis they would let him become a citizen.
So there you have it. And since I'm a thief ( I stole this from Clarity) and a attention whore, here is a map of all the states I have been to...ENJOY!
create your own personalized map of the USA
or check out ourCalifornia travel guide
It’s No Fun Being an Illegal Alien
Before anyone gets all excited about my Texas comment, I should say that rage makes people say crazy things. I am not Marge Schott here but I truly have a legitimate bitch about anyone from any country that gets into the U.S. illegally. Don’t think that I am not sympathetic to the plight of illegal aliens who work their entire lives in the U.S., I am. And I do feel sorry that there is no big blanket solution that will solve that issue but it’s like Matt Damon’s character says in Dead Poet’s Society “No matter how much you stretch it, it’s never enough.”
I really have a problem with people that employ illegal’s saying they will be “devastated” by the loss of immigrant workers. If employers actually had to pay the fees, fill out the forms and get a Visa for every worker, they might think twice about bitching. I would like to invite that guy who picks up 50 day laborers to pay $1,000 for each person, get medical exams for them and then list every single visit each of them has ever made to the United States since birth. I understand about “jobs that no one else wants to do” but I cannot feel sorry for people who justify paying someone less than a livable wage so they can cut costs. I bust my ass everyday and I still have to choose between eating and paying my electric bill.
You would think that once the ball was rolling that some things would be easier, but no. Since we are already married, border crossings are a totally new kind of Hell. For some reason it’s not enough that we are “in the process” of his immigration. And I can assure you that no one in this country knows less about the immigration process that people working at the border. Then there is the laundry list of items that we must be certain not to carry into the country. On various trips, we have been asked about: plants, guns, drugs, knives, needles, pharmaceutical supplies, citrus fruit, live chickens, dog food, beef and beef products, monkeys and snakes. Apparently, there were strippers attempting to cross with monkeys and snakes so every car had to be searched. Truly that was not the time to make the “once I made a raft out of dead monkeys” joke.
I have spent considerable time, effort and cash to get my husband into the country. We have filled out paperwork that could stretch for miles and answered some of the most inane questions imaginable. Soon we might just begin to shit red tape. It’s worth every single penny to me because I want to wake up next to the man I love. So, it burns a hole right through my skull when people talk about degradation and persecution. Some jackass with a picket sign is going to tell me about the rights of the people.
Yoo-hoo! I am the fucking people. I vote and I pay taxes so that gives me some rights in this place. I have had history and government shoved down my gullet since Kindergarten and I was always led to believe that America was this wonderful open place where people came to be free. I must have missed the class when they changed the part on the Statue of Liberty from “give me your tired…” to “fill out this form, pay this fee.” If I could re-create the entire immigration process, it would be like that scene from Planes, Trains and Automobiles where Steve Martin tries to rent the car. After an angry, frustrating, heart wrenching, obscenity-filled tirade Edie McClurg flatly tells him “You’re fucked.”
Is the melting pot is so full at this point that we have to make it next to impossible for worthy people to get in? It’s not as if my husband is the real-life equivalent of a Deliverance hillbilly. He speaks 5 languages, has more degrees than the weather report, and has an extensive professional background. Yet, somehow it is necessary to prove he is worthy to live with his American wife. The whole process is not only tedious and lengthy but also demeaning and depressing. You have to be able to document every breath you have taken since you were shot from the womb and put a date to every time you wiped your ass or blew your nose. Maybe if he were a rock star or a pro athlete it would be easier.
Or, better yet, if he had huge fake tits, fake lips, fucked Tommy Lee, married Kid Rock and had hepatitis they would let him become a citizen.
So there you have it. And since I'm a thief ( I stole this from Clarity) and a attention whore, here is a map of all the states I have been to...ENJOY!
create your own personalized map of the USA
or check out ourCalifornia travel guide
