My A claims that the first day I met him, as he shared his immigration woes, I made a prophetic promise to help solve his problem:
“It’s okay. I’ll marry you.”
Keep in mind that we were 15 years old or so. But I apparently was willing to really help a man in need.
Since then, A has received his green card to establish permanent residency (and we did get married, of course). But now, five years after it was first issued, there is a problem with the card that THREATENS OUR WAY OF LIFE.
Okay, not really, but it does threaten to send us on a wild paperwork goose chase that could involve three different states and more blonde hairs to erupt on my noggin.
We were first made aware of this issue when A inquired about a gun permit.
Moral of the story? GUN PERMITS CAUSE TROUBLE.
So the sheriff looked over his identification and realized that there was a problem with some of the essential data on his permanent residency card. I am going to imagine the conversation went like this:
A (who is brown and generally looks grumpy): Gun please?
Sheriff: Are you Mexican? Or Asian? Whatever … I’m going to need to SEE YOUR PAPERS.
A: No problem. It’s not like I don’t know my birthday or anything.
Sheriff: Well, your birthday is actually wrong on here. NO GUN FOR YOU.
A: Can I hold yours?
Later that day I was welcomed home by a harried husband interrogating me about the whereabouts of his passport. Naturally, I thought this meant he was taking me on a romantic getaway!
That’s not what it meant.
When he told me what was actually going on, my mind immediately flashed to “Hostel”, because that’s what I picture being deported is like. Which is probably why my next comment was:
“ARE YOU BEING DEPORTED? YOU’RE TOO CUTE TO BE POKED IN THE TOE WITH BLAZING ANDIRONS!”
(I have never seen “Hostel,” but that is unimportant.)
The husband remained calm, telling me that we just need to track down his papers, that may be residing in Wisconsin, or may be available at a law firm in Minnesota, or perhaps can be located by a guy in Germany. Then, the USCIS (United States Citizenship and Immigration Service, fun fact) needs to take his fingerprints and blood … or something. Oh, and this may or may not cost us hundreds of dollars.
It’s all very mysterious, but what we do know is he is not being shipped away like one of those beasts on “Madagascar.” (that was the second place my mind jumped to.)
We’ll keep you updated as soon as we adventure to the nearest “major metropolitan area” (we live in Iowa, remember) to get this all figured out. It will be the most fun you’ve had with immigration since that photo of the governor of Arizona pointing at President Obama went viral.