“I’m sorry, but you do not qualify for a visa. Here is the reason for your refusal. Goodbye.”
When I interned with the U.S. State Department in Krakow, Poland, in the summer of 2000, I heard that said 300 times a day, as swarms of Polish peasants pushed into the consulate for permission to enter the United States. In Poland, where the people are poor and desperate for work, landing a simple six-month tourist visa to the United States can be an ordeal. The U.S. government wants to keep out all potential illegal immigrants.
After waiting months for an appointment with an “almighty” consular officer, the Poles were herded outside the building by balding Polish security guards who slammed doors on ladies’ fingers. Applicants were forced to wait in the street in scorching heat, sometimes for two to three hours past their scheduled times. Then they had to wait in the consulate courtyard inside a glass-covered stairwell, where the sun’s rays were amplified by about 200 degrees.
Stolarska Street looked like a refugee camp in the mornings when I arrived for work — and it smelled like one, too (deodorant is a luxury for these people). I had to shove my way through the crowds every morning while they stared, secretly coveting my little blue U.S. passport. Sometimes they’d come up and try to strike deals in return for visas.
Once, a sweet little old lady, trying desperately to see her grandchild in the United States, accidentally slipped an officer an envelope with three crisp $100 bills. Later, when the guards escorted the crying and screaming woman out, she tried explaining she meant to hand over a second envelope with a photo of her grandson. Poor babcia.
The American and Polish consular workers were no better than the applicants. The staff suffered from post-Communist syndrome, which affects all customer-service jobs in Poland. You wait in long lines until it’s your turn, and then you’re treated with maximum rudeness and impatience.
The clerks have low-paying, state-secure positions. Why should they give you the time of day? And the staff made sure the applicants knew who was in charge by yelling, pointing, scolding and ignoring them altogether. Sometimes, while applicants waited at the walk-up windows, the three Polish secretaries staffing them would take coffee breaks and gossip behind the wall separation.
The consular officers were disgusting. Their Polish proficiency matched that of a drunken Russian. Some days they’d race each other to see who could issue the fastest visa refusal. Forty-five seconds was the record for that summer. They’d ring a bell, and another trembling victim would approach their windows. Questions were simple: Do you speak English? Purpose of your visit? How much do you make? And based on a few trivial questions, they’d weed out the few legitimate cases and tell the rest to reapply in six months.
I spent my three months in Krakow wavering between the lesser of two evils: the applicants and the consular staff. I’m the son of two Polish “tourist” immigrants, but I’m also an American with enough common sense to understand that a mass Polish exodus would destabilize both Poland and the United States.
I guess Krakow made me appreciate my U.S. citizenship. It’s a platinum privilege most Americans take for granted. The right to travel wherever I like, to have a home and work in a prosperous country, to receive state-sponsored benefits — these are privileges for which many immigrants will trade their whole way of life.
I love my little blue U.S. passport. But please don’t look at my
photo — I look fat.
