“If you’re going to travel to the US, it’ll be at your own risk”
An Immigration Story in the Age of COVID
July 17, 2020: 5:30pm — somewhere north of Seattle, WA
The sky began to clear as the afternoon bled into early evening over the I-5, somewhere in the wilderness north of Seattle. But the sun was doing little to lift my spirits.
I’d spent much of the day in a state of frenzied anxiety, running almost entirely off adrenaline and a half-eaten Subway sandwich. I glanced quickly at the upcoming digital sign overhead.
Canadian border crossing closed to non-essential travel.
I wasn’t worried about getting into Canada. As a Canadian citizen, I’m able to enter the country by right. It was the return journey back to the US that had me terrified, and was the reason that I was on that winding Washington highway at all, instead of at home in San Francisco.
July 16, 2020: 1:30pm — San Francisco, CA
“So, with the ICE rescinding its rule, I don’t need a new I-20, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, I should be good to travel back to Canada and re-enter the US on my new visa with my current paperwork.”
“Well…there’s a possible complication.”
My heart sank. Well, fuck. Here we go again, I thought.
The previous ten days had been already been a rollercoaster of emotions. But this was a terrifying new drop near the end of the ride that I hadn’t seen coming.
On July 6, the ICE had announced a rule change regarding the legal status of international students in the US taking courses at schools that had shifted to online-only mode because of the COVID-19 pandemic. In short, if they weren’t enrolled in at least 1 in-person class, they risked deportation. This sent the over 1 million international students in the US into a panic, and caused an uproar throughout both higher education and industry.
Colleges started quickly mobilizing to find ways to circumvent the rules — for example, professors offered to teach an ‘in-person’ seminar for credit that convened once a semester, and to which attendance was optional.
Others were less willing to simply take the rule lying down. By the end of the week, several colleges and 17 states had sued the federal government over the rule change, citing a violation of the Administrative Process Act.
And by the following Tuesday, July 14, the entire circus came to an abrupt end. The ICE rescinded the rule change, bowing to the mounting pressure and intense scrutiny.
After this stressful, uncertain 8 day stretch, I was looking forward to a return to stability. I was going to spend a couple days in Vancouver the following week, a brief return to Canada to facilitate the transition** from my H1-B work visa, to my F1 student visa.
** Boring interlude to talk about visas — typically, you can transition from one visa to another either by re-entering the country, or by petitioning for a status change. The latter process is slow, so many, like myself, opt for the former.
Or at least I was planning to, until my conversation with the Berkeley International Office.
“So…you’re telling me that based on these updated DHS [Department of Homeland Security] guidelines**, if I leave for Canada, they might not let me back in?”
** Current DHS guidance makes the following statement: “If Initial students have not arrived in the United States, they should remain in their home country.”
“We just don’t know for sure. We can’t predict what’s going to happen at the border. If you’re going to travel to the US, it’ll be at your own risk.”
I could feel myself crumple a little. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, apparently.
“Well, thanks for the info…”
As I ended the Zoom call, I thought of the prospect of not being able to return back to the Bay area, my adopted home. It was a grim reminder that for all the time and energy I’d made into putting down roots here, in the eyes of the law, this land hadn’t yet adopted me back.
I thought of the important people in my life from whom I was suddenly (again) at risk of being separated. The shock and panic tore through me, and for a couple hours, I just hid out in my room, not quite sure what to do.
Eventually, the adrenaline overtook the shock, and I was filled with frantic energy. A plan began to take shape in my brain.
Instead of waiting on pins and needles until my aforementioned trip to Vancouver, I decided to travel to the Canadian border the very next day. I would fly to Seattle, rent a car, cross into Canada, and attempt to return to the US.
I ran this by my partner. I could barely look her in the eye as I talked. I’d already put her through a lot the previous week when I had a health scare that I thought was COVID (it wasn’t, thankfully), and I felt guilty dropping this bomb on her.
There was a non-zero chance that I might not be able to get back into the country. There was a non-zero chance that I might not be able to come home to her. There was a non-zero chance that my entire life was about to be uprooted. I could feel my stomach twisting itself into multiple knots.
That evening, my partner helped me pack. There was no joke intended when I wondered out loud whether I should bring clothes for four days or six, in case something went wrong at the border. We settled on six.
July 17, 2020: 6:15pm — US/Canada Border Crossing, near Blaine, WA
As I made the U-turn back towards the American border from the Canadian side, my mind was a paradoxical blend of heart-racing anxiety, and peaceful gratitude. To calm my nerves, I’d been thinking about the supportive messages I’d gotten from friends and family throughout the day — from simple ‘good luck’ texts, to referrals for immigration lawyers should I need one.
I was almost optimistic when I handed my paperwork to the agent. He greeted me cordially (good sign!), and asked a couple of questions about my program and my final destination in the US.
I’m told to pull into Secondary Inspection. Gulp. He radios to his colleague as I drive away from him — “F1 incoming”.
His colleague, tall and with a serious attitude, approaches my car. I hand him my paperwork. He hits me with a few questions about my previous status in the US, and why I’m going back to school. He walks away with my paperwork into the office, shielded from my view by tinted windows.
An eternity passes while I wait for the next step. I try my best not to look too anxious, as I know I’m on camera inside my vehicle. Finally, he emerges from the building, beckoning me over.
I get out, nervously. I walk with a deliberately even pace over to the door, caught between wanting to get this over with, and dreading what’s on the other side.
Within moments, I realize that I’m in the clear. I’m being processed — my fingerprints captured, my photo taken, my border-crossing fees paid. I want to whoop and holler my joy, but I suppress the urge for the moment. The officer escorts me back out to my vehicle, hands me back my papers, and reminds me that I’m not supposed to have an off-campus job while I’m a student. He wishes me a good day, and safe travels.
I send a few celebratory texts to my partner, and some friends before driving away. But the earlier urge to raucously celebrate has been washed away by an overwhelming sense of tired relief. I’m mostly just numb. I want to get back home as soon as possible, and lay in my own bed.
The 48 hours up to this moment were an exercise in acknowledging and overcoming the element of fragility that immigration law adds to so many of our lives. I’m thankful to have survived another obstacle.
My heart goes out to those that haven’t.
There are those with spouses stuck in another country because of travel bans / suspensions in visa processing services. Parents on work visas whose children are citizens by virtue of being born in the US, now separated because the parent lost their job, and the child can’t legally return with them to their home country. Indian-born work visa holders, who face a waiting period for a green card of up to 12 years, anxious about their prospects in the next visa lottery. Countless students eager to attend their dream US school who aren’t able to go in-person because the embassy that would process their visa is still closed.
Immigration policy is by nature a blunt instrument trying to color between the fine lines of infinite permutations of situations in which an individual could find themselves. Add in the extra unstable element of COVID, and the bureaucracy becomes all the more suffocating, the fragility all the more amplified.
So, please, if you know of folks in a precarious immigration situation — reach out to them. Even just feeling like your invisible struggle is seen by someone who’s lucky enough to be a citizen in the US means a great deal. It certainly did for me.
