Another Brick in the Wall
My first hand account of going through the meat grinder of immigration
One of the odd things about becoming an expatriate is that, to a large degree, I think and care about my native country more now than I ever did when I lived there. That’s not to say I didn’t care. After all, I voted in previous elections and protested the Iraq War as an undergrad in 2003 by chanting trite slogans like “No Blood for Oil!” I vaguely respected the American heritage as a historical melting pot, where people of all creeds and cultures could come together to live harmoniously.
It was home. It’s yours, you’re comfortable there. At peace. You come to take it for granted. When you’ve been home for a long time without seeing the outside world, you don’t notice how messy it’s gotten or that to a stranger it might smell like farts and chili. You’ve gotten used to the cat hair on the couch.
I’ve had many people ask me what it’s like to live in a foreign country. How’s it different? What are the people like?
My experience living abroad has been like looking at a funhouse mirror. There’s some obvious distortion, but the image is basically the same on both sides of the Atlantic. Regardless of where they come from, I’ve found most people have similar hopes and dreams.
In the lamentable aftermath of the election, I expressed a feeling of embarrassment on Facebook that my fellow citizens would willingly elect an openly bigoted racist, sexist, and narcissist. A conservative friend chided me by suggesting my comment was silly.
“Don’t ever say you’re embarrassed to be an American,” he said. “This is the BEST country in the world.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s just another country full of good things and bad things like all the others.”
I’ve heard that kind of talk throughout my life. This almost jingoistic sense of pride in country. “And if you don’t like it here,” they inevitably say, “you can leave.”
But what the hell is a country, anyway?
Oh.
So, countries are pieces of land that an aggregate of people decided is theirs. A possession, in other words. People have killed and died for land. A country. A place to call home.
Of course, once this land has been conquered, what did they do? Built a wall. Not literally; or, at least, not at first. Instead, they invented these invisible lines called borders. A way to separate this from that, us from them, me from you. Then they built the wall. To keep other out.
When I was growing up in the United States, I rarely thought about this. I didn’t have an opinion about immigration. Weren’t we already a nation of immigrants? Isn’t it a good thing if people want to come to America? Isn’t that what’s supposed to make it great?
Sure, I felt bad for the so-called “illegal” immigrants who came to live in America without a officially stamped piece of tree pulp to say that was okay. But it wasn’t my problem, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.
It wasn’t until I came to Europe that my perspective changed. It wasn’t until I became (temporarily) an illegal immigrant myself that I could empathize with the hardship and plight of people looking for opportunity and hope in a world made of walls.
I met my girlfriend while I was teaching in Prague. We had our first kiss in a book store. She’s French, and had been working there as a lawyer for an aerospace company. We lived here:
The problem with the Czech Republic is that it’s part of the European Union, but doesn’t use the Euro for currency. That means wages are comparatively lower by a significant margin than other EU countries. That’s fine when you live in Prague, since you have enough money for monthly cost of living expenses, but it makes saving money nearly impossible. And one thing we love to do is travel to other places.
So she began to look for another job back home in France. With her qualifications it didn’t take her long to get an offer. We’d talked about this possibility and now we had to make a decision.
“I said yes to their offer, so I’ll be starting in December.”
“Well,” I took a breath. “I guess I’m coming with you.”
It was a leap of faith.
We’d been together for less than a year and living together for just a couple of months. Suddenly, we were going to box everything up, have it shipped to France, and relocate there ourselves. When people ask why I moved, I say I did it for love.
Love, as I’m sure you’re aware, sometimes makes us do crazy things. Moving to France on such short notice was most certainly crazy. In fact, it was plain stupid.
When I moved to Prague the year before, I had approximately six months to plan and prepare. I started to learn the language and read guidebooks to know more about the city and culture. My language school would arrange my visa and temporary housing, a job was guaranteed. I’d saved money prior to my flight.
I hadn’t done any of those things prior to our imminent move to France. I didn’t speak a lick of French. My girlfriend helped me translate my resumé and type up a cover letter in a mad dash to find a job at a school somewhere. No bites.
Upon arrival, my passport wasn’t stamped because I traveled from the Czech Republic and I had a Schengen visa, which allows free movement between participating countries. It would allow me to stay in France for a maximum of 90 days. In order to work I’d need a carte de sejour, the French equivalent of a green card.
Except!
Getting a work visa is a Catch-22. Natch: to have a carte de sejour you must have a job. But to have a job you must have a carte de sejour. Go figure.
So I was in France with my girlfriend without a visa, a job, or any definitive job prospects. I didn’t speak the language, I held almost no currency. I was a foreign man, surrounded by — sorry, I like Paul Simon.
Our anxiety increased. Would I be able to stay? Would I find a job? Those first few months were the most difficult. While my girlfriend started her new job and went to work everyday, I was trapped in our apartment on the edge of town. Since I couldn’t work and I felt too worthless to write, I had to occupy my time in other ways.
I began to teach myself French. I binge watched every season of The Sopranos and The Wire in little more than a week. I cooked and cleaned. I read a lot and played stupid games on the iPad.
We were living out in the boonies, a stark contrast from Prague. The city center was a forty-five minute walk away. A week passed before we even saw what downtown looks like.
Money was tight. I put an ad online for English lessons. I got two responses. We met once a week in the center. I didn’t enough money for the bus and I didn’t have a bike, so I walked. The money was a pittance, but it was enough for me to buy enough food each week. My girlfriend bore the brunt of our expenses.
No job would touch me without a carte de sejour. My French improved at an agonizingly slow pace. I’d go to the post office to send a letter and wouldn’t understand how many cents they’d be asking for a stamp. It was pretty bad. I knew a few basic phrases: bonjour, au revoir, merci, je voudrais, désolé, je comprends pas, je suis américain.
We set a deadline. If I didn’t have a job by March, I’d return to the U.S. and we’d try to make it work long distance. Somehow, someway I’d try to find a way back. Promises were made, tears were shed. March is when my 90 days would be up.
We became desperate. Then we got lucky. We discovered that if we got either married or Pacsed(Pacte civil de solidarité, a.k.a. civil partnership), we could then apply for a visa under the grounds of a Vie privée et familiale. We decided to get the Pacs, since it would be quicker and easier.
That’s right — our only solution was to game the system.
Quicker and easier is a relative turn of phrase. The amount of documentation I needed as a foreigner was absurd. I needed 8 different pieces of paper, including an original birth certificate (not a copy) that was certified as being less than 3 months old. Then it needed to be translated by an official translator. I also needed something called an apostille, which is another certificate used by countries participating in the Hague Convention of 1961. In order to get this birth certificate and apostille, I had to call my mother.
There was a lot of stress. We blew past our March deadline, but finally had the Pacs ceremony in mid-April at the Tribunal d’instance. We signed the papers and kissed. There were no other witnesses; we didn’t have any friends. I bought her a cheap ring to signify the occasion. But we weren’t done yet.
To apply for a carte de sejour required double the amount of paperwork that the Pacs did. We’d need originals and photocopies of everything. The bureaucratic red tape was so daunting that calling it Kafkaesque almost doesn’t do it justice. I felt like an insignificant cog in a large, complicated machine.
I mean, I just wanted to be able to live with my girlfriend and have enough money to get by. That’s not so hard to understand, is it? But the process to get this point is dehumanizing. To the government, as a foreigner, you exist as a number, a file, and a set of fingerprints.
Still, I know I had it easy. After all, I’m a white-skinned Westerner. My passport is dark blue and says the United States of America on the front cover.
In the waiting room of the prefecture is all manner of folk looking to have proper documentation in order to live in France. Many are from former French colonies, such as Tunisia, Morocco, and Algeria. There are plenty of others from Africa, the Middle East, and beyond.
Before the appointment, each applicant is required to go through a type of “integration training” to indoctrinate you to the way of life in France. You’re taught the French motto of liberté, égalité, fraternité. In essence, to live in France you’re to subjugate your own identity to fit in.
France isn’t unique in this regard. It’s the same everywhere you go. One thing I’ve learned is that it’s not really possible to completely change identities. I have lived abroad now for more than seven years. That’s 2,676 days as of this writing. I can assure you I’m no less American than the day I left.
Since then, I’ve learned the language and found work. But that struggle stays with me. So when I see so much negative rhetoric about immigration, it makes my blood boil.
Same for refugees. They have left their homes because they’re no longer safe. They are men and women and children whose lives have been turned upside down. A country at war is no home at all.
Let me be frank: rejecting a refugee based on religious affiliation is unacceptable. Didn’t the Pilgrims emigrate to the “New World” because of religious persecution?
I’ve had the honor and privilege to teach several students from Syria. You know what they do? They’re doctors, now working in France, and helping to save lives.
I don’t have much in the way of a conclusion other than to say we live on a blue planet spinning around a yellow star. Countries are just land, borders are bullshit, and everyone needs a place to call home. Open your hearts & minds to the experience of others. Build bridges, not walls.
