One of my favorite things to do at my job is visa letters.
They're simple -- I conduct a straightforward background check, then use a template letter that says (if true) "This person's got no history with us going back five years." Visa and green card applicants use the two copies of the letter to prove they have no criminal record and therefore qualify.
A recent letter I did involved a woman I'll call Jane.
Jane speaks little English. When I called the number on the application to report the letter was ready for pick-up, a girl with an accented voice answered. Her English was fine, though I misread part of the application at first and that took some sorting out. Jane and her family sounded excited and eager to get the letter, but it already was after business hours at the station. Jane had to pick up the letters in person, with ID in hand, so I could confirm I was giving the letters to her.
Through the girl, Jane said she would come and get the letters right then. I agreed, figuring one person was not such a big deal, and we disconnected. I prepared the notarized letters in an envelope and continued with my work for about 15 minutes. When I went to look out the front of the station, I saw a beat-up black Dodge minivan pull up in front.
Out came four individuals. One of the passengers was short; another was taller and wide. A third was in a motorized wheelchair and the driver was tall and thin.
Each was swathed in the brightest colors I'd seen since before the winter, each tinged with a slight orange in the setting sun. Pure yellows and saturated greens, vibrant blues and dazzling pinks, deep browns and soft creams. Touches of red, black or gold. Patterns of all sorts, or sometimes none at all. Each garment was silky, shiny and far more quality than the grey and black uniform I wore.
I went out to them before they reached the door and held it open. I welcomed them, smiled and introduced myself; they happily greeted me back as they came in. I used the handicap open-door button for the woman in the wheelchair; they all thanked me for that. The girl I spoke to on the phone -- the shortest and youngest -- had a round face and clear eyes framed by a cream headscarf. We traded enough words for me to know who she was. I went back around to my secure desk, took up the letters in their sealed envelope and asked for Jane's ID.
The taller passenger produced a wallet and handed me a driver's license through the gate. It was Jane's, her signature just her first name. Her birthday, Jan. 1, was a common one for migrants and refugees who came from parts of the world not so invested with time and calendars as modern society. I looked up to confirm the photo matched.
It was. Jane's thin, long face was neatly framed by her blue headscarf, except for a part near her mouth that somehow remained covered in photo and reality. The lighter lines just peeking from its edges suggested she was covering up something. Scar? Blemish? Defect? I guessed the first, as it seemed more common in the area, but it didn't matter.
Jane's passenger produced $20 from the wallet. I ran the till, snatched a receipt and took everything back around to Jane's entourage. I handed the envelope to Jane's passenger, as she'd already been comfortable handing me things, as well as the receipt. She passed it to Jane, who burst with bows and thank yous.
There were several other words that came out that I didn't understand. She ended with, "Green card! Green card! Everyone wants green card!" A couple more thank yous.
I smiled as big and professional as I could, which was easy. "Well, welcome to America. We're glad to have you, and we hope you stay." I meant it.
Everyone thanked me several more times, louder than before. Even the woman in the wheelchair joined in. Jane clasped her hands together in thanks. I went back to the doors for them and opened them with the handicap buttons. They thanked me a few more times and exited back into the sun, colors relighting the landscape, with the white of the envelope clear in Jane's hand.
The effort put into the letter was perhaps 10 minutes. I knew more about Jane than perhaps some of her closest relatives, yet I knew nothing about her at all. Nor did I need to in order to do the job.
But I do know that Jane was grateful to be one step closer to being able to stay in the United States. One more person this country, with all its might and wealth and ideals, could assist in finding their American Dream, whatever it was.
And I just really love that I got to help.
They're simple -- I conduct a straightforward background check, then use a template letter that says (if true) "This person's got no history with us going back five years." Visa and green card applicants use the two copies of the letter to prove they have no criminal record and therefore qualify.
A recent letter I did involved a woman I'll call Jane.
Jane speaks little English. When I called the number on the application to report the letter was ready for pick-up, a girl with an accented voice answered. Her English was fine, though I misread part of the application at first and that took some sorting out. Jane and her family sounded excited and eager to get the letter, but it already was after business hours at the station. Jane had to pick up the letters in person, with ID in hand, so I could confirm I was giving the letters to her.
Through the girl, Jane said she would come and get the letters right then. I agreed, figuring one person was not such a big deal, and we disconnected. I prepared the notarized letters in an envelope and continued with my work for about 15 minutes. When I went to look out the front of the station, I saw a beat-up black Dodge minivan pull up in front.
Out came four individuals. One of the passengers was short; another was taller and wide. A third was in a motorized wheelchair and the driver was tall and thin.
Each was swathed in the brightest colors I'd seen since before the winter, each tinged with a slight orange in the setting sun. Pure yellows and saturated greens, vibrant blues and dazzling pinks, deep browns and soft creams. Touches of red, black or gold. Patterns of all sorts, or sometimes none at all. Each garment was silky, shiny and far more quality than the grey and black uniform I wore.
I went out to them before they reached the door and held it open. I welcomed them, smiled and introduced myself; they happily greeted me back as they came in. I used the handicap open-door button for the woman in the wheelchair; they all thanked me for that. The girl I spoke to on the phone -- the shortest and youngest -- had a round face and clear eyes framed by a cream headscarf. We traded enough words for me to know who she was. I went back around to my secure desk, took up the letters in their sealed envelope and asked for Jane's ID.
The taller passenger produced a wallet and handed me a driver's license through the gate. It was Jane's, her signature just her first name. Her birthday, Jan. 1, was a common one for migrants and refugees who came from parts of the world not so invested with time and calendars as modern society. I looked up to confirm the photo matched.
It was. Jane's thin, long face was neatly framed by her blue headscarf, except for a part near her mouth that somehow remained covered in photo and reality. The lighter lines just peeking from its edges suggested she was covering up something. Scar? Blemish? Defect? I guessed the first, as it seemed more common in the area, but it didn't matter.
Jane's passenger produced $20 from the wallet. I ran the till, snatched a receipt and took everything back around to Jane's entourage. I handed the envelope to Jane's passenger, as she'd already been comfortable handing me things, as well as the receipt. She passed it to Jane, who burst with bows and thank yous.
There were several other words that came out that I didn't understand. She ended with, "Green card! Green card! Everyone wants green card!" A couple more thank yous.
I smiled as big and professional as I could, which was easy. "Well, welcome to America. We're glad to have you, and we hope you stay." I meant it.
Everyone thanked me several more times, louder than before. Even the woman in the wheelchair joined in. Jane clasped her hands together in thanks. I went back to the doors for them and opened them with the handicap buttons. They thanked me a few more times and exited back into the sun, colors relighting the landscape, with the white of the envelope clear in Jane's hand.
The effort put into the letter was perhaps 10 minutes. I knew more about Jane than perhaps some of her closest relatives, yet I knew nothing about her at all. Nor did I need to in order to do the job.
But I do know that Jane was grateful to be one step closer to being able to stay in the United States. One more person this country, with all its might and wealth and ideals, could assist in finding their American Dream, whatever it was.
And I just really love that I got to help.
