First Chair, First Row

I walked into the cold, distant, impersonal office. Cold, less in its physical sense, more in its mind-rooted sensation. To my right, a woman in a grey-toned uniform looked over a paper I handed her, then lazily extended an arm towards rows of empty chairs. 

“See that desk over there,” she questioned

“This one here?” I pointed

“No, that one there,” I nodded in fear of her administrative annoyance, she pointed toward a chair, “wait there, first chair first row. When you see someone at that desk, walk up and give them your appointment notice,” she detailed before wobbling back to her post.  

I thanked her, turned my head to face the empty rows upon empty rows, and pondered the importance of sitting “first chair, first row.” A father and son, who were sitting on the opposite end of said front row finished a conversation they were having over pamphlets titled “preparing for the citizenship’s test,” stood, and made their exit, leaving me alone in the wide yet small muted colored USCIS office. 

Despite being the only one there and assuming the only other person in uniform would make their way to the desk quickly, I took a book out, titled my head down, and a question mark appeared in my mind: why do I know this place? A swooping familiarity combed the air as my eyes explored the room. Maroon chairs made of thick plastic and thin metal. Plain beige linoleum flooring so shiny it looked greasy. The faded bluish walls, the bright yet dull yellow fluorescent lighting lightly flickered above my head. Suddenly it hit me, I had been here over 10 years ago, for my first biometrics appointment. I remembered walking in with my parents with an air of fatigue. It had been early, my eyes were fluttering with daze and my hair was a specific discombobulated square shape. 

My mother was stunning as always, her big lioness black twisty, voluminous curls tucked inside her thick alpaca sweater. She held my hand, she did the talking, she led. I remember sitting for the picture and feeling packed, my neck swallowed by the union of sweater and chin. Apart from that I don’t remember much. Perhaps this biometrics appointment wasn’t very eventful. It could have been because I didn’t care to remember. I may have been too young. She may have made it so easy to forget. 

At school, I always reached for the not-so-coveted spot of “teacher’s pet”. The kind that excels at whisking a mixture of rebellion and politeness together before topping it with a big fat smile, gums and all. My report cards always read “bavarde,” a single word, employed as a verb, an adjective – all uses would be present on my report cards – to claim I often chatted with classmates during lessons. The same vivacity to get me in trouble would be the one to carve me out. This eagerness to please, amusing instability, catalyst for irritability would follow me through interactions with employers, administrative appointees, government officials, anyone with a badge or prideful gleam. 

Around the same time, I renewed my French passport. I recall entering the french embassy on the Upper East Side. My mother came to pick me up. This was rare, she was a busy woman working in the fashion industry: PR. She would come a few times a year for the important days. She may have chaperoned a couple field trips in my entire schooling experience. While experiencing slight child envy of those whose parents were consistent in their attendance, I grew to take pride in her prioritized presence. She always attended first and last days, spring plays, winter concerts, graduations. It didn’t matter that she never attended bake sales because when she did come,her way of carrying herself would fill my chest with an expansive, amber-golden, sticky cloud of blissful claiming. 

“That’s my mother,” I would say

“Your mom always looks so good,” my friends would come to repeat throughout the years of her apparitions. 

When I was under 10, she would come to la rentrée (back to school), dressed for work. She wore wide sunglasses, was propped up in heels of just the right size and adorned in tasteful singular jewelry. Her walk would make her long trench coats float in the wind she generated herself. Her curls bouncing in half-slow-motion half-calculated-acceleration. Effortlessly majestic, she mesmerized all from parents to children, teachers to security guards. She may even have tricked some in thinking she was doing so irreverently. She wasn’t. 

Her coming to pick me up on this seemingly random Tuesday or Thursday afternoon under the gazes of classmates whom I wanted to think I was unattainably interesting, quilted me in a rosy hue of worthiness. We walked the concrete slates of the Upper East side, oozing so much fanciness, they made you question if they should've been cobblestoned. Trees so similar, so evenly placed, they felt like decorative sticks rather than invitations of nature, paved the way from French school to embassy. 

At its entrance, a french speaking security guard would be the first to signal the mind’s sigh of comfort to be in a place of primary culture. Then would follow the signs around the security belt onto which we placed our bags. We must’ve walked through, sat in wide cozy armchairs pivoted towards small tables decorated with magazines and little plants, chatted about. I couldn't have recalled its interior until my latest visit. A solitary one rhythmed by rushy thoughts, lungs, and eye placements. I’ve always recalled her stance, her look, her attention, as though I spent most of the visit staring at her. She sat to get her picture taken, angled her chin down and her gaze up, added the faintest of smiles. Click and flash, she only needed one take. Five years later, she would teach me the perfect passport photo pose. 

“Regardes la caméra,” she started pointing at the camera for my eyesight to follow. 

“Baisse ton menton,” she continued gently placing her index knuckle on my chin.

“Maintenant souris mais juste un peu,” she wrapped the lesson, advising me to smile, “but only a tiny bit.” 

Six years after that, I would be sitting in the same or completely different felt armchairs in the wait-your-turn area, by myself. I would be called and my nervous, over-prepared self would blurt out too many pleasantries to ensure the one with the imaginary power to decline my passport renewal wouldn’t have any reasons to. I would come prepared with all the necessary paperwork and more. Paperwork I would’ve checked, re-checked, reviewed and re-reviewed, stacked and organized and…. 

This would be after the time I lost my green card in Toronto when I was living there for university. I had been on the bus on my way home from a scratchy audition for some confusing commercial during my very brief interaction with the industry which only made me $200 richer. I didn’t carry my green card often and lost things even more infrequently. When I arrived home, I felt all my pockets and body parts for the thin, narrow, single slip, black leather card holder. My eyes widened in panic and suddenly I was hysterically crying in disbelief, checking and re-checking, turning my blazer inside and out. When my mind completed its tango with denial, I was on my knees, my hands spread wide in front of me, wondering what this news meant. 

My debit card had also been in the little black slip. I called my mother, she ordered me a new card; I asked about my green card and we agreed we’d both look into it. My mother had been diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer 25 months prior. She had been given 3 months to live – something I knew not at the time – and would go on to live 30. I was her baby and I was over 18 across a border. She was my mother and she was getting sicker and sicker, treatments and scans making her weaker and weaker. She couldn’t fix it for me and I couldn’t ask her to. After allowing the panic to settle, after calling and recalling Toronto’s bus service lost and found in vain, I started my research to fulfill the get-home-to-her plan. Frantically, I made my way to my bed, opened my computer, grabbed a notebook, a pen and ripped its cap off with my teeth. I was ready. 

Toronto’s American Embassy didn’t provide great detail regarding my case. USCIS did mention, I could need a temporary I-90 stamp in my passport to travel home. Alert and wired, I figured the embassy must be able to provide one, so I went. I arrived to a long line leaning against a wall opposite a government official in a little glass box. I knocked on the glass and blurted out, “I lost my green card, can you help me please?”

“Sorry, hello, how are you?” I added, realizing I may be coming off as rude. 

“We only take care of citizens’ needs,” she blankly stated, 

“I really need help, I think I need an I-90 stamp, is there someone I could –” 

“I understand Miss, but we can only help citizens, are you a citizen?” I was convinced I had started to bother her. 

“No, I’m a permanent resident,”

“You’ll need to go to a USCIS field office,” she looked up and handed me a paper with information that felt useless. 

Upon coming home and diving back into my research, I found out that the nearest USCIS field office was in Mexico city. Just like I would later question the notion of “first chair, first row” upon looking at rows on unclaimed chairs in the Manhattan USCIS biometrics office, I couldn’t wrap a single string of thought around the idea that efficiency could lie in my flying to Mexico when I needed to get to America which was only 2 hours away. Over the phone, a USCIS agent told me that would be my best bet. Shortly after, a border patrol officer told me otherwise. Restless and finding myself in that precarious position of being too old to crave her mother’s arms, I caved and decided the rest could be handled the next day….

After buying a plane ticket because I thought I needed proof that I was traveling to rush the renewal application along, after getting a letter requesting my permanent brooklyn address, I was convinced I had made it clear in the application, I finally understood how to make my way home thanks to a single web page on the embassy’s website. My best bet while avoiding leisure-less Mexican travels was showing up to the border with a list of documents, including an application confirmation, a police report on a lost or stolen green card, passport pictures, and other sense-making asks. I booked a bus ticket. Upon arrival at the border, I made my way to the front to avoid being left behind should my questioning take longer. 

“Why are you out of breath, have you been running?” the brick-like officer asked.

“No, I’m just nervous,” I replied. His eyes hardened and stared before leaning back in realization that I was serious, I hated this. I would go on to hate it. Hated it at my passport appointment where I would bring various multiples of all required documents, just in case. I hated it when I had to get a disposition for drinking in the street when I was 16 for my passport application at 23. I hated it when I couldn’t call her, Iana, my mother to tell her about the delirious interactions I had been accumulating. 

Sitting in that “first row, first chair” of the Manhattan USCIS office, the reason behind the flustered speech, fast beating heart, clammy hands, and wandering eyesight, crystalized. I hadn’t always been this way. When I could reach for her hand, when her hair would bounce in front of me, when I could cling onto her words, I had been fine. My aversion started to wear off following the latest USCIS visit, my mind drumming beats of betrayal. An aversion born out of respect, out of longing, out of certainty. In the first instance, I had needed to get home to her, to be there for her, the stakes were high. It taught me I could. I could adult without her by my side and I would soon have to, time and time again.