As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Slovakia, I received help from a counterpart and the papers from the Peace Corps office, but that could not save us from the military office visits to a town 12 kilometers away. The building I recall was somehow full of closed doors and a lot of waiting, even if I was being led around by my colleague Klaudia. We visited and filled out forms. Brought papers. Refilled out forms. Went to find more papers. And waited for closed doors to open. Not horrific, but definitely not friendly.
In Mexico, I was put in charge of managing my work papers on my own in the huge office in the center of Guadalajara. The papers weren't so cumbersome, but the lines were long and unfriendly. There were multiple lines. Sometimes I didn't know which one to stand in and, as there was no one to whom I could direct a question, I simply chose a line I thought could work, often to find out that it was the wrong line and that I had to start at the end of another queue and hope I made it to the front before the window closed. I visited that place and those lines many times, and I chalked it up to a colossal cross-cultural experience. The paperwork took months to sort out.
In the Romanian system, I was one of the lucky ones that got to circumvent lines and long waits. Due to the "contact" of a departmental colleague, my paperwork was rushed and when we visited the immigration police, we stepped in front of the line and right into the door of the man in charge. I had my papers in the mail before most were done standing in lines and filling out forms. The only hitch was the expiry date arranged by my disgruntled colleague who was upset with my departure to another school mid-year. Instead of papers for my entire stay, my card remained valid only for 5 months.
My experience four years ago in Tartu was not exactly painful, but it wasn't convenient either. I had to provide a lot of documentation for my qualifications to work as a non-EU citizen and the entire process was quite expensive and cumbersome for a one-year document. My colleague helped me at the immigration office, and, of course, we managed to wade through the process with success.
This new experience as the spouse of a resident could not have been more different. I waltzed into the open floor plan of the newly installed immigration police together with Ulrich, my passport, and marriage license. The woman working with us was extremely pleasant, and she processed my papers lickedy-split. Three weeks from the day of our first visit, I picked up my newly minted Estonian residency card! Simply Amazing.
This collection of personal immigration narratives, together with recent media impressions from National Public Radio and the New York Times paint a mottled picture of the acceptance of foreignness in this particular Baltic State. A possible interpretation as an outsider after listening/reading the news would be to assume that this place may not be very welcoming to those who are different. Although I realize there are differences between pursuing residency and citizenship, I might be led to assume that immigration encounters would be rather unfriendly. Not that I've had any poor personal experiences in Estonia that indicate that I am unwelcome here; quite the contrary, actually. The huge ad campaign for tourist, after all, is called "Welcome to Estonia." Tere Tulemast! Yes, welcomed I feel. One can agree, although the circumstances are different and perhaps it is a stretch to make comparisons between my personal anecdote, media attention about long-term residents and language, and tourism marketing, the picture is a bit inconsistent and confusing.
The flip side of the residency issue for me is related to immigration in my own country. After all, the U.S. is a self-proclaimed land of immigrants -- as inscribed on the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..." We celebrate our mixed heritages and glorify the struggles and sacrifices of those who came. "We Americans" are a motley crew wrestling with our identities, highlighting our pedigrees when they are preferred and downplaying other less-acceptable roots when inconvenient. This Interactive Map from NYT is endless entertainment, as you can look at immigration patterns from 1880 to the present, highlighting one group or another as you explore your own family's immigration and map it against the larger patterns. Indeed, we identify ourselves in this funny, mixed-up way. And yet we have Arizona, we have walls, we have those (from, gulp, my home state) fighting hard to defend what is "ours." In a profound way, I don't get it at all. As a de-facto American cultural ambassador of sorts (that's really what happens when you go abroad, like it or not), I can neither describe nor defend.
To complicate matters, I am also trying to apply for U.S. residency for my husband, God help him. The contrast could not be bigger. Today is the twelve-month anniversary of our first batch of application forms and fees. With an investment of a two-inch thick binder of forms and supporting materials and over $1,000 in fees, translations, and forms, we have not yet received any confirmation that we are indeed on the right track. The process leaves me with the same bewilderment I have when trying to figure out the IRS and my taxes. The process also leaves me embarrassed. My husband is a multilingual, educated person from a developed country; the process should not be difficult for him... and it is. We have to wonder with each entry and exit to the US if he will be pulled out for questioning. It's nerve-racking.
Our circumstances aside, should it matter where he is from, whether he speaks English, how educated he is whether or not he is currently employed? What do we fear that we so heavily screen and test? In a democracy that feigns welcome and inclusiveness, shouldn't we be able to marry whomever we want, regardless of citizenship?
Yep. I'm a legal alien, and a rather baffled one at that.
