Goodbye America, See You in 10 Years!

A little over a week ago, I embarked on a trip to the US to accompany my mother. It was a long flight from Manila to Japan to Texas but the excitement and anticipation of finally seeing family sustained us throughout the trip.

But then there’s the Immigration line, the port of entry to the US.  Many of you have been there. Everything is pretty much standard procedure here. The questions asked are usually “What is the purpose of your visit to the US?” “Where are you staying in the US?”, “Do you have a job in your home country?”, “When do you plan to go back to your home country?” Etc. But the it can all still be a bit nerve-wracking.

The officer assigned to us that afternoon was in a joking mood. In between questions, he complimented that my mom looked 55 instead of 73. After a few clicks on his computer, he stamped my mother’s passport and sent her on her merry way. I told you, nothing to be nervous about.

Then there’s me. He smiled at me and said, “At my kind of job, I like to take all the opportunity I can to take steps. So why don’t we take a few steps together. Come with me.” Way to say it, Jose. He led my mom and I to a familiar-looking office, unlocked the door and told me that I need a secondary interview.

Stranded at Secondary Interview

I’ve been to this kind of office before. A few years ago, I was travelling from Manila to L.A. and was led to secondary interview. The room was full and crowded of tired travellers, most of them nervous and ticked that they have to go through hours of waiting just to be scrutinized about little details in their life so that they can prove that they are not a threat to America. Officers were shouting at people to stop using their phones. Several people were not afraid to retort with a stream of expletives for the treatment they are getting. It was chaos.

The DHS office in Dallas was less stressful and almost bare compared to LA. All you hear was the clicking of the keyboards as the officers research each person’s travelling background. Every now and then, you would hear them laugh at someone’s joke. Their demeanor would change when they have to talk to a traveller. 

Finally after about waiting for an hour, my name was called. “Do you know the reason why you’re here?” the officer asked me. I knew this whole thing was all about my husband’s aviation school and how our M1/M2 visa papers got all messed up while he was studying (a story reserved for a later time). So I said, “I think I kind of have an idea.”

So there I was, explaining everything that happened. I showed all the documents that proved my story. But finding all my explanations and documentations insufficient, the officer decided to cancel my multiple entry visa, and send me back to the Philippines. In situations like this, they send people back on the next flight back to their country of origin, but because it was already late in the evening, and Dallas International Airport is not open 24/7, I had to be detained overnight. 

I informed my mom of the decision and told her everything was going to be ok. She was then wheeled out of the office to meet my brother and his family. I was told to wait some more and was given the opportunity to contact immediate family members. 

After about half an hour, I was called back into the officer’s desk. And this is when the realness of it all kicked in.

Everything According to “Standard Protocol”

Ignorantly speaking, I thought being held overnight just meant I will stay at the gate, sleep there, and wait for the next flight back. Apparently, it was a more complicated process than that.

He asked me to step back and to surrender my backpack and purse. “This is all standard procedure,” the interviewing officer eplained. “I would have to get all your things and return them to you when you’re on the plane,” he said. He checked the contents of my bag and found $200 cash and gave it to me. “This you keep with you at all times.”

I was then told to sit and to wait to be called. Then he disappeared into a corridor to put my stuff away. After what seemed like eternity, another officer noticed I was still waiting there and shouted into the hallway where the officer in charge of me disappeared, “Hey, you realize she’s still sitting here right?” I was then let out of their office into the waiting room area which really didn’t make much of a difference.

After what seemed like eternity, a woman officer asked me to come back in the office. She led me back in the same hallway and into a bare room which only had a chair and a table. Another woman officer came in and explained to me that they are doing a standard strip search to make sure I don’t have any weapon on me. 

Satisfied, they led me to another room. The DHS officer that previously interviewed me was there typing on a computer. After a few minutes, he looked up from the computer and told me that he will ask me the same questions he asked me previously and that I needed to state my answers with all honesty — you know all the standard stuff they say about protocol, etc. Basically they needed me to admit that it was a fault on our  part, and that we overstayed in the country and that was why DHS found us inadmissible to the US.

Every now and then, other officers would come to the room and asked what I did. Did I work in the US illegally? Did I bring a bomb? What kind of trouble did I cause? At which the officer would curtly reply, “No she didn’t do any of those. She’s a missionary.” 

After the interview, which took about an hour, I was given a microwave-heated vegetable burrito and two packs of fruit gummies for dinner.

The officer kept typing which felt like he was doing it forever. By this time, I knew how many gummies were in the pack, how many flavors and how many gummies for each flavor. I read everything posted on the bulletin board behind him. I had the longest eye to eye contact with this kid on a wallposter advertising awareness for human trafficking. The officers in the other room were making plans about what they will do for the weekend. One suggested going to the race tracks.

After what felt like a million years, the interviewing officer asked how was the burrito. I was like, seriously? So I told him it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. And he said that he never liked these burritos because they are not the real thing. Ok, so much for small talk. 

Then he told me he needed to take a picture of me — of what potentially looked like a mug shot because of what was in the background. He probably read my mind and said, “This is not what you think it is. It’s just for our records here so we know what your height is. Besides I only have to take a picture of you facing the camera. Don’t worry, you did not commit a crime.” 

Then he had to take my fingerprints. I guess I wasn’t pressing the machine hard enough so he had to take my hand and literally push every finger into the machine. Yet somehow the computer wasn’t reading it. So we transferred to another office, which was super cold, but supposedly had better equipment. After a couple tries, it was clear the better equipment wasn’t working too. So he gave me some sort of finger moisturizer to be applied liberally, but that didn’t work either. Finally, he decided to take do it the old fashioned way where I had to dab my fingers in ink. That worked!

More waiting followed and he told me that I would be brought to the detention center for the night and that they would have to handcuff me. This is all standard procedure, of course, and according to him they had some people in the past who misbehaved so they always take the necessary precautions.

A Moment to Worship

You’re probably wondering what was running through my mind during the whole ordeal so far. And to be honest, I felt calm, composed and just really really tired. I was praying that the Lord would keep me calm and He answered that prayer straightaway. I really thank God for those times in the past when I memorized Bible verses, because they all came back to my mind, clear as crystal.  

We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed.
We are perplexed, yet not in despair.
Persecuted, but not forsaken.
Cast down, but not destroyed. (2 Cor. 4:8-9)

Whatsoever is born of God, overcometh the world.
And this is the victory that overcometh the world, even by faith. (1 John 5:4)

Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee. (Isaiah 26:3)

This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope.
It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness (Lamentations 3:21-23)

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus (Philippians 2:5)

I was so encouraged in the Lord that I broke out in singing, right there in the waiting room. Not the Broadway type, break out into dance type of singing. But I sat there calmly and worshipped God for His goodness never fails. 

Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come?
Why should my heart be lonely? And long for heaven and home?
When Jesus is my portion. 
My constant friend is He.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I sing because I’m happy! I sing because I’m free.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

The officers behind the glass windows started looking at me funny. But I noticed that after that little worship episode, they were less tensed and more good-natured towards me.

Two officers approached me and said, “Word around here is that you’re nice, so we’re not going to handcuff you. We trust you’re not going to run. (Smiles). Let’s go.”

I looked back at the other officers as we got ready to go and they smiled and waved at me. That was weird.

At the Detention Center

It was around midnight when we arrived at the detention center. The place was quiet and clean although it still resembled a prison cell. Another search was done then I was asked to surrender my shoes. I was given a pair of giant plastic slippers, two blankets, a towel, a face towel and a small toothbrush. They also asked me to grab one of the thin mattresses on my way to my cell.

As tired as I was, my whole body was wide awake. Every hour, I would get up from my makeshift bed and check the time on the clock placed right outside my cell. I paced around trying to keep warm. More songs and verses came to my mind and somehow there was that calm assurance that everything will be ok, and that there are people praying for me even though I didn’t have enough time to contact anyone of my situation, except my husband and brother.

“Miss, it’s time to go.” A police officer shouted as she unlocked the door. I must have dozed off around 4am, which was the last time I remember checking. I looked at the clock again. 7:30 am. Another search, and then I was given back my shoes and headband. 

“Turn around miss and put your hands on your back. Let me know if this is too tight for you,” the policewoman instructed. My heart sank as I felt the cold sting of the metal handcuffs. Back in the empty van, she attached my handcuff to a strap, then strapped me so I don’t get tossed about.

Freedom!

It was about a 20-minute drive to the airport, and about a 10-minute walk from the parking lot to the DHS office. It was a nice, crisp and chilly morning. And the two officers were busy chatting about their family, what their kids are doing, and the kind of treatment they deserve to have at work (yeah, I eavesdropped on their conversation). 

At one point, they were even walking ahead of me , oblivious that I was behind them. I imagined running away at James Bond speed but reason and reality told me I cannot possibly outrun these two law enforcers. Especially not with my hands cuffed tight like that. That side of the airport wasn’t too busy but there were still several curious onlookers. It must have been a sight. Two big burly policemen with a handcuffed petite Asian in a skirt walking across the road. I would definitely be curious. 

Back at the DHS office, they finally removed my handcuff and asked me to go to the waiting room. A distressed-looking father and son was there. They managed to give me a weak smile when I came in. After a few minutes, an officer asked me, “Hey, did they give you breakfast over at the center? Anyways, I thought you might like some,” and handed me a white chocolate Cliff granola bar and a toasted English muffin with beef and cheese on a plastic tray. 

“Alright, time to say goodbye to your son,” another officer addressed the father. The son cried, the father cried — it was just heartbreaking to watch. They all left the room and I sat alone, again staring at the same wallposter of a sad African child I looked at for hours the night before. The beginning of a new day, and it’s off to a bizarre start.

I must have dozed off again because the next thing I knew, the officer who picked me up at the detention center woke me up and told me that it was time to go. She had my backpack and purse but never handed it to me. She asked me to follow her. I breathed a sigh of relief because she didn’t have to handcuff me.

She escorted me all the way to the gate and handed my boarding pass and passport to the flight attendant. I was probably like the third passenger to board the plane so it was a nice feeling not having to dodge anyone’s suitcase or wait for a person to clear the aisle. I heard her talk to the flight attendant giving her instructions to only hand me my passport when all the cabin doors are locked. She then handed me my bags and left. 

I wanted to make a last phone call but there was no WiFi signal in the plane. I would have to wait until I get to Hongkong. Goodbye America, see you in ten years!