Coming to America

PHILADELPHIA, the city of brotherly love, capped a twenty-six hour haul from St. Jude Village in the City of San Fernando to NAIA, onto Nagoya in Japan, across the expanse of the Pacific and the breadth of continental USA – coast to coast.
The jaded traveler’s been-there-done-that snootiness that comes with frequent flying crashes at the immigration booth in Detroit, the usual port of entry for the traveler to the East Coast.
Gone here are the courtesies of INS officers in SanFo or the niceties of those in LAX, my frequent entry ports to the US. Detroit is all business, jaggedly edging on arrogance. All arrivals are virtually deemed potential terrorists, money launderers or dollar salters; Filipinos, specifically-targeted as probable illegal migrants.
“So, what’s your business going to the US?” It made me feel as though the INS guy just saw Saddam’s clone in me.
“We’re here to attend a class reunion,” the wife sounded matter-of-factly.
“What kind of reunion?”
“A school reunion.”
“What school?”
“The Collegio de Sagrado Corazon de Jesus, a Catholic school in the Philippines.”
“A school in the Philippines having a reunion in the US? What’s this?
The wife was unperturbed: “This is an annual affair of the school alumnae who have long lived here and are US citizens. We were invited.”
“How many are they?”
“Over a hundred, gauging from the e-mail my sister sent us.”
“So what do you do in the Philippines?”
“I am housewife.”
“And you?”
“A free-lance journalist and book author.”
“How would I know you are what you say you are. Have you any proofs?”
I nearly collapsed when the wife suddenly fished out a copy of my book Brigada .45 from her bag: “Here’s one of his books.”
At the sight of the Colt .45 pistol pictured on the book cover, the INS officer as though found before him Osama bin-Laden himself.
“What’s this all about?” He demanded waving my book at my face.
“A novel on the insurgency in the Philippines.”
“What in..surgen…cy?”
“The communist insurgency. Rebellion. Fighting the government.”
“Ah, communism. Are you a communist? Have you been arrested?”
“No and no.”
“What’s your proof that you’re a journalist?”
It was providential that the only copy of Pampanga News I got in my laptop bag was the July 13-19 issue with my face prominently displayed by the masthead with the rest of the Society of Pampanga Columnists and our distinguished awardees.
“There, that’s me,” I told him pointing at my smiling mug.
“So, where’s your name here?”
I showed him my column.
“How much money are you bringing?”
“Over five thousand dollars.”
“How did you get them?”
“I earned them.”
“How much is your salary as a journalist and author?”
“I have no fixed income. I get paid for what I write, especially for commissioned work as in my books.”
“How long do you intend to stay in the US?”
The wife answered: “Maybe until September.”
“What maybe, you don’t have any fixed schedule? Where is your return ticket?”
Wife handed him our tickets.
“It says here September 15, you’re not fixed yet on that?”
The wife again: “No. We intend to visit my husband’s relatives in the West Coast too. But our stay depends on whatever length of time you will give us.”
“Supposed I give you beyond September, what then?”
“Then, thank you but we have to go home before the end of October?”
“Why?”
“It is the fiesta in our parish community and we have to be there prior to the actual feast day.”
“Okay, thank you for answering my questions. Enjoy.”
I wanted to give him the finger. But I realized he was just doing his job. With all those threats from Osama and company, America is a nation under siege. And stringent security is the price everyone has to pay for the nation to be safe. But never shall I come here again. Not through Detroit that is.
Ah, yes, the guy gave us till January 18, 2007 to stay. Neat.
(Published in Pampanga News, July 21-August 2, 2006)