I just paid a visit to the Department of Homeland Security. Multiple forms of identification were checked, forms filled out and fingerprints recorded––both hands, all fingers. Yes, I just went to the USCIS office: United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. No, I am not a citizen and had to renew my green-card. The new card will arrive in a few months with a new picture underneath the familiar block letters “Resident Alien.” Familiar—Strange.

The building is anonymous, embedded within a strip mall a mile east of the downtown plazas. “Application Support Center” reads the simple white lettering on the door; there is no sign above the building. Rather, one can locate the door by first finding the “Armed Services Center”—a recruiting office––then walking a few feet past it. The door opens with a beep, a military sound reminiscent of the metal detectors at the airports. The various immigrants occupy an open, clinically clean space, and watch your entrance; they have little choice because their chairs face the door and a fellow alien is more compelling than the movie Robots playing without sound in a corner. I walk through a delineated aisle and greet a large Hispanic man seated in front of a sparse cheap table. I present papers and ID. I am given a form to fill and asked to return on completion. When I return, I have to present two forms of ID, my driver’s license and my 10-year-old green card––I am a chubby fourteen in that picture.

 
“Please come back when your number is called.”

I take a seat and try to choose between watching the movie or the door. When a cute blonde walks in, the choice is obvious. Hope for a conversation is broken, however, as she is quickly processed and practically finished by the time my number is called. I assume she simply has a simpler process to go through. Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation behind me.

A stocky, spectacled man in white shirt and tie comes out of his office and greets one of the aliens, a heavyset man with wheezy breath.

“What is your nation of birth sir?”
“Yugoslavia”
“Yugoslavia doesn’t exist anymore. Where are you from?”
“Kosovo”
“Well Kosovo is a…..still a province of Serbia, so your card will say Serbia—Montenegro. Remember to use Serbia—Montenegro on all official forms.”
“Ok”
With a smile, “And if Kosovo ever becomes independent, you can put Kosovo”

“Number 11”

I bring my attention to the woman calling my number, go to her and am passed off into the hands of a technician browsing the web. He, Antonio, walks me over to a station and slowly puts on latex gloves, sprays a cloth with cleaning fluid and wipes down a small glass surface. We begin with my right hand and scan four fingers together. Then my right thumb. The same for my left hand.

“Step over here please,” Antonio says quietly.

Each finger of my right hand is scanned independently. Each finger is rolled from right to left. On the screen, my print looks like a map, a purposefully flattened image of a round object. Each finger. Index. Middle. Ring.

“Relax”
“Oh, sorry”

Pinky. Thumb.

“Step over here”

The process repeats for the left hand.

“Have a seat please”
 
“Look over here.”

My picture is being taken but I don’t have my picture face on. Antonio shows me my picture and asks if I like it. I ask if we can redo it and he obliges. I ask if I can smile and he answers in the affirmative. I sit, I smile.

“You can smile, but without teeth showing.”

The picture is taken. I approve of this one. He rechecks all the information, rescans some of my fingers, then writes his identification number on my form. The screen says it is his ‘quality control’ number and lists his name next to it.

“You’re all set. Have a good day.”
“Thank you so much. You too.”

As I approach the exit, I notice again the tall heavyset security officer standing next to the door.

“Have a good day.”
“Thanks. Good luck with everything” she says.