It Will Not Break. It Broke.

By Mike Flynn and Shikha Dalmia
From here. Not at all depressing or scary... 

When they say 

The immigration system

Is broken

It needs fixing 

I can tell you

First hand

It is a red hot 

Stinking mess 

Of hell

Like having the privilege 

Of being with my love

Took eleven months

A few thousand dollars 

Endless reams of paper 

That repeated the

Same information

Over and over and 

Over again 

Name. Age. D.O.B. His Name. Age. D.O.B. 

Parent’s names. Parent’s birthdays. Parent’s place of birth. 

Copies of birth certificates, police certificates, medical certificates. 

Every address I have lived at since I was sixteen 

(I am currently residing in my 24th abode in 30 years. I hate that question.) 

And once the system

Decided

In 2013

To make everything virtual 

We had to re-submit

Every single form

From scratch. 

At one point,

There were six different numbers 

Assigned to my case 

Now I am a code. 

I am never asked for my name

Only my number 

Because I am not 

Luisa Lyons, Australian/Spanish citizen 

I am a ten digit code with an 

Alphabetized prefix. 

And once I got to the USA

And arrived at the border

The immigration official

Had to go through every piece of paper

In my packet

Stamp it

And determine it was ok for me to go through

Once we were married

More paperwork

The same information

Over and over and 

Over again 

Name. Age. D.O.B. His Name. Age. D.O.B. 

Parent’s names. Parent’s birthdays. Parent’s place of birth. 

Copies of birth certificates, police certificates, medical certificates

Certified marriage certificate

Every address I have lived at since I was sixteen 

Everything must be submitted in hard copy, most forms are filled in by hand

This is to “Adjust Immigrant Status” 

And apply for “Employment Authorization” 

More exorbitant fees

That ensure

You will never be able to speak to a human

Months of waiting 

And zero communication

With the department

The system is broken 

Because between us

My husband and I 

Hold four university degrees

But my husband has to work his butt off 

To keep us afloat 

Because I’m not allowed to work

Either to contribute to the economy 

Or to our household 

I’m grateful I speak English

I’m proactive 

I volunteer at a local bookshop

Am volunteering with a local theatre company 

Writing my one-woman show 

But 

In a society whose primary currency is 

Cash 

I cannot thrive

I hate not being independent

I hate having to ask for financial help 

When we have worked so damn hard. 

I hate living in a system 

That is so crushed by bureaucracy 

And fear 

That it is not able to function 

The system is broken

And it’s breaking me down 

Every time I have to call the 

“Helpline” 

To ask 

Why haven’t we heard anything?

I’m tired of being a number 

And waiting

The end.