So You Want To Come To America? Then Get Naked!

*** Posted by Marivic, Part 6 of our 25th Anniversary series.

Now that the title got your attentionJ, I just want to say it is NOT what you might think it means.  Alan and I were very good Mormon kids. But –well, yes. I did have to take off my clothes (TMI!) to come to America. And that is what I want to talk about on this post. I mean my U.S. immigration experience and not just the getting naked partJ, to record a little bit of history for our children and posterity. 

However, unlike Alan I am not very good with dates and events and places. He is super amazing about recalling what, when, where and to whom. My brain and I, on other hand, have a way of discarding what I consider incidental clutterJ. But I am very good at remembering impressions and feelings I have about a particular event. And, oh did I have strong feelings about my whole immigration experience! So I’m going to focus on that part. Although the chronology of March 1985 and exact locations of events are kind of vague to me now 25 years later, I still vividly remember how I felt and what I thought.

March 1985 was NOT the best month of my life. It was the kind of month that I just had to get through and could not get to the end of fast enough. After spending the entire month of February in care-free lovey-dovey bliss, Alan and I were once again separated by thousands of miles and ocean. We had to come down from our rose-colored cloud to take care of the more earth-bound tasks required for us to marry. I had to get a visa to immigrate to the U.S., was subjected to the whims of embassy workers and had to jump through the hoops of the U.S. Immigration process. I believe my present opinion on U.S. immigration policy stems from my experience back in March of 1985. 

Here are some of the thoughts and feelings and events I remember from my personal immigration journey:

• I remember the long lines that wrapped around the building housing the U.S. Embassy in Manila. Hundreds of Filipinos standing in line outdoors in the sweltering tropical sun for hours waiting for their turn to get inside the embassy so they could leave the country. I'm not sure if it's still the same way now, or if they've established a more hospitable way for Filipinos to wait for a chance to get in the building, but I remember feeling insulted to be treated so inhospitably in my own land. But I reminded myself that no one was putting a gun to my head to do what I was doing. One does not have the right to self-righteous nationalism when one is fleeing her own country by choice and begging another country to let them in. That’s my thought on that.
• Still I remember feeling somewhat sad that so many people wanted to leave--- engineers, doctors, nurses, etc. (the etc. of course included mail-order-brides and such). I used to have a college professor who talked to us his young students about the great "brain-drain": the wave of bright, educated young Filipinos departing for greener foreign pastures and how detrimental this has been to the Philippines. Although I was "fleeing" the country for less mercenary reasons like love, being one of the hundreds of people crowding the U.S. embassy for a visa still made my heart twinge a little bit for my homeland.  It was a time of mixed emotions for me.
• I remember trying to focus on my purpose for being there and passing my time in line preparing for my interview with an immigration agent by going over my document-checklist numerous times. Birth certificate, check. Police clearance, check. Passport photos exactly sized, check. I went over my list repeatedly, just to make sure I had everything I was supposed to bring.

The U.S. Embassy in Manila (photo from Google Maps).

• I remember finally getting inside the building and getting to sit on a chair in a crowded but air-conditioned waiting room after standing for hours out in the sun. I remember immigration agents seated behind a long desk and processing person after person. I remember thinking they had this air of superiority and power about them. They were Americans I assumed but looked Filipino--- short, and brown with small flat noses. They had this cold "I am better than you" demeanor directed at the Filipinos on the other side of their desks. I remember feeling disgusted, but again I reminded myself I was there to beg for a visa. Self-righteous nationalistic fervor was not only out of place, but ridiculously hypocritical.
• I remember finally getting called to sit in front of an embassy worker. He was very cordial, but he told me I still needed to pay a $75 fee. There was nothing about it on my checklist and Alan had explained to me before this that everything was taken care of and I was just there to show all my documents and be interviewed so I was perplexed.  But the embassy worker said I could not proceed until I take care of that, so I had to come back another day and get back in line. The thought of having another long day like I just had made me want to cry.
• I remember going back to the embassy after a few days with the money. Alan was able to send it to me in Manila. We now felt confident that since an embassy worker had already pre-screened all my documents that this was finally the day I’ll get my visa.  Again I made it to the front of the line but now I had a different pre-screener.  At first everything went well and then the fact came up that I had lived in different provinces (as a missionary). I was then told a police clearance would not do it.  I needed an NBI (National Bureau of Investigation) clearance!

• I remember feeling so frustrated.  What we thought was something that would take me only a few short days had now turned into excruciating weeks.  Alan and I were both very upset about all the delays.  We just wanted to be together again. I remember him saying later something about his Dad contacting the office of Utah Senator Jake Garn to complain about the stupid things I was put through at the U.S. Embassy.
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  I remember thinking Alan's Dad must be an important man in UtahJ. Senator Garn sent a letter to the head of the U.S. embassy in the Philippines inquiring about my case and the next time I showed up at the embassy I was expedited to the front of the line. I was impressed. I didn't yet know that in America politicians sometimes do nice things for their constituents because, unlike in the Philippines, it's harder to cheat and steal votes during elections and they truly have to win by popularity. So back then I simply thought I must be marrying into a connected familyJ. Anyway, all my papers were then declared in order, and, as it turns out, there was NO additional $75 fee after all.
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  I remember early in the whole process being required to get a physical/health check-up at an embassy designated hospital. I remember sitting in a waiting room at the hospital with other potential immigrants, and being herded from one procedure to another. I remember feeling that all of us there were mindless cattle, meekly doing what we were told to do. Move to this room, move to that room, sit here, stand there, etc. ---It didn't even matter how long or whether the herding back and forth even made sense.  Everyone just did what they were told; just give us the stupid visa already!  
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  I remember being ushered into another room and told to put on a hospital gown then directed to go behind a curtain. I remember going through THE MOST HUMILIATING thing I had to do in my life. With other female visa applicants standing in line next to me, and nothing but a flimsy linen curtain separating us from a roomful of other men and women (strangers!) also waiting for their turn at humiliation, we were told to undress before a panel of men and women doctors seated behind a desk writing notes on clipboards. They ordered us to turn this way, turn that way, turn around, bend over (!!!). Can you freakin’ believe I submissively did as I was told while they scribbled notes?!! I practically stood naked with and in front of strangers as they inspected my body for---? Lice? Scabs? Cooties? It felt so perverted, humiliating and dehumanizing! Yet I meekly submitted for a golden ticket to America! I hope this was a social glitch from the 8o’s and they now have a more private and dignified way of inspecting would-be Filipino immigrants for cooties! I often wonder if European immigrants back then were asked to do what I did; or was that form of immigration humiliation reserved for immigrants from poorer countries.
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  I remember what a comfort my good friend Helen de la Cruz (Costales) was to me with her kindness and generosity in letting me stay with her in her family's apartment in Manila during this time. She was there when I missed Alan so much my heart was literally breaking, and when my mind was so agitated from my negative experiences with the immigration process.  We'd stay up late most nights and talk for hours. Some days we'd go to the Manila temple for, believe it or not, the young LDS social scene.  At that time public areas of the Manila temple had become a sort of young single adult hang out, where young Latter-day saints, many returned missionaries "prowled" in search of "eternal companions".
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  I remember actually enjoying the young single adult scene in Manila.  I was welcomed as Helen’s guest and I had fun. But I also remember thinking how ridiculous some of the young men I met were! Some strutted around like they were something else. "Hey, look at me! You could be the lucky girl. I'm a prized returned missionary"! I often caught myself thinking, "You stupid Manila boy. You are not even half as good as MY boy. And he would never diminish himself and 'prowl' and peacock around like you."J  But alas, my perfect prize of a boy was across the ocean and I was missing him so painfully much.
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  I remember one particular phone conversation with Alan at Helen's house before I got my visa.  We were both so miserable and missing each other in the worst way! We talked and cried together for I don't know how long. I remember desperately wanting to reach out and comfort Alan, and for him to hug me and comfort me, but we were just voices on the phone and so, so far from each other. I always felt worse after we said goodbye and hung up. It just seemed like I was never going to get my visa, and the ocean separating us will keep us separated forever. I remember there were many days I felt that way back in March of 1985.
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  I remember after days of waiting finally getting notice of my final interview schedule at the U.S. embassy. This meant all my documents were in order and I have submitted everything that needed to be submitted and paid everything that needed to be paid and I didn't have cooties! J All I needed to do now was sit with a U.S. official and answer personal questions. I was instructed to bring proof of my relationship with Alan.  I was apprehensive, but excited to be nearing the end of my ordeal.
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  I remember on the day of my final interview there was no waiting around at the embassy even though there were many people already seated ahead of me in the waiting area.  I came in and announced my presence to a clerk, and a few minutes later I was being led to a private office.  In the room was this important-looking white American man sitting behind a desk, reviewing what looked like my documents. I nervously sat down holding a box of letters that Alan had written to me during and after my mission. I also brought pictures of Alan and me together. I was prepared to prove I wasn't a fake fiancé or something. But I remember the man didn't ask me hardly anything. He signed a few things and handed me some papers and told me I was all set and will be receiving my visa-stamped passport in the mail within a few days.  Welcome to the USA. And that was it! Hours and days of processing and waiting, but not even 10 minutes of interview!

• I remember walking out of that building with winged feet. I felt such a sense of relief I felt delirious. I don't remember exactly what happened after that.  I knew I packed my belongings, thanked Helen and took a plane home to Cebu. I don't remember when I called Alan to tell him everything went well, but I know I did, of course. We were so relieved, happy and excited.
• I recall feeling a little bit of anxiety as I waited for my passport/visa to arrive in Cebu. What if it's lost in the mail? Why didn't they just hand it to me?  I would have been willing to wait for it.  I've already done hours of waiting in that building I could have waited hours more for the visa-stamped passport to be handed to me personally. But I remember the package finally arriving, although I don't remember exactly when. Oh, the joy! I remember holding it in my hand feeling really happy.  Soon I will see my Alan again...

... But I also remember a sudden and overwhelming pang of pain. It immediately dawned on me that I have now come to the beginning of good-byes. Nine days after the visa was issued I was on a plane bound for America.

***Upcoming Posts will include: "So This Is The Land of Milk and Honey?" and "Meet The Marsdens". The titles may change but the topics will generally remain the same.

If you miss parts of the series you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.