OCTOBER * NOVEMBER 1997
The ABCDE Minded in the
Electric Universe
A Japanese-American Living in Mexico
Holly Yasui
Working Papers
When my royalties ran out, I had to get a job. In Mexico, during this economic crisis, that's not easy. It's not that there's a dearth of work in my field, graphic design. The problem is getting working papers.
When I went to the Immigration Office,
which issues work permits, they said I'd have to prove I wouldn't take employment
away from Mexicans. When I asked how I could prove that, the fellow at the
counter shrugged. "Get a Mexican sponsor," he said. "Someone
who will hire you and say your qualifications are unique and necessary for
his survival."
So, I hit the streets in search of a sponsor.
I tried the language and art schools, the local publications, and the new
branch of the Universidad de Valle de México, which had just opened.
They had 40 students and about a dozen staff members, so I wasn't optimistic
about their hiring another employee. The vice-rector, however, said he wanted
me to teach computer courses in English.
"In English?" I asked. "Will
the students understand me?"
"For continuing education. The retirement
community."
Oh, los gringos viejos. Well, I've endured
worse jobs in my life. I filled out the forms and brought them to Immigration.
It was the beginning of October. My classes were scheduled begin in November,
when the "snowbirds" descend from the North upon San Miguel.
The fellow at Immigration, José, looked over my forms and made a list of additional things I had to get in order to obtain permission to work. Statements of my bank account for the past two months, my University diploma, proof of residence in San Miguel. I called my bank in Denver for statements, and the University of Wisconsin for my diploma. My landlord agreed to make out receipts for me, but he kept forgetting. So I made them myself, cornered his daughter, and got her to sign them.
My bank account, however, was unsatisfactory,
since it had less than $100 in it. José whispered I should get a
loan to pump it up to $1,000. My diploma was, of course, in English, and
he told me I had to get it translated. The rent receipts, which were the
only bogus part of my application, were fine.
By this time, I was going to Immigration
about twice a week, and my class had started. The Vice-Rector assured me
I'd be paid as soon as my papers were approved. I got advances on my credit
card to buy food and pay rent.
When I brought my translated diploma to
Immigration, José apologetically said it had to be officially translated,
and gave me the name of an official translator. I spent a couple days locating
this person, another couple days waiting for the translation of approximately
100 words.
Back to Immigration with my official translation.
But now the problem was my passport. It had to be notarized. In Mexico,
only specialized attorneys can notarize documents. Another week until my
appointment with the attorney, another several days until I got the 150
peso notarized copy of my passport. Back to Immigration.
By then, my bank statements were out of
date, and I had to get the most recent one, into which I had deposited a
$1,000 loan from my mother. I made the mistake of getting it by fax, thinking
that would be fastest. José regretfully informed me that it had to
be an original or a photocopy stamped or signed by a bank officer.
"Why didn't you tell me that before?!"
I wailed to José, who was as harried as I was by then, because all
the snowbirds were flocking to his office, asking for replacement tourist
visas, extensions, information about traveling to Guatemala, etc.
That evening I vented my frustrations
on my friend Enrique in a bar. Enrique is Mexican, but lived in Paris and
New York all his adult life, working as a photographer on a cash basis.
At age 35, he decided to go legal, and return to New York with a green card.
Enrique listened to me bitch and groan
about my eight weeks of running around in circles, then sweetly said: "Eight
weeks is nothing. I've been waiting eight years to get my green card."
I closed my mouth and bought him a beer.
On December 23, 1995, I got my working
papers, eight-and-a-half months after initiating my application.
Enrique left for New York two weeks later,
eight-and-a-half years after he'd first solicited his.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997