Mark’s Bloomin’ Journal

As an intersection it may not even exist but as a rather abrupt turning point it certainly does and comes upon one unexpectedly and most inconveniently. Avianca releases me from the fetid confines of the aluminum tube that has made transit from Cartagena to Miami possible. The flight’s terminus seems hostile in comparison to its departure point. The slow, silent, bag lugging shuffle along endless corridors and past various surly check points that take up space and time with nothing more productive in mind than a glare or a sneer at the entrants.

Toes touching the yellow line, passport, permanent resident card, customs declaration neatly and accurately filled out I glance about at fellow travellers with suitably discreet curiosity and not a care in the world much beyond an idle contemplation of why my line always appears to be the slowest of them all and a silent prayer that those now at the booth have been as accurate with their forms as I and we can all move along and get on with the next chapter of a busy day. I am beckoned to approach! Idle contemplation morphs to an immediate and tightly focused understanding, that of having an enemy.

I tender all the documentation to a rudely beckoning hand only to have it brushed aside as the other hand grabs only at the permanent resident card, the rude snatch accompanied by a triumphal grunt, an accusatory glare and then a verbal assault in a loudening timbre and ever more threatening tone. I am stunned speechless as a productive and courteous few days in Cartagena, Colombia are reduced to an instant disgust at what confronts me. A bellicose and rude man who is delighting in getting “in my face”. It is hard to follow the verbal assault and compute the threatening body language. I begin to pick up a thread of my having forged a “green card” and me being an obvious threat to security and immigration.

This card has been in my daily possesion since 1980 and has allowed me ingress/egress conservatively more than a hundred times and into scores of countries and always back home to the US with nary a hiccup. It has been my treasure and was issued and accepted in perpetuity and good faith. At this point I have still not uttered a word as the verbal assault increases and the body language further bullies. I finally make comment that my card is good and immigration had no problem with it on my return from Frankfurt the week prior. I thought, but did not utter that re entry into any place USA was obviously better than this version of Guantanamo that I now faced. Lets face it, Miami may well be more Cuban than Cuba. I sense that all the negative energy on display at my expense is being keenly observed by the many hundreds queing at the booths. Many have come off the same plane as me and as many have been at the same trade show in Colombia and are my industry peers.

Figueroa (Am finally taking note of the name tag) hits his stride now. He has a victim and he is relishing the power that only a small man, empowered by those of similar or lesser stature can have and a chance to demonstrate it against the innocent and defenceless. In so many words he now loudly states that no more am I going to have the freedom to leave and enter the US. I have broken the law (am not sure which) and henceforth my file will have his personal annotation against it that marks me (am not sure what as) but it is clear it will not be as a fine upstanding business owner from Oregon! A prisoner in my own country! I am incredulous and not at all happy. I look straight at this functionary so obviously filled with malice and then as I look around it is readily apparent that I am the only blue eyed, six foot tall, native english speaker in the crowd at this point. It brings to mind an old african saw re when wishing to vent a little spleen and apportion blame for ones own ineptness you look around and find the guy…just like me.

We look right at each other, me (still unable to get a word in edgewise) thinking that while it has been a dreadful experience it is about to pass. Wrong! He now handles my precious card like a poker player contemplating his move. He flips it over, looks me right in the eye and tells me with nothing less than an empowered venom, that he is about to destroy my card and place me in the position of re applying for an I90. His palpable dislike of me is registering in a thousand fleeting thoughts as he takes his ballpoint and deeply scores the back of my card destroying the data held within it. It is one of the most childish actions imaginable. The dread in me right then and there stems from the feeling of being trapped with no ability to quickly visit parents and family elsewhere in the world should something dire occur. I am not going to be of much good to my business and staff either or provide further revenue to airlines for that matter. It is not often I can be made to taste despair… but Figueroa is force feeding it to me now.

Still not getting a word in and really not even knowing what to say at this point I am acutely aware that he is not through flexing his pettiness along with the badge, gun and god like power of his booth. I see his right hand put my documents down and slide beneath a shelf in his booth. Shite !!… I have never witnessed it before but I know exactly what the man has done…he has triggered some form of alarm and my day is about to become exponentialy worse… far worse. From the far reaches of the hall comes help for Figueroa (not that he needs any). It comes with a semi hurried, self important waddle/swagger and with an obesity accentuated by a gunbelt and the assorted tools of power that create “the sag” that would be the envy of all of hip hop. He confers with my tormentor, without my being able to hear clearly and I am marched off down the hall to a sweaty, rank odored room filled with maybe sixty or so people of varied hue and stripe. This is Miami after all and the air conditioning keeps up with neither the heat nor the fear. It stinks of bodies that have too long been held captive in coach seats aboarard aircraft for many hours before landing here. The nasty plastic chairs can undoubtedly transmit a deadly disease to you.

I cast around and find the scarce seat. The obese gunbelt is hovering close to me after having already tossed my papers onto a desk, behind which a half dozen other uniforms sit. What comes next horrifies me far beyond my own immediate situation. A young woman three seats away is attempting a cell phone call…I can only assume to notify someone of her delay or to seek help for whatever predicament faces her. I sure as heck know I want to make a call of my own to allow persons outside the terminal to know that plans have changed. Gunbelt wheels around at the very temerity of this woman and from my vantage point he goes darn near nose to nose with her and begins yelling at her. There is no more apt description for what I see and hear. He is so close and so aggresive I can see the spit flying from the man’s mouth onto the woman. No one does a thing as the cowed woman pockets the phone and all turn away to contemplate their own misery. The silence is loud, the stink of humanity… being treated without any, permeates everything. This is a sorry place.

I am having real trouble registering my position. Carefree life as I know it is turning belly up and my ability to travel, to raise and visit family, to run a business in a global economy is looking tenuous. I have by now heard and seen all I need, to understand that the inmates are now running this assylum. How can I be on this grubby seat, in this filthy room, shoulder to shoulder with lord knows who, and worse…supposedly incommunicado? My life as a criminal has resulted in a half dozen speeding tickets in thirty five years. I have worked for  mostly reputable people. I have provided employment for countless other  very reputable people. I have family, I have friends, I have provided money and employment for those seeking permanent resident status in the US. All these inane thoughts go whipping through my head as I surreptitiously text my predicament to the outside world so those expecting me know that I am at least alive…but may need help. Blackberry one, gunbelt zero. Good thing, as I little relish his willingness to scream spittle in my face.

Time passes slowly in the fetid air. Names are called and various people approach the desk only to retreat back to their plastic chairs. Some people never move! My name is eventually called. I am indeed “known” and “I am who my documents indicate I am “. Well, isn’t that a relief! These guys are regular Sherlocks. I am also informed that my permanent resident card has been defaced (yes it has, by Figueroa) and therefore is void, and yes I must start the I-90 process, and yes its going to cost me money and much time. I sense the man delivering me this depressing news to be a little more human than Fig and Gunbelt so I say that this entire process is wrong, brutalizing and is in violation of all I had come to know. How thoughtless and idiotic of me to finally find my voice now, even when reasonably toned and with comments carefuly couched. The actions and words of a fraternity I do not belong too come into play again and quickly, all in defence of their nastiness and malicious treatment of me. I depart the ever unfinished MIA International feeling like a displaced person. A very upset one! Homeland Security has just removed my own security… having replaced it with a sense of insecurity and great uncertainty. I ask myself if Immigration and Naturalization, now under the guise of Homeland Security is about violating people such as myself, then just who is not being scrutinized that ought to be?

Figueroa, with his hand in the pocket that my tax dollar goes into needs more training in profiling, common courtesy and an appreciation of having a cushy number. Empathy for fellow man and countryman would go a long way also. He does not need to look to me for a pay raise. Gunbelt needs to pass at least a minimal physical fitness test before his health care costs outweigh both himself and his dubious contributions!

With a shiny but short lived (10yrs) I-90 in hand I wonder what happened to the other “miscreants” in the stinking room that day in Miami. The treatment I recieved and witnessed will live in me for ever and for ever will color my perceptions and beliefs. I-90 & Figueroa is not a destination to my liking.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 16th, 2008 at 2:41 pm and is filed under Uncategorized, Musings, Business, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.