Visa

Yongming Wang

 

Monday. The United States Embassy in Beijing.

The embassy visa official has finished reading my application documents, puts them down on the desk, raises his head, looks at me only casually, and asks me, in English, “So, tell me why you want to go to the United States university to be a graduate student.”

 “I want to study the advanced science and technology, to obtain a PhD degree, ” say I firmly.”

 “After that?”

 “After that I will come back to China to contribute in building a new China,” I lie.

 “Tell me how I can believe that you will come back after you finish your study there.”

 I can see disbelieve spreading all over his face. “I’ll come back after I finish my study because I’m the only child of my parents” This is the answer I came up with this morning on the way here.

 “So?”

 “My parents will depend on me when they grow old.”

 “They can immigrate to America once you are settled there.”

 “I’m sorry. What do you mean by saying I’m settled there?”

 “It means when you become an US citizen.”

 “Oh, you mean when I become an US citizen, my parents can immigrate to the United States? I never know that.” 

 “Now you know. So you see: the only-child reason is not good enough. Besides, I know Chinese government has imposed one-child-per-family policy since twenty-odd years ago. That means everyone like you or younger who comes here is the sole child of their parents. You think I should grant visa to all of them?”

 “Eh, but,” I stammer, “My parents will not immigrate to the United States.”

 “Why is that?”

 “Because they are afraid of taking airplane. They never take airplane in their whole life.”

“That’s all?”

 “Yes.”

 “Sorry, I have to reject your visa application because I think you have immigration inclination.”

 

 I walk towards the embassy exit, not angry or anything. I’m used to the rejection. Anyway, this is my eighth time to be denied. I’ll come back in two days. The security guard at the gate looks at me when I pass him. He asks me, smiling understandingly, “Rejected?” “Yes,” I answer, not embarrassed at all. After so many times, I guess my face is as thick as the Great Wall. No blow can penetrate it.

Outside, I look up at the sky. The sky is cloudless and blue today. That’s rare nowadays in Beijing. I feel even better. Nobody can block my way. I’m determined to leave this country and start my new life in America. So many friends of mine are there already. All of them describe the America as a paradise. They claim that over there you can breathe fresher air, drink cleaner water, live spacer room, travel smoother road, and that, most preciously, you are as free as a fish. There is no government or authority to regulate your life; nobody nose around caring about what you do. And they also say that the money is easy to earn as long as you are willing to work. Not like here. Look at me. Even though I graduate with a college degree in computer science from one of the best universities in the nation I still have no job after two years drifting around. I remember six years ago when I entered the college the computer science was hot, very hot; the graduate from computer science was in great demand. But four years later when I graduated, everything changed. There are two many college graduate students nowadays in almost every field, including computer science. Nowadays it’s so hard to find a decent job. Two third of my classmates --- Let me count: that’s twenty six --- are in USA now. An American, I don’t remember exactly who but it’s an American I’m sure, once wrote: to pursue a happy life is man’s borne right endowed by the God. Something like that.  I don’t believe in God, but I believe what this man said.

 

I elbow through the narrow and crowded Xiushui Road right outside the U.S. Embassy. This small street is famous for its all sorts of cheap apparels sold by countless small stores and street peddlers. Here you can find almost any brand name in the world; Adidas, Nike, and Polo, to name a few. Of course they are not authentic. That’s why they are so cheap. Just think of it: the Americans frantically protest the pirate activities, but this place is right under the nose of the American embassy. Isn’t that an irony?  Wait a moment. I even see many foreigners, maybe Americans, are shopping around secretively, bargaining with the seller by using their long fingers. How convenient it is for those Americans who live and work at the embassy. Who doesn’t like to pay less for the same stuff, anyway?

 

I don’t have interest, or money, to buy clothes. I hurry my steps. In a few minutes I come to the wide Chang-an Avenue, the main street of Beijing. I decide to walk home today. It’s a two hour walk. But I have nothing to do. Besides, I don’t like to be home early. My mother will definitely scorn me again. She constantly reproaches me for doing nothing serious. She thinks I’m wasting my time in the embassy. For the past six months, I go there three days per week, every week. I usually get up at five in the morning, leave home at five thirty, take the bus, and arrive at the embassy at six thirty. Three times each week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for the past six months. It’s like what my mother says: Going to the embassy becomes my job. I agree. Of course it’s a no-pay job. But I don’t mind. She likes to ask me the question: are you tired of spending all your precious youth life on the bus, in the embassy, listening to other people’s gossip, and arguing and fighting with the American visa officials? But her question doesn’t dishearten me at all. I’m like a drug addict. I can’t help to be drawn towards it. It’s April now, the nights are still chilly. Otherwise I may bring a cot and a sleeping bag. So I can stay overnight outside the embassy, saving all the time on the road. Then I can be there everyday, and will be definitely number one in line in the morning. God knows, no, Buddha knows how many people are coming to the embassy each day. It’s a long line for sure. Each day, however, the embassy only lets one hundreds people in for interview. Each day there are people coming late beyond the first one hundreds; and they have to turn back without even having a chance with the official.

 

I’m sweating when I get home. I knock on the door. Nobody answers. I look at my watch. It’s three in the afternoon. My mother must be at the nearby farmers’ market to buy food for dinner. I know where the key is in such occasion. It’s under the rug in front of the door. I’m glad that she is not home. At least my ears won’t get bothered by her nagging for a while. I need quiet time to think and come up with new solutions to fend off the visa officials’ menacing questions, to make them believe that I don’t have immigration intention. Today my answers are stupid. How I came up with the afraid-of-airplane parents I don’t know. It’s true that they never take airplane in their whole life. But that is because they never have the chance, or money, not afraid of it. Nobody will believe that. It’s even dumber than last time. Last time I told the visa official that I have my own house in Beijing, a real piece of property of my own. Owning a house nowadays in China means so much. It proves that I have my root here. I could see that almost made him believe in me. But in the end he still rejected me because I couldn’t show him the deed. Where can I get a deed? I am going to discuss that with my friends. Maybe I can somehow get a fake deed from somewhere.

 

Tuesday. My day staying at home. All day I’m on the phone talking to my friends, trying to figure out a way to obtain a fake deed. At the meantime I have to endure my mother’s endless chattering and complain upon my ears. At night I feel even more exhausted than going to the embassy. Don’t get me wrong. Anybody can acquire a fake deed through some connection. The only problem is money. You need lots of money for that. One friend told me she knows someone who asks for one hundred thousand yuan per deed. Are you kidding me? Just a fake deed, a piece of paper, worth that much? I don’t have the money. And I know my parents don’t either. I’ll come up with some solutions tomorrow morning on the bus. With that thought I go to sleep.

 

Wednesday. I wake up with a start. Today may be my lucky day, I tell myself on the bus. After arriving at the Embassy, I find that there are about a dozen people already there. I stay in the end of the line, and as usual, start to listen to people around me chatting, which were without exception about the stories happened inside the embassy. I find these stories entertaining and fascinating. This is one reason I’m hooked to coming here again and again. Just listening to the stories is worth all the hassle and trouble.

 

Right now a short guy in his thirties is in the middle of talking:

 

“I was here yesterday. Do you guys know what happened yesterday? Nobody knows? I’ll tell you. Yesterday there was a big fight inside the embassy between one old woman and the Witch.”

 “Excuse me, who is the Witch?” asks an old man with white hair.

“You mean Rebecca, the white female official?” I ventures.

 “Of course, who else?” the short guy looks at the old man incredulously. “I heard the old woman was crying, saying something very loud, yelling something like: I want to go to America to see my son, why you don’t let me. You are such a iron-stone-heart person without any sympathy. He is my only son. I haven’t seen him in five years. Why? Why? Why you don’t let me see him? Are you still a human? You are not a human. You are an animal.” The short guy stops, waiting for comments.

 “That’s really brave,” the girl with long skirt says. “I hate the Witch too. She rejected me three times. I’m so unlucky. Three times. But I don’t have the nerve to curse something like that. What happened then?”

 “What happened? I was right there watching. The Witch was outrageous. She stormed out of the office into the hall. Her white face became scarlet red. She called the security guards, three of them; they threw the old woman out. After that, she took note of the old woman’s name, and banned her from coming back forever.”

 “They can’t do that,” I say.

 “They can do whatever they want,” says the short guy.

Hearing that, all of us just stand there. Nobody says anything for a few minutes. Finally the girl with long skirt breaks the silence, “She can go to another US consulate, for example, the one in Shanghai.”

 

“Then she has to get a new passport, because her current passport must have the unfavorable comments by the visa official.”

 “That’s not hard to do,” I say. “Even I am considering getting a new passport because my current passport has got too many rejection stamps. It looks bad.”

 

The old man with white hair chips in. “I say, it’s pure luck. There are three visa officials on duty each day. Some are good; some bad. The Witch is the worst. And it seems that she likes the job too much because she shows up almost everyday. There is a very good visa official, very kind, lots of people get approved by him. Do you guys know?” the old man lowers his voice, as if trying to reveal a secret.

 

“You mean Sam, the Big Beard?” I ask. “I heard of this guy. But I never meet him. I wish I will bump into him someday.”

 

The old man continues, “Yes, you are right. I don’t know his name. Everybody refers him as The Big Beard, a white, tall American. He is really nice and kind to all interviewees. But he doesn’t come to the front window much, just once in a while. That is why you never see him. And also it’s random. Nobody knows on which window the official will be each day. And nobody knows how the clerks place the applications. So it’s pure luck.” After saying that, the old man shakes his head several times.

 

It is almost eight o’clock. People start to accumulate quickly. Behind me there are already a long line forming before I realize it. I turn to the girl with long skirt.

 

“How many times?” I ask.

 “Five.”

 “Are you going to study in US college, or you are visiting your husband there?”

 “I am not married.” The girl blushes a little. “I’m going to study as a graduate student.”

 “Me too. Which college?” I ask.

 “I have ten schools that accept me. Three of them give me full scholarship,” the girl answers.

 “Full scholarship! That’s pretty strong. What’s the reason they rejected you?”

 “I’m not sure. Every time I received different reasons. Some says I’m too young. Someone says I have two sisters and one brother. I don’t understand what my sisters and brothers have to do with it.” The girl complains. “The Witch is the worst. She rejected me three times, and gave me no reason at all, just simple told me she suspects that I have immigration intention.”

 “Maybe they think because you have sisters and brother, you are not the sole child of your parents, so that you are less likely to come back to China. Your situation is just the opposite of that old woman of yesterday. She has only one child, her son. So the visa official refuses to give her visa to visit her son, forcing her son come back. She is like a hostage to them.” I conclude, half joking.

 “I guess it’s because my major is not what they need. My major is English. They need people in math and science.”

 “My major is computer science, which, I suppose, they need the most. But look at me, eight times.”

 “Ah, that’s a record,” the girl looks at me sympathetically, “and you are still not giving up? Do you have scholarship?”

 “That’s my problem. I don’t have any scholarship. And my financial sponsor is my college classmate who is a graduate student now in one of the US colleges himself.”

 “Oh, I see. I’m afraid that’s too weak. First they know your classmate won’t have twenty or thirty thousands extra US dollar to support you; secondly they know that even your classmate does have the money, he won’t lend you any money as promised on the affidavit. I say your situation is very difficult,” says she, full of sympathy. 

 “No matter what, I have to keep my faith. The good thing is that the embassy only charges us one hundred yuan the first time. We can come as many times as we like, and any time as we like.”

 “That’s right. But I heard a rumor,” the girl says.

 “What’s it?”

 “I heard that they are going to charge each time we enter the embassy.”

 “Really? That will be a disaster!” I exclaims. “My mother will be really upset. Even now she complains that I come here to work for free, just wasting my time. If I have to pay one hundred each time, I don’t know what my mother will say about that.”

 “She will probably say that you come to pay pilgrimage to the U.S. Embassy and to donate your money to the American people. Ha ha.” The girl giggles.

 

I start to prey. Oh, God, no, Buddha, please have mercy, let me get the visa; let me meet the Big Beard before they change the fee policy.

 

The embassy opens. I rush in among the swarm of people. But I don’t hurry to hand in my application form. I’m experienced. First I wait and observe, sneak around and gather every bits of information from people around me. Particularly I linger around the clerk window, eavesdropping, try to steal anything that the clerks slip out of their mouths. The ultimate puzzle is to decide which three visa officials will be at the windows today? Good ones, bad ones? But I hear nothing helpful. Those clerks, Chinese, their months are very tight, no valuable information ever escaping out from them. Now I have to depend on my intuition. Hand in application form? Or don’t? I can’t wait any longer because once the interview starts the clerks will stop to collect any more applications. I have to make a decision now. Finally I decide I’ll pass today. I hold tight to my application form. Even though it doesn’t hurt much to be rejected one more time, but I don’t want my passport to be stamped too many rejections. That looks bad. Nine o’clock. The three visa officials come to the window. The interview starts. Oh, I feel lucky today. All three officials are bad ones. The Witch, of course, is among them. I’m relieved. But I don’t leave now. I have another task to perform: to interview the people after they finish their interview with the Americans. I love to hear people’s stories. I ask them all sorts of questions. Some people are eager to share; some not. I always coax them by saying that I’m collecting proves to send to the U.S. Congress to show how wrongly we are treated. People buy that. Of course I have no intention to do so. I just find it easy to kill time this way.

 

When I have nobody to interview I sit there, calculating the time. Usually the longer time the officials spend with the interviewee, the better chance of approval the interviewee gets. But today is not good. On average, I calculate, the officials spend two minutes and thirty seconds with each interviewee. That is too short. Not good sign. I’m right. One by one, quickly people are rejected. I sit there for two hours. I don’t see any happy face. Today is definitely not the day for anybody. I decide to go home. Before leaving, I ask the clerk inside the window is it true that the embassy will soon charge each time we enter. Without even looking at me, the clerk tells me yes that’s right, starting from next month. My heart sinks. Two more weeks. There are only two more weeks left for me! After that, if I come three times each week, that’s three hundreds; times four, one thousand two hundred each month. I don’t have that money. At most I can come once a week then. And I have to beg my mother for the money, and of course to tolerate her nagging.

 

At home, night time. I inform my mother of the bad news. “I don’t have the money for you to donate,” she simply snaps. I understand. She was laid-off last year; only my father’s salary can hardly support the family. Maybe it’s time for me to find a real job, to support myself financially. 

 

Thursday. I stay home trying to come up with some grand work plan. Finding a decent job in computer field is of course the best solution. But I’m willing to do anything to support my embassy odyssey, to fulfill my American dream. I’m even willing to be a street peddler, selling small stuff, maybe food. But where I can find the initial money to buy the necessary equipments and the license? I heard the license costs several thousands. Oh, money, money, the ubiquitous, magical, loathsome, sinful money, I blaspheme. I’m depressed.

 

Friday. I don’t feel going to the embassy today. I have a severe headache. But I go anyway. I need to grasp every chance possible before the embassy door is shut from me. Same place. Same time. Same people. I enter; I hand in my application immediately. I don’t care. Whatever will happen, let it happen.

 

I sit there, waiting to be called. I don’t have energy to elbow and nose round. I just wait for my fate. The good news is that today the Big Beard is here. I notice that about fifty percent interviewees get approved today by the Big Beard. The other two officials only have about ten percent. What is my luck today? Why I don’t feel any.

 

Strangely enough, I’m one of the first groups who hand in the application, but I don’t get called up for so long. It’s past twelve thirty now. Another half hour the interview will be closed for today. People in the hall become diminished. I become impatient. I walk up to the clerk window and ask the clerk what happened to my application. The answer is: WAIT. The only thing I have in the world is time. So I wait.

 

Finally I am the only person in the hall. My name is called. Window #3. It’s the Big Beard! Today is my lucky day, I scream inside silently. He looks at my application carefully, for almost five minutes. I am so nervous. At last he raises his head, and starts the interview. His first sentence shocks me, because he speaks perfect Chinese.

 

“Ni Hao.” That’s Chinese, meaning how are you. But I am so shocked – it’s my first time hearing an American speaking Chinese – that I just stand there, saying nothing, looking at him as if looking at a gorilla at the zoo. He waits for a few seconds, smile, and continue, still in Chinese:

 “I see your academic aspect is very strong. Your TOEFL score is above six hundreds; GRE math plus language together exceed one thousand five hundreds. And your major is computer science which is very hot. Why don’t you get any scholarship?”

“I don’t know,” say I, with a big relieve. “Maybe I didn’t apply for as many colleges as other people do. I only apply for three colleges, and get accepted by two. None gives me scholarship.”

 “Why don’t you apply for more colleges?”

 “Because I don’t have US dollar for the application fee.”

 “But you have money for three …”

 “It’s not my own money. I borrowed it from my friends in America.”

 “I see. Ok.” He stops, thinking. I’m waiting for more questions. He is reading my application again.

 “City University of New York. Eh, it’s a very good school but they are not rich. They don’t have much money. I feel sorry for you.” He stops again. My heart starts sinking. But he doesn’t reach for the notorious rejection stamp which lies ominously beside his right hand.

 “Tell you the truth. The only reason for your rejection is your financial situation. I have the note here,” he picks up a small paper from the folder, “written by the visa official who interviewed you the first time. It says: no scholarship, sponsor is weak. What do you say?”

 “Sir, I don’t have anything to say. I am poor; no money. No rich relatives in America. But I am determined to go. I will not give up.  Nobody can block me.” I try my best to be look like firm. I know the Americans like determined and ambitious people. They don’t like weak people. So pleading is useless. I’m not pleading. I want to show him my determination. I look straight into his eyes. I’m also telling myself inside, hold on, hold on. Don’t look away, don’t look down. This is your last chance.

 

We two stand there looking at each other, just like this, for how long I don’t know. Finally he says, “Sorry I really can’t grant you the visa today.”

 

My breath stops.

 

“But,” he pauses, looks at me, “I will give you an opportunity.”

“What is it?” I can hardly wait.

 “If you can ask your sponsor to pay your first term tuition now, you come back next time with the school receipt. We can reconsider your case. Otherwise your case is dead end. How about that? Am I fair? Is that reasonable?” 

“Yes, Yes. Thank you very much for giving me this opportunity. I’ll come back next time with the receipt, definitely.” I even don’t have time to think how to persuade my classmate to pay the tuition. But I’m thrilled. I finally see the light the first time.

 

All the time we are talking in Chinese. But suddenly I want to show off my English. Anyway, I want to show him my English is worth my high TOEFL and GRE score. I say in English: “I can’t thank you too much. You are my life saver.” Trying my best to mimic the American accent, I curve my tongue exaggeratedly, strike forcefully at the last “er” sound.

 

“Oh, that is very impressive. Your oral English excels as well,” he says in English too. “That’s American spirit. Never give up. I’m sure you will have no problem to survive and thrive after you get to the America.”

 “Thank you for the compliment, Sir. Your Chinese is not bad at all either. Where did you learn it?” I ask.

 “My wife is Chinese,” he replies, smiling at me broadly. “I love Chinese culture and Chinese people. OK. It’s end of the day. Let’s finish here. Good luck.”

 

I walk out of the embassy, passing by the gate guard. He looks at me with the same smile as the one of last time, and asks me, “Got it?” I reply, “Not yet, but will soon.”

 

I’m so happy. I feel like drunk, feel my whole body becoming light, flying away. Now the only thing for me to do is to figure out a way to persuade my classmate sponsor to pay for my first term tuition.

 

 

April 2008