I walked into the cold, impersonal office. Cold, less in its physical sense, more in its mind-rooted sensation. To my right, a woman in a grey uniform looked over a paper I handed her, then lazily extended an arm towards rows of empty chairs. 

“See that desk over there,” she questioned.

“This one here?” I pointed.

“No, that one there,” I nodded in fear of her administrative annoyance. She pointed toward a chair. “Wait there – first chair, first row. When you see someone at that desk, walk up and give them your appointment notice.”

I thanked her, turning my head to face the empty rows upon empty rows, and pondered the importance of sitting first chair, first row. A father and son finished a conversation while holding pamphlets in their hand entitled, “Preparing for the Citizenship’s Test,” before sticking them in their back pockets and making their exit – leaving me alone in the wide yet small USCIS office. 

I had barely opened my book when suddenly a question appeared in my mind: why do I know this place? A swooping familiarity combed the air as my eyes explored the room. Maroon chairs made of thick plastic and thin metal. Plain beige linoleum flooring so shiny they appeared greasy. The faded bluish walls, the bright yet dull fluorescent lighting flickering above my head. Suddenly it hit me, I had been here over 10 years ago for my first biometrics appointment. I remembered walking in with my parents accompanied by an air of fatigue. It was early, my eyes were fluttering with daze, and my hair was a specific discombobulated square shape. 

・゜゜・．

My mother was stunning as always. Her lioness black twists and voluminous curls were tucked inside her thick alpaca sweater. She held my hand. She did all of the talking and all of the leading. I remember sitting for the picture and feeling packed, my neck swallowed by the union of sweater and chin. Apart from that I don’t remember much, the biometrics appointment wasn’t very eventful. It could have been because I didn’t care to remember. I may have been too young. She may have made it easy to forget. 

At school, I always reached for the not-so-coveted spot of teacher’s pet. The kind that excels at whisking a mixture of rebellion and politeness together before topping it with a big fat smile – gums and all. My report cards always read bavarde, a word both employed as a verb and an adjective. All uses of the word would be present on my report cards to claim I often chatted with classmates during lessons. That same vivacity that got me in trouble would be the one to carve me out. The eagerness to please and my amusing instability was the catalyst for the irritability that would follow me through employers, administrative appointees, and government officials.

I renewed my French passport around that same time. I recall entering the French embassy on the Upper East Side. My mother came to pick me up that day, which was rare as she was a busy woman working in the fashion industry: PR. She would come a few times a year for the important days. While experiencing slight envy of those whose parents were consistent in their attendance, I grew to take pride in her prioritized presence. She always attended first and last days, spring plays, winter concerts, and graduations. It didn’t matter that she never attended bake sales because when she did come, her way of carrying herself would fill my chest with an expansive, amber-golden–sticky cloud of bliss.

“That’s my mother,” I would claim.

“Your mom always looks so good,” my friends would repeat throughout the years of her appearances. 

When I was under 10, she would come to la rentrée (back to school) dressed for work. She wore wide sunglasses, propped up in heels of just the right size, and adorned in tasteful  jewelry. Her long trench coats would float in the wind that her walk generated. Her curls bounced in half-slow-motion, half-calculated-acceleration. Effortlessly majestic, she mesmerized all from parents to children, teachers to security guards. She may even have tricked some in thinking she was doing so irreverently. She wasn’t. 

Her coming to pick me up on this random Thursday afternoon quilted me in a rosy hue of worthiness. We walked the concrete slates of the Upper East side, oozing so much fanciness it would make someone question if it were cobblestone. Trees so similar, so evenly placed that they felt like decorative sticks rather than nature paving the way from French school to the embassy. 

At its entrance, a French security guard would be the first to signal the mind to its origins of culture. We followed the French signs around the security belt, which later became a coat hanger for our bags. We walked through, sitting in wide cozy armchairs pivoting towards small tables decorated with magazines and little plants. I couldn't have recalled its interior until my latest visit. A solitary one rhythmed by rushy thoughts, lungs, and eye placements. I could recall my mother’s stance, however. Her look, her attention, as though I spent most of the visit staring at her. She sat to get her picture taken, angled her chin down, and her gaze up, adding the faintest of smiles. Click then flash – she only needed one take. Five years later, she would teach me the perfect passport photo pose. 

“Regardes la caméra,” she pointed at the camera for my eyesight to follow. 

“Baisse ton menton,” she’d continue, gently placing her index knuckle on my chin.

“Maintenant souris mais juste un peu,” she would wrap the lesson by advising me to smile. “But, only a tiny bit.” 

・゜゜・．

Six years after that, I sat in the same or completely different felt armchairs in the wait-your-turn area by myself. When called, my nervous, over-prepared self blurted out too many pleasantries to ensure there wouldn’t be any imaginary reason to decline my passport. I had come prepared with all the necessary paperwork and more. Paperwork I had checked, re-checked, reviewed–re-reviewed, stacked, organized, and…. 

This would be after the time I lost my green card in Toronto when I was living there for university. I was on a bus ride home from a scratchy audition for some confusing commercial that only made me $200 richer – this was during my brief interaction with the industry. I didn’t carry my green card often, and lost things very rarely. When I arrived home, I felt all my pockets and body parts for the thin, narrow, single slip card holder. I began crying hysterically after realizing what had happened, my eyes widening in panic – turning my blazer inside out to try and reveal what I had come to lose. When my mind had finally completed its tango with denial, I had fallen to my knees with my hands spread wide in front of me, wondering what this news meant. 

My debit card was also in that little black slip. I had called my mother to order me a new card, also asking about my green card which we both agreed to look into. My mother had been diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer 25 months prior. She had been given 3 months to live, something I knew not at the time, and would go on to live 30. I was her baby, but I was also living across the border. She was getting sicker and sicker with treatments and scans making her weaker and weaker. She didn’t have the capacity to fix this for me, and I couldn’t ask her to. After allowing the panic to settle, and recalling Toronto’s transit lost and found, I began my get-home-to-her plan. Frantically, I made my way to my bed, opened my computer, grabbed a notebook, and yanked the cap of a pen off with my teeth. I was ready. 

Toronto’s American Embassy didn’t provide great detail regarding my case. USCIS did mention that I would need a temporary I-90 stamp in my passport to travel home. Alert and wired, I figured the embassy must be able to provide one, so I went. I reached a long line opposite a government official in a little glass box. 

I knocked on the glass and blurted out, “I lost my green card, can you help me please?” 

The person inside the box rolled their eyes. “Sorry, hello, how are you?” I added, realizing I was coming off as rude. 

“We only take care of citizens’ needs,” she blankly stated, 

“I really need help, I think I need an I-90 stamp, is there someone I could –” 

“I understand Miss, but we can only help citizens, are you a citizen?” I was convinced I had started to bother her. 

“No, I’m a permanent resident.”

“You’ll need to go to a USCIS field office,” she looked up and handed me a paper with information that felt useless. 

Upon coming home and diving back into my research, I found out that the nearest USCIS field office was in Mexico city. Just like I would later question the notion of first chair, first row, I couldn’t wrap a single string of thought around me flying to Mexico, when I needed to get to America which was only 2 hours away. Over the phone, a USCIS agent told me that would be my best bet. Shortly after, a border patrol officer told me otherwise. Restless and finding myself in the precarious position of being too old to crave my mother’s arms, I caved and decided the rest could be handled the next day.

After buying a plane ticket because I was convinced I needed proof of travel to rush the application process, and after receiving a letter requesting proof of my permanent Brooklyn address even though I was certain I had already provided it in the application, I finally understood how to make my way home thanks to a single web page on the embassy’s website. My best bet while avoiding leisure-less Mexican travels was showing up to the border with a list of documents, including an application confirmation, a police report on a lost or stolen green card, passport pictures, and other sense-making tasks. I booked a bus ticket. Upon arrival at the border, I made my way to the front to avoid being left behind should my questioning take longer. 

“Why are you out of breath, have you been running?” The brick-like officer asked.

“No, I’m just nervous,” I replied. His eyes hardened and stared before leaning back in realization that I was serious, I hated this. I would go on to hate it. Hated it at my passport appointment where I would bring various multiples of all required documents, just in case. I hated it when I had to get a disposition for drinking in the street when I was 16 for my passport application at 23. I hated it when I couldn’t call her, my mother, Iana, to tell her about the delirious interactions I had been accumulating. 

Sitting in that first chair, first row of the Manhattan USCIS office, the reason behind the flustered speech, fast beating heart, clammy hands, and wandering eyesight were proof I hadn’t always been this way. When I could reach for her hand, when her hair would bounce in front of me, when I could cling onto her words, that was my home. My aversion started to wear off following the latest USCIS visit, my mind drumming beats of betrayal. An aversion born out of respect, out of longing, out of certainty. In the first instance, I had needed to get home to her, to be there for her: the stakes were high. It taught me I could. I could adult without her by my side, and I would soon have to, time and time again.