Beside The Golden Door

by Barbra Huntley-Smith

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free; The wretched refuse of your
teeming shores, send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to
me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

These are the words engraved upon the Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor. These words represent a symbol of welcome and hope for the immigrants who came to America during the years 1800 to 1954. These words have brought every known emotion of joy to all those immigrants who saw that gigantic monument, her torch held high to the heavens. I believe that to those arriving, Lady Liberty represented an endowment of Grace they had never known until the moment their eyes beheld her.

America! A land flowing with milk and honey! A land that held hopes of a new and different life! As history has recorded, these immigrants have been essential in the building of what is now the Superpower of the world, the great United States of America. Though Ellis Island was not without problems, what was accomplished there was a Herculean venture that no country in the world at that time had undertaken to help the assimilation of those entering a new land.

It is now two hundred years later. It was 5:15 A.m. on a blustery, cold Friday morning: January 5, 2001 at the Immigration of Naturalization Service (INS) in downtown Los Angeles. Before my eyes were "huddled masses." I was in a state of step-frozen, jaw-dropping sock as I viewed this sea of blanketed forms, huddled together all along the pavement surrounding the INS building. Regaining my composure, I walked up to one of the blanketed persons and inquired what was happening. "Is this your first time?" she asked. I said yes, and she pointed to the huddled masses and explained that they had physically been there since midnight. I asked what time she had arrived, and she told me 2:00 a.m. She was far from the start of the line.

I asked where I could find the end of the line, and she waved me forward to Aliso Street, then toward Alameda Street. I thanked her, and began to experience the new meaning of "your tired, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."

My first impression of this horrible picture, so early in the morning, will be etched in my memory for a long time to come. As I trekked down the sidewalk, negotiating my way through standing huddled masses, minding traffic, I accidentally stepped onto the lawn area and tripped. I discovered that the lawn had been sprinkled earlier, which explained why the masses of people were standing two feet into the street. This was the scene all along Aliso Street and down Alameda Street.

I joined the line three fourths of the way to the corner of Alameda and Temple Streets. By 6:00 a.m., the standing masses were rounding the corner of Temple Street. It was cold, even for a Midwesterner. There in the line I was schooled on the horrors of experience by people I will call the "Regulars." As they spoke, there was an air of fear, contempt, and loathing for "this place." The object of their contempt was "Room 1001." I reminisced about the events that had brought me to this place on this cold morning.

Many unforeseen events had invaded my life the past year, and time away seemed to be the most appropriate action to take in rebuilding my life. Travelling by train from the Midwest, I was treated to the glory and grandeur of this wonderful country. The view form the train at that mile-high elevation was prodigiously breathtaking. No two sceneries were alike. Overlooking one of the many great expanses were snow-capped mountains, and gorges that were awe-inspiring and frightening. Brilliant shades of changing foliage nestled beneath the silver reflection of the glistening snow. It was as though the four seasons had met, and in perfect union displayed their offerings. As I watched with wide-eyed awe the train's slow and deliberate negotiation of this rugged terrain as it descended into the plains, I introspectively declared, "Truly, humanity has had dominion over the earth."

I disembarked in Sacramento with hopes of a new beginning. However, my hopes would soon be dampened as I was informed that my credentials were not sufficient to secure a California Department of Motor vehicles (DMV) Identification, even though I had been verified as a Naturalized Citizen. The Sacramento County officials gave me the information necessary to reapply for a copy of my Naturalization Certificate, and the application was forwarded to the INS. The application was dated April, 2000, and I was informed that it would take from six to eight weeks for a reply. Hopes restored.

After waiting eight months, I came to Los Angeles, hoping for better success in obtaining this document. My experience with the County of Sacramento officials lulled me into believing that things would be manageable in Los Angeles. What I found was a journalistic thesis. After visiting a Traveler's Aid office, I was sent to the County of Los Angeles Aid office for assistance. They in turn sent me to the INS office for verification of citizenship status. It was near closing when I arrived at the office, where access was granted by ringing a bell and state one's purpose. I was admitted and surrendered my application from the County Social Worker and within five minutes I was declared an authenticated citizen. With the INS sealed document in hand, I commented to the officer, "My problems are now over, I can now get my California Identification." She looked at me with a smile that said, "Are you crazy?" and then replied, "No, Miss, you will need to go to Room 1001 for any identification." Her smile became a frightening grimace. It was late, so I decided I would take the challenge another day.

A week later I was at the Post Office and noticed information concerning American passports. I took out my INS authenticated form and asked if this was enough to reapply for my passport. The Postal worker looked at me with regrettable sadness and said, "You will have to go to Room 1001."

I left the Post Office wondering, "What is this place to inspire a kind of frightful, agonizing terror?" I was free for the day, so I headed to the INS building to investigate. I walked up the steps and strolled along the marble terrace. I noted the business hours, saw that there were few people present, and decided to return the next day, Friday, figuring that at the end of the week there would not be many people there. But something very sinister was at work here, unknown to me then. It was Thursday when the office is open only until noon.

My first visit was on Friday, December 1, 2000. I got to the INS building at 7 a.m. There was a line, and it would take two hours to reach the hallowed halls of Room 1001. It was this day I would be given valuable information on the horrors of the system of administration at the INS. People were relating how often they had been coming and had not yet been able to enter the front door. They explained that there are tickets issued for certain categories that are discontinued by 7:30 or 8:00. Therefore, it does not matter how early you get there if for that day the number of tickets determined is depleted.

I would be a witness to their story when at 8:00 a.m. there came a voice over the public address system. "You out there in my line, listen up!" I wondered whose line I was in. Then came a man of immigrant descent, strutting his way toward the entrance. I took notice of his massive deltoids, pecs, and chest, protruding a good six inches in front of him. There was a hush as the Regulars were silenced. Mr. Ax-man, as he is affectionately called, was has been given the dubious honor of reciting the categories that will not be issued a ticket. His list always begins with the Regulars. These are Resident Aliens who may have had their Alien registration card stolen, or need minor adjustments to protect their status. As the Ax-man read his list, just as an extended rubber band is released, so the line congealed. The Regulars stood there, dazed, waiting for some sign to say it was not so. Some defiantly remained in the line, hoping they might be seen, which is never the case. They are always booted out.

My category was viable, therefore I would make my first entry into Room 1001. My inquiry number was #102 for my category. By 11:00 a.m., seated in a large room, I once again witnessed the "tired." Most of the patrons were soundly sleeping. That morning a sleeping patron missed her number flashing on the leader board, which resulted in a most frustrating spectacle.

As I scrutinized this beaten group, my thoughts returned to one of the morning's episodes. While in line, there had been a loud thud, like a falling ton of bricks hitting the concrete. People began running in the direction of the thud. It was a man, very well-built, who had fainted. The security guard radioed for emergency, but nothing else was done. The man just lay there. Five minutes, eight minutes, no Emergency service. It was ten minutes before they arrived. By this time the man was beginning to regain consciousness, and was trying to sit up. The EMS Techs arrived and the most appalling medical emergency service I have ever witnessed was demonstrated. The fallen man was trying to stand, and was pushed forcibly to the gurney by an EMS tech with one hand, the other hand holding him in place. No pulse or blood pressure was taken. The man was strapped down and wheeled out to the ambulance. At that moment I hoped I would never have need of the EMS in Los Angeles County.

My thoughts returned to the present as the leader board announced #102. I was focused and ready to go. My inquiring officer greeted me with,"What do you want?" I explained my circumstances and offered my INS approved status... suddenly I was interrupted. "Where is your receipt? Without a receipt you will not be seen." The receipt she requested was for a fee I could not afford when I applied for the document: $135.00.

I was determined to be seen by someone. I demanded to speak to her supervisor, and with a condescending attitude she turned and walked to the next booth, where her supervisor happened to be listening to our exchange. Our eyes met and she summoned me over.

She asked me a few key questions, tapped on her computer and remarked, "Oh, your file is in Chicago." She said she would request a transfer, explaining it would take three to four weeks and that I should return for the response. Exhaustion had now set in, my mind was becoming jelly, and I could only be glad that I had been given some hope. I did not detect the flagrant psychological maneuver being perpetrated. I requested a letter of sorts that would exclude me from waiting in line again, and the supervisor looked at me and said, "That is the only was to get in here." Can that be the only way? I dare say, "No!" There must be a better way, and it is time that the INS at 300 North Los Angeles Street find it.

Four weeks passed and my second visit to the INS was in progress. I had arrived at 6:30 a.m. to circumvent a long delay, or so I thought at the time. There was still a long line ahead of me, but it seemed manageable. I would stand in line for four hours before I was positioned to enter the horrid halls of Room 1001. The Regulars had been dismissed, giving hope to those left standing that they might be seen. When I got to the triage where the tickets are issued, the officer told me, "There are no more tickets." I argued, "Why wasn't my category omitted from the line, instead of giving the false hope that I would be seen?" She just sat there with a "that's tough" attitude, and shouted, "Next!" Now I had experienced the hell that the Regulars endure every day, and I was fighting mad. I walked away, planning my third and final visit.

So there I stood, my third visit at 5:30 a.m. in my huddled mass, reliving my encounters at the INS. The words "Ventura County" interrupted my thoughts. I had been intending to travel to Orange County, and noticed the bordering county was Ventura, so I began to listen to what was being said. The woman in line ahead of me had traveled this distance to be at the INS office at this hour of the morning. She related how often she is forced to make this trip for a response to a simple question, to which no comprehensible answer could be given over the phone. How utterly disgusting! In an age proliferated by the best means of communication systems the world has ever known!

Six hours later- I was once again at the triage, and being seen by an Asian officer. I explained that I was to return to window #15 to meet with the supervisor, and with a shy smile he made the strangest request of me: "Please describe the supervisor, for there are many supervisors." I started to make a not-so-pleasant remark, but stopped my self. Here was someone who, being an immigrant, knows the pain, and was at least willing to give me a hearing. I decided I should at least try. My description was somewhat accurate because he was able to attach a name to it. He punched a few keys on his computer and said, "Your file is in Missouri." Without a response I took form him a form sending me back to window #15.

I went directly to this window and listed my name, behind four others. It was over two hours before I was called. However, this time my interview went well. I was given an application to complete, and told that within four weeks I would receive and answer by mail. So I waited.

Was my experience at the INS Ellis Island revisited? A resounding No! It was not. Ellis Island at its worst stages had officers who were courteous and respectful and treated the immigrants with dignity. Would an individual who fainted on Ellis Island have suffered the indignity that I observed that day? No! There were, on the island, many agencies equipped to render First Aid, and there was a hospital present. As a matter of record, in 1933 a committee reporting on the conditions of Ellis Island stated the medical care was exemplary. Why then in the new Millennium, when communication and medical technology is at its zenith, must a sick person wait ten minutes for deplorable service?

It is obvious that there are very few cases that are resolved in any given day at the INS. On Ellis Island, records show that daily an estimated five thousand persons were seen and cases resolved. This was an age when only the human capabilities of the officers were at work. Here in the new Millennium, when these officers can tap a computer key and receive information from around the world, they are unable to resolve these cases.

It was three days prior to the estimated time I was given to receive an answer when a letter form the INS arrived. This is the information I was given: "We have searched for records that relate to your request and determined that if such records exist they would be maintained under the jurisdiction of the INS office at the following address in Missouri..." Is that to say that I suddenly do not exist? Are they now telling me that the file the officers had been looking at was a figment of their imaginations? Here I am, a viable, certified citizen with degrees, qualified to work as a Medical Technologist, a counselor and now a fledgling journalist, unable to work because of a technicality. But the wonder is the Department of Justice's willingness to authenticate my receipt of welfare from the Department of Public Aid, and yet will deprive me of the identification necessary to work.

The INS have resorted to defrauding immigrants of the pride of being an American citizen, the pride felt by those immigrants of the twentieth century. In the words of Lee Iacocca, a first-generation American of immigrant parents upon dedicating "The American Immigrant Wall of Honor" on Ellis Island, "It is not just for those who came through Ellis Island; it honors all American immigrants who came to this great melting pot in search of freedom and opportunity." The pride that security officer felt, as he accomplished his job with excellence. The pride Tennessee Williams must have felt when he wrote the play "A Streetcar Named Desire" and spoke through the lead Stanley Kowalski, "But what I am is one hundred percent American, born and raised in the greatest country on earth and proud as hell of it."

The County of Los Angeles and their immigrant descendant lawmakers need to fix the horrendous, deplorable black eye that exists at 300 North Los Angeles Street. The time is now to rekindle the pride and hope that their forefathers held dear. To all immigrants, especially those who have lived the atrocities of Room 1001, the Lady still lifts her lamp beside the golden door. That lamp lights the way to your empowerment through the vote. Contact your Congressperson, let your disgust be heard. Regain the pride of all the immigrants that have preceded you, the pride I felt as I raised my right hand twenty-six years ago and pledged my allegiance to the Flag of the Untied States of America.