A Maniacal Interview

A MANIACAL INTERVIEW
by Maria Mize, 2005

Her name is “Wolfe.”

We are let into the building by a kind guard
    after showing our appointment letter.

Following his instructions,
    and passing through the metal detectors,
    we find the restrooms -----
And proceed to the waiting room.

We slip our appointment letter through a predetermined slot,
    and nervously sit, observing the room -----
    its contents and occupants.

The atmosphere is heavy,
    the room cold and sparse.
An indiscriminant clock displays the time.
Empty chairs, align rows.

The room is as quiet as a church full of sinners
    awaiting punishment.

As we look,
    another lady we met outside,
    is called.
Knowing she is late, we wonder,
    but she's immediately excused.
Still listening ------ she is asked about her husband.
She gasps.
He didn’t come, but she is assured ----- It's no problem.

Our turn comes and we too expect kindness
    but are greeted with open hostility.
The wolf has begun to growl and encircle us
    as she barks “Jorge Figueroa,” mispronouncing his name. 
We look at each other and I say, “That’s you.”
Standing, Jorge tentatively approaches
    and abruptly, she waves him on faster ------
Then looking directly at me with sarcasm
    she says, “Oh, you come too.”
Is she summoning a criminal?

Without introduction or greeting,
    the tone of the interview is set like hardened cement.
Instinctively, we know she is the bulldozer.

But as lambs to the slaughter
    we are led through a maze of hallways.
Looking up, a sign reads, “Immigration Adjudications.”
And she opens a door to her office.

Walking behind a desk
    as a queen takes her throne, she is seated.
We sit in silent submission.
The placard on her desk reads “Carolyn Wolfe.”

Having put us on guard,
    we are placed under oath and the interrogation begins.

First she directs
    her penetrating gaze at me, barking
Name?
Address?
Telephone Number?
Awkwardly, I answer.

Turning to my husband
    she begs the same.
And he responds.

“May I see your papers?”
We surrender.

Feigning warmth, she settles back in her chair.
Then all at once leaning forward and glaring into my eyes,
    the questioning resumes.
When were you married?
Determined to relax, I start chatting.

Suddenly she sits rigid, alarmed ------
    I've confused our marriage by 2 days.

Are we at war?  Is this the enemy?
I ponder.
Jorge interjects the correction.

It’s obvious my mistake does not please her,
    as she scribbles some notes
    and moves to finances.
Lease?
Mortgage?
Joint account?
We answer,
    and watching her, again irritated demeanor,
I defensively say,
“A lot of married couples keep separate accounts -----
It doesn’t mean anything."

When she exits the room to make copies.
I look at Jorge and
    unaccustomed to being second guessed,
    I say,
“I guess we should have brought witness affidavits.”

Returning to the room, she plainly tells us,
    "It appears to immigration your marriage is a sham,
    merely formed to circumvent the process."

I counter ----
    with equal deliberation
    “Whatever it looks like -----
    our marriage is real in every aspect,
and we have witnesses!”

Angrily, she thrusts forward a document
    with several items marked, requesting more “evidence.”
We must return the indicated items to her within 90 days -----
    or “Petition Denied!”

As if with a broom
    we are swept from the room
    without pretense.
We are briskly ushered back through the maze and
    promptly dumped at the waiting room.

As the door opens,
    we exit in haste.

She pulls a letter from the box, and calls another name.