Christl and her Magic Bag in the Immigration Office
Soon half the children in the room lay on the floor with us, drawing
People were already miserable when we took our places, and the misery grew as the afternoon wore on.
The room was lined with faces that were lined with worry, weighted with fatigue. Parents slumped alongside children who sank in surrender or squirmed with as much complaint as their hard lives allowed. Many of the grownups sat with frayed nerves in frayed clothing.
It was 1990, at the Immigration office in Jacksonville, Florida. Everyone waited in the hope of renewing their green cards, so they could remain in the country and work. Faces, posture, voices showed how tired they were. How worried.
We too sat down to wait for our turn at the window. We chatted quietly and read to our 5-year-old son. Unlike many of the others, we sat at ease because I was a citizen, we were married and happy and working and raising our family and did not anticipate any problems getting Christl’s permit renewed. But the anxiety in the room grew. This made the children more miserable. And that made the adults more anxious. Outside, a stifling summer rain beat down.
As children around the room fidgeted and whined, Christl and I exchanged a look of concern, and her look…
