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I was in seventh heaven. The way I told them to answer the phone worked. There were two more calls that day and they were answered the same way. At the end it appeared that people who called were interested in a position of a formal nature which included being part of a large domestic staff and wearing a uniform. They also weren't interested in taking care of a pet which played a significant role in the daily duties. After three days, I felt as if I was a marathon runner who was determined to overcome all obsticles. Although I had a lot of miles in front of me, the first obstacle was already behind me. I called my lawyer to share the good news with her and asked what the next step would be. Our telephone conversation wasn't too long but for that consultation and general legal work I was "punished" with a bill for $345.00. How lucky I was, I thought, to have a job which allowed me to cope with the legal expenses. But the lawyer's fees weren't the only obsticle I had to put up with. At one of the consultations with my advisor, I found out

title: ChrisII medium: pastel on paper

"We can't file your Tax Return because you don't have a Social Security Number," I was told at the H&R Block Office. "You have to go to the Social Secdurity Office and ask them to give you a number."

"We can't give you a number because you are illegally here, you don't have permission for work, and what's more you can't work here. Can you imagine me going to your country and working there?" he asked.

"Sure, I can," I said. "You may go if you like and you may work if like."

"But your government wouldn't give me a SS#," sounding like thunder.

"Well, we have adifferent economic system over there, you know, and you wouldn't need to have a SS#," I said trying to sound convincing.

"Anyway, you can't work here," making an effort to end our conversation.

"But I'm already working, I make money, and I would like to report my earnings to your government," I said.

"You can't work here," he said being stubborn.

"I have a letter from the IRS explaining that even as an illegal alien I should pay taxes," I pulled out my last resort and I showed it to him.

He went through the letter quicker than a wink of an eye and gave it back to me. "But they don't give out the Social Security Numbers.  We do!" ending our conversation with a proud smile on his face.

A few days later I went back to the H&R Block Office. This time a different lady at the desk listened to me attentively and then said, "Well, if they want you to pay taxes, there must be a way to do that," she pulled out a few forms and started to fill them out. "You don't have a SS number but the IRS, in its letter, gives an identification number to all illegal aliens, which we may use," she said and I was grateful that at last I'd found a person who was willing to help me.

When all the paper work was done, it appeared that the IRS didn't have any mercy towards me. I had to pay taxes for the year I filed the Tax Report, and I also owed them money for the years I didn't report my earnings at all. What's more, they punished me for being late with my payments. It looked like a financial disaster to me, but cards were already dealt and it would be quite a silly decision to quit the game. The obstacles I stumbled against in my new life were a surprise to my American friends. It was hard for them to believe that someone like me, who wanted to settle down in their country, had such difficulties in achieving his goal.

title: Christmas medium: pastel on paper

"I don't get it," said one of my friends with whom I played chess every week. "You are here for how long, three years?...

"Yes," I nodded.

"You work, make money, pay taxes and they don't want to give you a SS number?" he frowned. "Something is wrong here. I will go with you to the Social Secirity Office with you. Maybe you didn't tell them everything or they didn't understand you."

"But he pays taxes. You take his money," my friend said, driving the man into a corner.

I noticed some nervousness in the man's behavior, but he knew his song by heart.
"He can't work here. Come back when he gets permission to work," he said while he pulled out a folder full of papers giving us to understand the was busy and there was nothing to add.

"Can't you call your lawyer and ask her to help you in this matter?" my friend asked after we had left the SS office.

"I can, but to tell the truth, I am afraid to do that. She charges a lot of money for every telephone call I make. In the lawyer's language, it is called consultation, preparation, research, legal work, and what not. Now that I have to pay taxes, penalties and lawyer's fees, I am a little short of money. I hope that soon I get this permission for work and my nightmare will be over. There is a saying in my country that hope is the mother of stupid people, but I will try to prove that saying wrong."

A month or so passed by and one day my heart jumped with joy. There was a letter from the Labor Department for me in the mailbox. With shaking hands I opened the envelope and my jaw dropped with disappointment. It was just an official confirmation that all my paperwork was received by that office, and it would be taken for consideration. As if it wasn't enough, another disappointment came from the lawyer's office. I was informed that my case was transferred to another associate. When I called the office, I was told that my previous lawyer got pregnant and that was the reason she couldn't work with me any more. I couldn't understand it but it seemed to me that the law firm had some kind of sport competition, and ping pong was the name of it.
 

I wondered whether the new associate was going to shoot me with a new $1500.00 fee. After all, I was a new client. But the new lawyer surprised me with a new kind of consultation, preparation and general legal work. I kept receiving from him detailed statements of the work he did for me, the telephone conversations we'd had, and how much it would cost me. What he didn't know was that my telephone company had been sending me detailed statements that showed how many telephone conversations I'd had and with whom. When I compared those two statements, his and mine, it appeared that there was a big difference between them. Furthermore, some of my papers that should have been sent to certain departments were sent to others. There were a few more mishaps on the part of my new lawyer which I was billed for, and I didn't

title: Award medium: pastel on paper

like it any more. I made a call to the lawyer with whom I had opened my sponsorship case asking him, at the beginning of our conversation, not to charge me for the call because I wasn't going to talk about the consultation and preparation but rather about his associate's performance of duty. As a result of our chat, a month or so later, I found out that my bills were adjusted, that the associate didn't work for the lawyer's firm any more, and that my case returned to the lawyer I start to work with at the very beginning.

Five years passed by very quickly, and I began to worry because there was no sign of either my permission for work or the green card. In the meantime my friends who were sponsored as domestic help enjoyed their freedom looking for better jobs and traveling abroad without a fear that they wouldn't be allowed to come back. I had to find out what was going on with my case, so
instead of calling, I decided to go to New York City to see my lawyer in person.
 

"It's not true," he said angrily when I told him what I knew about my friends. "Your friends can't have their green cards yet. All of you are considered sixth preference sponsorship, and it takes time to get the green card because it is the last preference of sponsorship. What's more you have to wait because there is a delay in reviewing new cases by the Immigration Office."

"Well... er...," I stammered, "I have seen their green cards. They are pink now, and I have seen them going to visit their relatives in their native countries, and I have seen them coming back. So something must be wrong with my case or with me.  I understand that there are better preferences like doctors, engineers, or priests, and I understand that I am not one of them, but I have a job that nobody wanted to take, so it looks to me like I am as important as they are. Maybe your associates didn't do their job properly, or maybe America doesn't want me. There has to be an explanation," I almost shouted.

"There is nothing wrong with you, and America wants you, but you must be patient. Everything should be fine, you'll see. Just be patient," he said trying to calm me down.

Although I knew it would cost me dearly, I decided to quit. I decided to quit my job, to quit this unproductive relationship with my lawyer, to get over a loss of thousands of dollars.  I decided to get married.

Very often, with my fiancee, we'd talked about making it easier for me, but I'd been stubborn. Sooner or later, we were going to be together, but I wanted to do it my way. Something was wrong, and I couldn't figure out whose fault it was mine, my lawyer's, my employer's, or the whole US immigration law.

To make my life even more miserable, the American Embassy in Warsaw sent me a letter which read that in order to get my green card I had to leave the US, go back to Poland and wait for the immigration visa over there.

My lawyer told me that it would take five years to get the green card.  I'd waited ten years! It was supposed to cost five thousand dollars.  It almost doubled that amount! Now they want me to go back to where I came from! And what? Wait another ten years?

I got married.

My wife was a permanent resident of this country at that time, and a year after our marriage, she became an American citizen. It wasn't an immediate success, it wasn't my way, it took two more years, but at last I got what I had fought for for so long.

Once, I watched a movie starring Robert Redford who played a politician who fought for a higher office. He spent a lot of time, a lot of money, energy, he had a lot of associates who were helping him to get what he wanted, and at the end, when he achieved what he had fought for he asked, "What now?"

Back in Poland, I worked as a film editor, and when I came to America, I hoped that I would do what I knew how to do, and what I loved to do. But the world didn't wait for me.

It took ten years to make my day, it thinned my wallet drastically, it covered my head with gray hair, it added deep wrinkles to my forehead, it . . . . Now, I ask myself the same question, "What now?"

What now.

What Now.