The Mama Lucy INS Boxcutter Incident

Part I: Background
My mother came to the US from Hong Kong in 1970, and has lived in CA ever since.
She became a resident alien sometime in the 80's.
When the Wen Ho Lee thing was going down, it occurred to me that she could possibly be deported.
Which would not be 100% negative, from my standpoint...but obviously after 20+ years in the US it would be difficult for her. She has no family to speak of in Hong Kong or China.

So I filled out the proper forms, and got the ball rolling on her becoming a US citizen. In a surprisingly short period of time, US Citizenship and Immigration Services notified us of her in person interview. In our part of California, the wait for an interview can be up to 2 years, we heard back within 6 months.

We receive the study booklet for the written portion and Mama begins reviewing the content. Basic American History, the 3 branches of government, who is the governor of your state, the senators, etcetera. Mama cannot remember to turn off the stove, but can memorize UPC codes, so she mastered the pertinent facts quite quickly. I am not concerned about the written exam...but the interview is another matter entirely. You never know what the woman will say.

Part II: The Interview
The USCIS (U.S. Citizen and Immigration Services) is part of the Bureau of Homeland Security. The INS does not technically exist any longer.
It used to be that it was first come, first served, and in San Jose people would pitch tents in the parking lot and camp out overnight to get a spot in line.
The process is much smoother now, you are given an appointment, which you can reschedule online if you need to.
Mama's appointment is for 7:30 am. She does not drive, so we head out at 6:30am.

I must give you some background on the Mama/S.A. relationship. She has been dependent on me since my father died in 1990. When he was alive, he did everything for her. She didn't have to think, not one iota. When he died, the job was transferred to me, and it's a role I've never been able to shake. So our dynamic is more like I'm the parent, and she is my wayward child.

Before we head in, I give her a pep talk slash admonishment. I remind her that this is a very serious, very important interview. I am confident that she will do fine. She knows all the info.  She must not discuss me, my sister, the dog, the cat, my husband (whom she adores, she will tell "Fritzie" tales to anyone with a pulse), the most recent "Lifetime: Television for Women" movie she has seen...just listen, and answer the questions. Act like an adult. Don't sing. Speak English. She nods, and acts as if she understands the gravity of the situation.

I tell her to leave her handbag in the car. I assume (correctly) that security will be tight, and our belongings will be searched thoroughly, and so she brings only her Green Card and her appointment form. I bring only my keys, my license and some lipgloss.

I give her a final inspection before we head in. She is wearing a skirt, a blouse, a sweater vest, hose and stiletto heels. Knowing what a weird pack rat she is, I once again ask her if she has anything else to leave in the car. She answers no. She looks good, we have everything...so we head in.

I must tell you...I flirted with the idea of physically patting her down. I've done it before, and I'll probably have to do it again.
But I didn't. I wanted to have faith in her, to believe that she is an adult, with common sense. I was just tired of having to think of everything, of having a mother who is so comfortable with being utterly helpless.

Part III: Conclusion
There is only one entrance to the building. There is an armed Homeland Security guard standing in front of it. Before we are allowed to get near the door, he demands ID and our appointment form. The guard is in his early 60s, white, tall and very serious looking. There is no foyer; the X-ray machine is flush with the doorway. We are told to remove our shoes, and put them on the conveyor belt.

Before I can stop her (and I see this coming, but like a toddler, Mama often seems to exist in another dimension of space and time), she has removed one of her stilettos, and is aiming it at the flaps of the X-ray machine- you know, the pieces that hang down.
She hucks it through the flaps from about 3 feet away, then turns to me, does a Tiger Woods fist pump, and hollers
"YESSSSSSSSSSSS! TWO POINTS!"

I am lightheaded with rage.

I grab her, drag her away from the machine and hiss at her to stop acting like a child. I snatch her other shoe, and put it on the conveyor belt, adding my shoes, and the box containing my watch and keys.

The security guard is staring at her with utter consternation. If two headed aliens showed up and asked him where the nearest Taco Bell was I don't think he could have been more stunned.

There is another guard manning the machine; he is a young Latino, in his 20s-- and he is trying with every fiber of his being to not laugh his ass off. Our eyes meet, and his lips start to quiver...he turns away and pretends to pick something off the floor.

The older guard then gives us the standard spiel, asking us if we have anything else to put through the machine. I say no, smiling at him and giving him my shiniest smile; I want to charm him, for him to forgive my mother her idiocy. I am afraid he won't even let us into the building. I begin to usher my mom toward the metal detector.

Suddenly she stops, turns to face the guard, and says "What about this?"

(You know what's coming. My mother works at a Rite Aid. She is responsible for the shoe aisle. She opens a lot of cardboard boxes.)

She reaches under her sweater vest, and I see that she is wearing a little leather pouch- like the type tourists wear to keep their passports safe from pickpockets. She whips out a BOXCUTTER, and holds it in front of his face.

He simply stares.

So she bangs it against the wall, so that the little razor blade thingie pops out.

(This is less than a year after the 9-11 attacks. A boxcutter. I shit you not.)

At this point I am awash with a sense of zen tranquility. There is simply nothing else I can do. Mama will be deported, and that is that. We will simply have to set her up in Hong Kong. We'll visit regularly. I hear the shopping and the food is excellent.

The young guard is convulsed with laughter. He is trying to be quiet, and thus looks as if his head is going to explode. The older guard just takes the boxcutter from her, and says "No, that is not okay."
He looks over at me, and we stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, he shakes his head, and gives me the smallest of shoulder shrugs.

I am galvanized into action. I rip off her sweater, take off the damn pouch, and throw it in the garbage can. I pat her down, to make sure there is nothing more.
She begins to protest. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Don't say a goddamn word. Shut up" I hiss at her. It is my mantra. I hiss it all the way through the 2 metal detectors, down the long hall.

We reach the end of the hall. Just before we go through the double doors, she turns around and hollers "HEY!!!" at the older guard.

He looks over. 
"You going to give me back my boxcutter?"
He shakes his head no.
She looks at me in outrage.
I drag her through the double doors.

She passed her interview.
When they asked her to write a sentence, any sentence at all (to demonstrate literacy), this is what she produced:
"America is a land of opportunity and freedom."