Immigrant woes

A day in the life of the INS

Cityscape by Sarah McNaught

A young Asian woman stands in the main lobby of the JFK Building, on Cambridge Street, holding a packet of stapled forms. Behind her shuffles her husband, several years her senior, attempting to quiet their restless toddler.

An Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) employee has directed them to a particular department for assistance. The Vietnamese immigrants explain to the man that they have just come from there. But the employee, a stocky Asian man in his mid-20s, insists it is not his job to help them fill out the forms.

"He says we need to go back over there," the young woman whispers to her husband. She looks toward a line snaking out from a room near the side entrance. "But they said don't come back with blank forms."

The couple wheels their baby girl back to the growing line of immigrants who have residency queries. They will wait once again. It's now 9:30 a.m., and they've been here an hour. In 40 minutes, they will leave the INS to try again another day -- after a friend or neighbor has helped them fill out the forms.

In his reelection speech in January, Mayor Menino talked about the challenges faced by Boston's thousands of immigrants. "Each of you faces unique obstacles. I want our city to be known as a place that helps you overcome those obstacles," he declared. But right next door to his office, in the heart of Government Center, is a place that, at least on this day, does not seem to reflect his welcoming philosophy.

The high-rise federal building that houses the INS is long and narrow, with revolving doors marking the front and side entrances. Visitors are greeted at each entry by a maze of crowd-control barriers. At the end of the maze, visitors and any bags they are carrying must pass through x-ray machines manned by security guards. As at an airport, someone who repeatedly sets off the alarm must be searched with a security wand.

The procedure seems to be a bit selective, however. I set off the buzzer twice, yet the guard waves me through. Behind me waits a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired man with a goatee, khaki-colored Dockers, brown leather shoes, and a tony bomber jacket. When he steps through the gate, the buzzer goes off again; he is asked to step to the side to be scanned with the wand.

Once past security, a visitor encounters a myriad of confusing signs. In the INS lobby, just outside a closet-size snack bar, hangs this one: CITIZENSHIP INQUIRY? NO NEED TO WAIT. JUST FILL OUT SPECIAL INQUIRY FORM, DROP IT IN THE BOX, AND YOU WILL RECEIVE A WRITTEN RESPONSE IN 10 TO 15 WORKING DAYS. The red arrow beneath the sign points to a blue trash can. Closer inspection reveals, just under the arrow, a scribbled note telling people to look for the inquiry forms and the drop box "across hallway."

But "across hallway" are another lobby, the building's side entrance, and two long corridors. After circling the lobby for 10 minutes, I spot in a far corner a high table stacked with forms. They're the ones I'm looking for. A note on the bulletin board above the table instructs people to take the completed forms "down past escalators to left" in order to find the drop box. Not only are the escalators located well beyond the INS section of the building, but the drop box is still nowhere to be found.

In general, the INS employees I encounter appear bitter; no doubt they're disgruntled by long days of listening to confusing questions delivered in broken English. I head toward the "inquiry room," where INS workers accept applications for and answer specific questions about visas, green cards, and citizenship.

Sixteen people are awaiting information; a short, balding man with glasses paces beside the line, barking orders. "Make sure you have all your proper paperwork filled out correctly. And have your questions ready. If you forget to ask a question, you will be sent to the back of the line," he warns.

Several of the immigrants stare at him nervously and begin rifling through their paperwork. They may not have understood the man's words, but they definitely grasped his tone.

Fourth from the front of the line stands a young man in construction gear. His curly blond hair is disheveled, and his flannel shirt is caked with flecks of white plaster. He leans against the wall and begins explaining that he has a question about his lost green card.

"Why are you telling me?" snaps the man. "I am here to inform you that you must know what questions to ask before it is your turn. I can't help you."

The young man shakes his head and faces forward again. He is now on the verge of approaching the admitting desk. Despite all the warnings, a number of immigrants wind up being sent away, either because they did not follow instructions properly or because they did not have the required paperwork.

Even for those who are admitted, more turmoil may lie ahead. In a cramped room filled with rows of dark-green cloth seats, more than 60 people holding numbered tickets sit in silence, waiting to be called. Each ticket is stamped in ink with the time of arrival in the room and the approximate time the number will be called. The waiting immigrants glance often at the far side of the room, where 12 windows bear digital signs that display which number is being served.

Number 468 appears on none of the screens, and a stout man named Vladimir Vlachos steps up to the counter with his wife. The employee, a gray-haired woman with glasses resting on the edge of her nose, tips her head forward and peers at them over her spectacles. Vlachos slides in his paperwork, an I-90 form he must submit in order to replace his expired green card.

"This portion is filled out incorrectly," the woman says, jabbing at the page. "You must read these forms carefully." She slides the form back and curtly instructs Vlachos to return to the lobby, obtain another I-90 form, and begin again.

It's now 1:30 and the Vlachoses have been struggling through the INS maze for almost three hours. "Forget this, I can't come back in here again," snaps the disgruntled Russian immigrant. "I have been here 27 years, and I am treated like an outsider."

Vlachos takes his wife's arm and maneuvers her through a sea of blank stares, out into the lobby. As they head toward the exit, his wife tries to reason with him.

"You need your new card, or you can't go home this summer," she says softly into his ear. "You must try again." Vlachos ushers his wife toward the forms desk, shoves the new I-90 into his briefcase, and stomps out the door. As they pass the security guards, Vlachos tells them, "You know, it is very hard to understand what is expected of us in here." The guards watch in silence as the couple spins out the door.

Sarah McNaught can be reached at smcnaught[a]phx.com.