Behold the Dreamers(22)
It was of no consolation.
Jende heard the automated system tell riders to stand clear of the closing doors, please. He lifted his head. The white people were nearly all gone. Mostly black people remained. More black people got in. That was how he knew it was Harlem, 125th Street. He picked up his bag and stood by the door. When he exited at 135th Street, he went into the bodega at the corner of Malcolm X Boulevard and bought a Diet Coke to change his mood, to help him force out a smile when he walked into the apartment and saw Neni sitting at the table waiting for him with a face as crestfallen as a basset hound’s.
The next evening he called Bubakar from the car while waiting for Cindy, who was treating her friend June to a facial on Prince Street. It had been a week since Bubakar called him and in that time he had wanted to call the lawyer to get a better understanding of his case, but every time he picked up his phone he couldn’t dial the number because … what if Bubakar had more bad news for him?
“Listen, my brother,” Bubakar said. “These things take time, eh? Immigration courts are backlogged these days like nothing I’ve ever seen before—there’s just too many people the government wants to deport and not enough judges eager to deport them. You should have received your Notice to Appear long ago, but the way your asylum case has been going, I don’t even know when you’re going to get it because I’m calling the asylum office and nobody is telling me anything useful. So you may not even have to stand in front of a judge for up to six months, maybe even one year. And then after the judge sees you, he’s going to want to see you again, and the next court date may not be for Allah alone knows how long. And even if the judge denies your asylum case, my brother, we can still appeal the decision. We can even do more than one appeal.”
“Eh?” Jende said. “You mean to say I’m not going to court any day now to hear that I have to leave the country as soon as possible?”
“No! It’s not that bad, at all! There is still a long process ahead.”
“So I could still have a few years in this country?”
“A few years?” Bubakar asked in mock shock. “How about thirty years? I know people who’ve been fighting Immigration forever. In that time, they’ve gone to school, married, had children, started businesses, made money, and enjoyed their lives. The only thing they cannot do is go outside the country. But if you’re in America, what is there to see outside America, abi?”
Jende laughed. Truly, he thought, there was nothing much to see outside America. Anything a man wanted to see—mountains, valleys, wonderful cities—could be seen here, and God willing, after he’d saved enough money, he would take his family to see other parts of the country. Maybe he would take them to see the Pacific Ocean, which Vince Edwards had told him was where he’d seen a most beautiful sunset that had brought tears to his eyes and left him humbled by the beauty of the Universe, the magnificent gift that is Presence on Earth, the vanity that is the pursuit of anything but Truth and Love.
Jende began to feel lighter, a leaf released from beneath a rock. His situation wasn’t half as bad as he’d feared. How much would it cost to fight all the way to the end, he asked Bubakar. A few thousand, the lawyer told him. But no need to worry about that just yet. “You and your cousin have already spent a good amount of money to get you this far. Take a break and save for the battle ahead. When the court sends the Notice to Appear, we’ll discuss a payment plan.
“You are in a better situation than many others,” Bubakar added. “You have a wife who has a job, even though she does not have working papers. Immigration didn’t get back to us within a hundred and fifty days after we filed your application so I forced them to give you a work permit. At least you have been able to work legally. At least there are two of you, my brother. You can both work and pay whatever bills you have. Some families don’t even have one job.”
“But what about my work permit?” Jende asked. “Will I be able to renew it after it expires now that Immigration wants to deport me?”
“Did your employer ask to see your work permit when he hired you?” Bubakar said.
“No.”
“Good. Then stay with him.”
“But what will happen if I cannot renew it and the police stops me and—”
“Don’t worry about things that might never happen, my brother.”
“So if my work permit expires and I cannot renew it and the police stops me on the road, I won’t get into trouble for working as a driver?”
“Listen to me,” Bubakar said, somewhat impatiently. “As far as Immigration is concerned, there are many things that are illegal and many that are gray, and by ‘gray’ I mean the things that are illegal but which the government doesn’t want to spend time worrying about. You understand me, abi? My advice to someone like you is to always stay close to the gray area and keep yourself and your family safe. Stay away from any place where you can run into police—that’s the advice I give to you and to all young black men in this country. The police is for the protection of white people, my brother. Maybe black women and black children sometimes, but not black men. Never black men. Black men and police are palm oil and water. You understand me, eh?”
Jende said he did.
“Live your life wisely and put aside all the money you can,” Bubakar said. “Maybe one day, Inshallah, an immigration bill like the one Kennedy and McCain were fighting for will pass Congress and the government will give everyone papers. Then your wahala will be over.”