As the War on Terror drags on, it appears that immigration policy remains a constant, while its interpretation changes like spring fashions in Paris.

An Englishman once quipped that a diplomat’s job is to lie for his country.  Blunt truths aside, a diplomat’s role might also be to further his nation’s interests in—and manage relations with—his host country’s government and citizens.  This includes projecting a positive national image, handling citizen services, and facilitating commerce, dialogue, and travel.  Some among the U.S. Diplomatic Corps seem unaware of these inherent responsibilities.  Whereas the British have a long tradition of diplomacy in the Foreign Services, successive U.S. administrations have bestowed diplomatic posts for patronage—and, all too frequently, with provocative intent.  An anti-Serb is named ambassador to Greece, an ex-POW is posted to Vietnam, and women are sent as senior U.S. representatives to Islamic countries.  America does not want for enemies, and too many of them have become enemies because of her foreign policy.

My parents invited my girlfriend, Elizabeth Garci, a Mexican national, to celebrate the all-American holiday of Thanks-giving with us in Illinois.  Elizabeth, a successful commercial photographer in Mexico City, could take a week off of her hectic assignment schedule to make the journey to get to know my family.  I called U.S. Citizen Services at the U.S. embassy in Mexico City to inquire about the possibility of Elizabeth visiting.  They said it should not pose a problem and that, if the consular officials thought the renewal of her expired visa would not come through by her travel date, a single-entrance pass would be issued during the interview.

Elizabeth arrived at the consulate on October 28 at 1:10 P.M. for her interview, scheduled for 1:30.  She began the registration process at 2:00 (case no. 1693).  During this process, Elizabeth handed in her current and previous Mexican passports and an application form, had her photograph taken, and was fingerprinted.  She was interviewed by a U.S. consular officer from 3:10 to 3:15 P.M.  She asked if she would receive a visa in time to make the journey; the officer replied, “First, we have to see if we’re even going to give you the visa.”

He then looked at his computer monitor and asked, “Who is Russell Gordon?”  She responded that I am her boyfriend.  Then—apparently the consulate has a direct link to the Mexican IRS’s database—he asked, “Why don’t you pay taxes?”  Elizabeth explained that freelance artists who earn less than 500,000 pesos annually are exempt from tax payments.  She attempted to explain that, since 2001, she has had a company—a four-story photography studio—registered with the Department of Commerce and Revenue.  The official, nodding, glanced only at the first page of her company’s registration title.  He then asked to see her bank statements and confirmed their existence with a dull grunt—without even handling them.

The official then asked her with whom she lives, and she replied that she lives with her parents.  He then continued, “Who lives at the address in Northbrook, Illinois?”  She responded that I did.  (While we both live in Mexico City, my parents live at the Northbrook address, and it remains my official U.S. residence for tax and legal purposes.)  At no time did the official review any other documentation, including my formal invitation letter, which vouched for Elizabeth.

He then asked Elizabeth what type of car she owned.  She replied, “A Chevy.”  After a few seconds, he handed back all her documents and said: “Sorry, senorita, but for now we are refusing you the visa.”

When Elizabeth asked for an explanation, the official responded: “It’s refused, and, if you want a reason, enter the [consulate’s] web page and check Section 214(b) of the Law of Immigration.”

Elizabeth replied that she did not agree with the decision and requested the official’s name to refer to in further communications regarding the situation.  He retorted curtly: “I already told you—if you want to know, look at the web page.”  She assured him that she would and again requested his name.  With a rude imperial wave, he simply said, “Go away.”  Diplomacy, indeed: Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat’s belligerence.

The form letter he gave her states that a visa is refused when an applicant cannot “clearly show to the Consul that it is not their [sic] intention to stay in the United States for more time than is allowed for a temporary visit.”  I did not find this section on the website.  The instruction brochure for visa applicants clearly stated that “The consul will make a decision as justly as possible, and [if you are refused] will tell you with as much courtesy as possible.”  The consular official is depicted in a sketch as a nice, petite, smiling woman behind bulletproof glass.  Perhaps the diplomatic truth slipped though in the illustration.

Insulted, Elizabeth went to another window to seek a logical explanation and asked the visa chief, Scott Renner, to reveal the identity of the unnamed official who had attended her, since she wanted to file an official complaint.  Mr. Renner responded that the name was registered in the consulate’s computers under her case number.  He gave Elizabeth a paper with his name and a fax number where she could send her complaint.  She thanked him and left.

Surprised by such an incoherent refusal of her application, I assumed there must have been a misunderstanding between two people speaking their finest Spanglish.  I wrote a letter to Mr. Renner recapping what had occurred and clarifying that Elizabeth wanted to make a mere one-week journey and that both of us made our livings in Mexico.  I went to the embassy the following day and asked the receptionist how to present the letter to Mr. Renner in the visa section, since only foreign nationals with an appointment can enter.  The receptionist suggested I consult the Marine guard or talk to the police stationed at the front entrance.  I decided to take the police option and was waved through the first control to the private security guards at the visa-section door.  I explained my purpose, and the first guard, Rodolfo Perez Avila, ushered me past a waist-high gate and instructed me to knock on the reinforced glass door.  When I did, three gray-suited, black-bereted Mexican women in combat boots turned momentarily to look—and then immediately returned to their lively conversation.  I knocked again, mouthing, “Can I speak with you a moment?”  Again, a brief look in unison before returning to their chatting and giggling.  You might assume that the U.S. embassy would hire a top-notch organization to handle security matters, but I was met by a combined operation of Mut and Jeff and the Keystone Cops.

I returned to Mr. Perez Avila and suggested that the guards did not seem inclined to assist me.  He stood momentarily perplexed before I coached him diplomatically into lifting his radio to call a supervisor.  Eventually, another of his colleagues, Mr. Davila, came and said that he would inform Mr. Renner immediately.  After 15 minutes, I suggested that Avila and Davila call again, and they slowly got on the horn—banging their hand radios to get them to work—and spoke to some invisible third party further inside.  I was told that, while Mr. Renner was out of town, his colleague (also a visa chief) would meet me “ahorita” (a Mexican euphemism that means “just now” but can also mean up to a day—or never).  After an additional ten minutes had passed, another guard, Mr. Baltazar, appeared and, speaking for the other two, informed me that “a program” was under way.  I said, “That’s great, I’m so glad”—but I would either need ten minutes to speak with someone to present my letter and documents, or they would have to spend hours answering questions from senators’ and congressmen’s offices.  Mr. Baltazar asked me to repeat my concern, and I patiently tried to summarize the situation—while Mr. Baltazar avoided eye contact and began talking with his colleagues.  After it became clear that ahorita meant never, I realized it was time to try the Marine guard.

I went back to the embassy entrance and asked the guard how to deliver the letter and documents.  He asked what it concerned, and I explained, with some measure of frustration.  He retorted: “Hey, I have nothing to do with this—and I don’t want anything to do with this.”  I suggested that I had been sent to him, and I was sure he could find a way.  He resentfully called his superior.  

After about 15 minutes, Mr. Peter Velasquez from Diplomatic Security came out to meet me.  We introduced ourselves cordially, and I explained the situation.  I clarified that, at this point, we were not as concerned about the refusal of the visa as about the improper and insulting way in which Elizabeth had been treated.  What I wished was simply to deliver the letter and documents to a responsible party from the consular services.  Mr. Velasquez stated: “I guarantee you that these documents will be delivered to them.  I promise that.”  He asked me to put my name on the manila folder and wait while he consulted his superior for protocol.  He came back after about ten minutes and told me, “We cannot accept these documents.”  I replied that there would be a lot more time spent answering questions from my senators and congressmen.  I asked if that was the only recourse he could suggest, and he nodded.  I faxed my letter to Mr. Renner, since no one would receive it in person.

My parents filed a formal protest with the offices of Rep. Mark Kirk, Sen. Richard Durbin, and Sen. Peter Fitzgerald.  These elected officials’ staffers immediately collected the facts and wrote cordial letters requesting a review of the decision, noting that Elizabeth had every reason to return to Mexico and had no intention what-so-ever to remain in the United States longer than a week.  My parents also faxed a protest letter expressing their outrage at the consulate’s refusal to grant my girlfriend an entry permit to be their guest.  An American woman at the consular section did telephone them—to defend the official’s right to make an arbitrary decision without even reviewing documents.  The interviewee needed to “make a strong impression of financial solvency during the interview, and the average interview lasts only two minutes.” (So far, I have received no reply from Mr. Renner or anyone else.)

One of the elected official’s staffers commented, “We encounter this often with U.S. Consulates, and the results are almost always the same: We want to reach out . . . and wring their necks.”  Taxpayers might want to ask why their tax dollars are financing consular services that impart a negative image of the United States and abuse foreign guests.  At present, U.S. consular services function as a government within a government, like the NSA or the IRS.  For the State Department to lambaste other nations for “undemocratic” practices or for violating “the rule of law” is the epitome of hypocrisy.

It is small wonder that so many Mexicans choose to risk their lives and what little savings they have accumulated to cross the deserts of the Southwest to enter the United States illegally.  Besides the promise of better wages and work opportunities, many may have found that it is not worth even the 20-cent telephone call to inquire about a seasonal work permit when the rules are so ambiguous and are applied at an official’s imperial whim.  If the U.S. government truly seeks a solution to the problem of illegal immigration from Mexico, perhaps a more logical and just system would yield an increase in legal taxpaying labor—a benefit to both countries’ economies—and foster more neighborly relations.  The resentment created by the status quo benefits no one.  More Mexicans could work or visit legally and temporarily and be allowed to return to their families—and legitimate visitors, such as Elizabeth, could be allowed to enter the United States.

After September 11, 2001, U.S. Consular Services has little reason to crow; recent reports indicate that over 150 terror suspects have received visas since Septem-ber 11.  The INS did not record local addresses for them, nor are their whereabouts known.  Maybe it’s better they kept my girlfriend out after all.