Veronica Carnegie, Contributor

Plan I

We had been checking the letter box for three months before the letter arrived from my uncle in America. As usual, the whole family read it. My grandparents beamed with pride because it was from their eldest son who had given every cent to build their new concrete house. Uncle Barry had told us on the telephone that he had mailed it on the first of December and today was the third of March. The postman, who had been watching with us, rode up the street loudly ringing his bicycle bell and would not stop till I appeared. He could have put it in the box but he preferred to hand this special letter to us, saying, "Good luck, Pete."

"Thank you, Pos'y."

"Thank God. One more to go. The I-20 form from college," Gramma said.

"Hope that will come soon, Mrs. Stephens."

"Yes. I am worried because the boy is getting restless. He is expected to register by May 19. He missed the Fall and Spring semesters and if he does not make it for the Summer session, I won't be able to deal with that level of restlessness."

As with her own six children, Gramma had taught us to look abroad for tertiary education, qualify, and if it suited us, stay. It did not suit six of their seven children to return. They became citizens of another country.

I went to a good preparatory school, played football in the Junior competitions, passed the Common Entrance Examination to a traditional high school, got seven credits in the 'O' Levels and sat four subjects in the 'A' Levels. That's all I really did with my Advanced Level exams.

I had to go away. I had visited England, Canada and America and had made up my mind, with the help of Gramma, that the U.S. of A. was the place I wanted to be. When another uncle in Oakland, California, invited me to spend the summer of 1978 with his family, I accepted the invitation. But I returned to Jamaica because I knew I would soon be back with my four-year student permit.

I clearly recall the difficulty I had in getting a two-month visitor's visa, even though I had an impressive sponsorship letter from my uncle. But that is a part of the Jamerican experience.

In ignorance, Gramps, Gramma and I left the house in Mona at 8:00 a.m., took about 20 minutes to get to the United States Embassy, visa section, at Cross Roads, parked at the Ripon Road parking lot and strolled towards the entrance of the building.

The two signs with their two long lines said 'Permanent' and 'Temporary'. Gramma and I walked the length of Eureka Road following the line of sweating people of all sizes and shapes, shades and ages, and rounded the corner at Half-Way Tree Road. We were 10th, 11th and 12th from the corner. We stood patiently in the line while the late morning sun beat down on us.

After about 10 minutes the line moved, and we moved, but we had not yet rounded the corner. By 10 o'clock we had reached midway on Eureka Road and Gramps, who had joined us after reading the Gleaner and locking up the car, said that this waiting was damn foolishness and he was not bleaching in the sun any longer. "Besides," he said, "if the Americans had any respect for us they would not have us standing in the sun like cattle." But he knew Gramma well enough to know she would not give up easily.

"We came here to get a visa for Peter and I am not leaving without it," Gramma declared.

"Orange, ma'am? Cool down wit' a orange."

"Buy a Kisko to beat de 'eat."

"Sky juice! Sky juice!" a man cried, holding up the plastic bag filled with crushed ice and syrup.

"I don't think they're going to take anymore today," a slim, neatly dressed Indian-looking man said in a low voice.

"Don't tell us that."

"Yes. You not getting in today. But if you want, I can hold a space for you near the door for tomorrow for 20 dollars."

"Oh my God!" Gramps said. "What have we come to!"

"Yes, sar," said a woman selling mints and peanuts, "if you don't pay for a space or sleep overnight, you have to keep coming, for dey stop giving out tickets after acertain number each day."

"Sleep overnight?"

"Yes sar. See some of the cushions and mats and cardboard dat dem lie down on, dere."

Gramps looked and shook his head in disbelief. People had slept on the pavement.

"Not me. I am not doing that. You don't have to leave the country, you know."

Gramma ignored him.

"Let's go and come back by 5:00 a.m. tomorrow."

"OK," we agreed, and we returned home. We set the clock to alarm at 3:00 a.m., got up then, ate a good meal, parked the car in the same spot and walked towards the Embassy building. We were shocked, again. The front of the place was completely blocked by a truck and behind it were two women cooking on a coal stove and serving hot meals to the many people who had stayed overnight. The place was a night shelter. Some people, men and women, were lying on the ground; some had brought folding chairs and were sitting in them, and some were stooping to ease their foot ache. But even at this time there was a line going back to Half-Way Tree Road. The persons seeking visas were positioned in the line while relatives stood around them. Maybe whole families came in from the country to protect the applying one.

We saw two cars pull up and well-dressed persons moved towards the entrance and stood in the spaces that were being held for them.

"Something is going on."

"Of course something is going on. The Embassy staff does not arrive till eight, so these people who can afford it pay to have spaces held for them. It saves time and energy. If I had the money I would do the same. We would be in our beds now and Peter would just arrive at a quarter to eight, step right in front and pay up."

"You know what is true? I am not coming back here."

"Gramma, I think we are wasting time. I want to sleep here tonight. No, not tonight. They don't open on a Saturday. I will sleep here on Sunday night."

"You want to be killed, boy? It's not worth it."

"I will sleep here on Sunday night."

"No, you will not."

"Yes, he will. He wants to go away. He must learn to make the sacrifice."

"All of us going to have to sacrifice with him. I know that you are not going to sleep a wink with that boy sleeping out in Cross Roads, and every minute I will have to be jumping up with you."

She did not answer.

Sunday night at 10:30 I was dropped off at the Embassy. Then I remembered I had planned to pick up my friend at Carib Theatre. We drove around Slipe Road and there he was, waiting on the steps as planned. I introduced him to my grandparents and he got into the car. Gramma was relieved when he gave his name as Stuart Brown, because when I was cross-questioned about this friend they did not believe me and had told me to think up a better name. Stuart was indeed a student of the technical college, grew up on Church Street, and apparently knew the fine details of self-preservation. Gramma handed me the bag with sandwiches, chicken, rice and peas, and a hot drink in a large thermos flask. This food would be more than enough for the two of us for the night.

Before my grandparents drove off, they saw Stuart rush to the front of the line, force himself in first and ease me in front of him. He took action even though I towered a good foot over him. Gramma said later that she felt a pang of appreciation and wondered if he had a mother and if she knew where he was at that time.

They took stock of the people around to assure themselves that the hope of a visa was too much in their minds for them to hurt a 16-year-old boy and his friend.

At six o'clock Monday morning they were back. They parked in the same Ripon Road spot, but Gramps stayed in the car while Gramma came to find us. She peered in the semi-darkness as she moved slowly away from the entrance. At the spot where she thought we should be, she stopped and peered into the wrong faces. Then she moved on again, wondering how we could have got so far back. We saw her first and called, 'Gramma!'

"Peter, did you give up your space?" She was annoyed and spoke loudly.

"No, Gramma."

"Why are you so far back in the line? Anyway," she lowered her voice, "both of you go to the car. There is water for washing up. Your toothbrush is in the bag, Peter. Change your clothes and eat your breakfast. There's enough for you and Stuart." And she stood in our space and waited.

At 6:30, the man with the big sno-cone cart began jumping around. He hit the side of the truck three times and the driver moved it. He swept the area quickly. The chairs, boxes, foam, pillows, and newspapers were all removed. Those who were waiting in cars parked along Eureka Road came forward and secured the spots that had been held overnight for them.

By eight o'clock Gramma and I were standing side-by-side behind the tight enclosure; some people ahead of us were standing three abreast. A few persons were diving under the bars and squeezing themselves near the entrance where there was an opening.

The Americans came, and they said good morning to the ones nearest the entrance. People watched them and set their watches.

Then the Jamaican guard opened the gate and a tall foreigner began handing out green numbered tickets. The entrance was now crowded as hands reached out for them.

"After all this vigil, Peter, do you mean to tell me we are not going to get a ticket?"

"Mrs. Stephens, you go over to the Permanent line and wait there," Stuart said.

Gramma did not argue. She looked up in time to see Stuart swing his legs over the high wall and land in the courtyard. He hurried to the tall American, rushed to the gate, called her in and handed her two tickets. She yelled to me, and I ran and she handed one to me.

Gramma looked up again to see contempt in the American's face. She ignored him and his look and tried to see where Stuart had disappeared. Then we hurried in with the tickets, only to find ourselves in the back of the room with numbers 96 and 97. We were still trying to figure out how, after all our effort, we could be so far back when the same tall American stood up at the front of the room and began reading some sort of declaration in a loud nasal accent.

"You should flah, flay, fly, flew to the forms, and flay fly floi twan, twang, sound words, words, flaw, flee."

When he was finished, each person looked at the other and asked, "What did he say?" and those who had been interviewed before hoped that they wouldn't get Idi Amin.

"Idi Amin?" I asked.

"Yes, mi son," a woman volunteered. "We call one o' dem Idi. He's tough and tight. He does not issue visas lightly. Some who were turned down called him Idi right to his face, white as he was."

"Don't worry," said a hustler's positive voice. 'Idi is over at the Permanent Section this week."

There was relief among the crowd.

The numbers were drawled out, five at a time. As soon as the people went in, five moved down toward the front, until finally we were in the first row.

"Number 96. Window five, please."

Another American was there to question us. By this time, Gramma had made up her mind that I was getting my visa.

"Mr. Peter Stephens, why do you want to go to the United States of America?"

"What damn fool question is that to ask a young Jamaican who has all his relatives there? What a damn fool question!"

It was a good thing he couldn't hear her. I, however, was explicit. I told him in my best English why I wanted to go.

"What does your uncle do?"

"He's a medical doctor. It's on the letter."

"How will you be supported in America."

"My time now," Gramma said to herself.

"It's there in the letter."

"Can I see it for a minute, please?"

"I thought all that information was outlined."

He never passed back the letter but he became aware of her and addressed the other questions to her. She had come prepared with all relevant papers and other documents; whatever he asked for, she fished out, and she made him know that during those two months she was not expecting anything to happen to me. She hoped that their security was as good as advertised on the screen. He smiled and asked us to sit in the waiting room. After another 30 minutes we were called and I was handed my passport with a two-month visa stamped in it. We left the Embassy at 10:30 a.m. and by 4:00 p.m. I was on the plane to the U.S. of A.

"That was a lot of energy and effort on our part to get that temporary visa. No wonder some people make it permanent," Gramps said.

They thought that one of my uncles or aunts would ensure that I was taken to the Immigration in their State, wherever it was, to change my status, but everybody was working at their two jobs and forgot. Gramma wanted to know why one of them hadn't changed me to a permanent residentor shifted me onto a four-year student visa. She got on the phone and ordered them to change my status. But whatever the circumstances, I was returned to Jamaica after two months, like a tourist, camera over my shoulder, dark glasses and all, laden with gifts, clothes, accent and a gold cap over my incisor.

(Part two next week)

- Veronica Carnegie