ALMOST A YEAR later, during the spring of my junior year, Misty and I went on another road trip, this time to Boston. We were on our way to the most important appointment of my life, to meet with an immigration lawyer about my asylum application. She rubbed my arm and gave me a big smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I had found Richard Iandoli’s name in the back of the Advocate, a gay newspaper you could pick up for free at most bars and coffee shops in Massachusetts. When I called, I got to talk to Richard himself, who said he had taken on a few political asylum cases, but none for gay clients.
Misty and I followed him into his office, where Richard sat behind an enormous desk, shuffled some papers, pushed his glasses up his nose, and locked me in his gaze. “So we’ll need your testimony, but we’re also going to need letters from people in your life, people who can help you prove you are gay.” “Why would that be needed?” Richard explained that some people, desperate people, will say anything to ensure their immigration to the United States. “The easiest way is to have a girlfriend write a testimonial,” Richard said. More is better.” The double knot in my stomach returned as Richard went on about all the personal information he would need about my country, my family, and me. Things I had tried for years not to think about. More often, the asylum officer denies approval, and the case moves to an appeal. The longer it went on, the more excuses I would need to come up with to keep my parents at bay.