This time I was hungover, still nursing a bruised ego from the night before, when a pretty sophomore with curly hair wouldn’t give me the time of day. And unlike my high school graduation, this time my family wasn’t in the audience; there were no friendly eyes or baby sister to find in the crowd. “If you don’t want to be criticized, don’t say anything, don’t do anything, and don’t be anything,” the commencement speaker said. I maneuvered my rental car into a pay lot and found Richard waiting at the front door of the courthouse. Richard placed his briefcase on the floor and removed a few files, a pad of paper, and a pen. This was my asylum officer, Ann McPhee. In Jordan, I am the crime.” Ann McPhee’s eyes narrowed. I don’t know, it was scary.” “Scared but not harmed?” “No.” Richard scribbled page after page on his legal pad. Then Ann McPhee returned to the same question she started with.
If your life is in danger, like you say, then why have you returned”—she checked her notes—“seven times in the last three years?” “I never said I wanted to leave.” I was close to my breaking point; I could feel the rage collecting in my chest. As soon my back hit the brick wall outside, Richard emerged from the building. “I keep going back because I don’t want to say goodbye to them.” This time, Richard didn’t stop himself. Let’s just try and go back in there and finish it off.” “How much longer?” I asked into Richard’s jacket, the heat of my breath warm on my face. I’ll go back in.” Richard kept his hand on my back as we walked down the hallway—maybe to comfort me, maybe to stop me from bolting. You’d be surprised how many people lie to come to this country.”
The sun streamed in from the window over my shoulder; I realized Richard and I had been talking directly above it. Ann McPhee had heard our entire exchange. “I am not lying,” I said, holding back the many things I wished I could say to my asylum officer in that moment. Ann McPhee relented five minutes and a few questions later. As I unlocked the driver’s side door, he said kindly, “It went well.” The drive back to Northampton was the opposite of the one to Boston. I wished I could call and hear their voices, I wished I could tell them how scared I was. Ann McPhee had thirty days to make her decision. I called Richard’s office every morning as soon as I knew he would be there. On day thirty, wired and nearly catatonic with anxiety, I walked into the campus mail room, turned the key in the small rectangular slot, and saw it.