Room 407
by Robert M. Sterry

In George Orwell's novel 1984, the hero, Winston Smith, is reduced to pleading, between screams, that his Room 101 torturers do the worst thing in the world to the only person in the world who loved him, Julia. In this betrayal, Winston destroys their love. It was the final piece of his degradation, necessary for state security in a world where love is forbidden. Everyone's worst fear in the world always waits for them in Room 101 at the Ministry of Love.

In the movie of the book, released in 1985, Richard Burton played the inquisitor O'Brien to John Hurt's Winston Smith. Filmed, as it seemed to me, through a gray-blue filter, it successfully represented Winston's' mind as he travels from state cipher to revolutionary to reprocessed shell. By watching the movie alone, at night, I destroyed my capacity for sleep.

I was recalling this horror the other day as I waited in Room 407 at a Federal Building. If you were born a U.S. citizen and avoided marrying a foreigner, you will probably never have to visit Room 407. Making a demographic subtraction you can easily calculate who gets invited there. We are, depending on who you listen to, either the scum of the earth battering at the weakened walls of democracy looking for a free lunch and clean needles, or the new lifeblood of the Republic, willing to put our sweat at the disposal of the state.

My first experience of such a room was in Newark, N.J. in 1974. As a naive and inexpert liar, I tried to convince an amused INS officer that my recent and lengthy presence in the U.S. demonstrated a fervently held desire to write a book about the history of New Jersey, and had nothing to do with illegal employment which would invalidate my visa. I had waited two hours in an enormous line with the restless citizens of a dozen Caribbean nations to present my pathetic untruth; this after an hours' bus ride from Manhattan, and a nervous walk down Broad Street.

It is either a remarkable monument to democracy or to mendacious planning, or both, that no matter what purpose I and my fellow attendees had, we all had to be processed in exactly the same fashion. Since I was the only 'gringo suit' in the line I was the target of the monosyllabic enquiry, Abocado?. They were not offering a snack but asking was I perhaps an immigration lawyer, who could somehow speed their way through the maze of tripwire questions and perplexing forms that we all knew waited for us inside.

Upon entering Room 407, everyone takes a number from the red plastic dispenser by the door. Over the counter behind which the uniformed INS officers stand is an electric display now serving #8585. We have all quickly calculated how long remains for us to wait, and now can join other lines for the bathrooms or rush out and buy the appalling coffee and sandwiches sold by local vendors preying on such lines.

Once inside Room 407 tension and discomfort is caused not solely by whether you will get to present your case, but by the diffusion of all the other anxieties that are circulating the room into your own. They are like flies looking for a juicy spot to settle and feed. Sensing your desperate concern that your brand new photograph, not quite dry, is the wrong size for your application, one makes its landing and whispers your fears over and over, "Look at her photo -- it's bigger than yours. Why did you not get two sizes? His is in color.and it has a white border. They have four -- why do you only have two? You will be sent back!" I have a feeling that this sense of disquiet, bordering on fear, is not exactly unwelcome to the INS.

Everyone in this room is anxious. What happens in this room will affect the course of our lives permanently. The rights and wrongs of all these separate lives and their aspirations are hidden, as are the emotions of the INS officers. But the tension, the anticipation and anguish of our joint conditions percolates through us all. We resonate with uncertainty. Devils and angels at the same frequency.

We do not speak to others as we wait, lest we reveal our terrible ignorance of the process and admit that we are afraid. Afraid we do not have the right forms, photographs, photocopies, affidavits, certificates, licenses, form of payment; we have forgotten our Mother's maiden name, the name of the picturesque slum where we were born, our age and even why we are here. No, it is best to sit and stew on the hard plastic chair as the red numbers in the display flip so slowly over, and you try to decide if there is sufficient time to go to the bathroom just one more time.

As your number approaches you experience a curious mixture of horror and excitement. Your number flips up, you leap up, your heart pounding as you stumble and half run to the counter where the INS officer waits, exuding an intimidating boredom. The questions begin in a dry monotone. Looking past the officer you see the stamps lying there that can save life or destroy it. Powerful little wooden stamps.

Everyone here is unique. We all believe that there is no one else whose situation could be anything like ours. We are right. We range from political refugee to migrant worker to visiting student to tourists accidentally overstaying their visas. None of us are rich, we are from every place on the globe you can name. We are either welcome or not. We will be told, at length. We clutch our numbers and wait to be called to the counter. We are waiting in a Delicatessen of Status.

The author is a Witness reader who submitted this piece via the internet.