Fingerprints

“Don’t run,” he yelled.

I straightened and turned my face, heated with shame, towards the unknown man. Throwing an apologetic smile I promised to walk on the icy path. Then I laughed knowing I looked childish in my mismatched winter gear assembled in haste. But I had 11 minutes before the hours for fingerprinting ended.

Rushing through the front doors I met challenge number two. The security guard who looked strangely familiar gestured to me to sign in. Could these ridiculously old men not tell that I failed to plan? I didn’t have moments to spare for the nonsense like walking and registration complete with the State’s version of a bathroom pass—a large round visitor’s sticker.

As I’m sure many security cameras can verify I ran down the hall, nearly pulled the door off the hinges and tapped my foot impatiently waiting for the elevator. Arriving on the fourth floor I approached the first woman I saw sitting at a desk.

“I need to be fingerprinted,” I exclaimed. Honestly I said it loudly and stood confused when I had to repeat my request to the woman in the next cubicle. She had been facing me when I first spoke so I wrongly assumed she had heard. Not my only miscalculation.

An hour later, which included a quick trip to the ATM across the street, I stared at my fingers. The computer refused to believe that my individually scanned fingerprint patterns matched the four digit scans done first. My skin dried out from the damp cloth the lady kept wiping them with, the cloth that was meant to hydrate.

I felt criminal, like I’d gotten away with the perfect crime only to have karma kick me. We scanned and re-scanned and erased to start again. I regretted not drinking that glass of water. This was no routine ink job. When we finally tricked the digi-cop I breathed deeply, mentally checking this errand off my list.

“Here are your papers,” the lady said cheerfully handing me the forms I’d just filled out. “Keep them together and bring them back after you get your criminal history from Ireland.”

Did I complain about the hour-plus fingerprinting? I might have more to say when the Garda get back to me next year.

Why Can't We Be Friends

My friend recently traveled to Japan and spent two wonderful weeks exploring the island. Unfortunately on leaving the U.S. and entering Japan he was stopped three times and questioned relentlessly by the anti-terrorist police. Those orange-banded enforcers saw their target from a mile away. It’s the Middle Eastern decent that singles out this friend and he’ll probably be stopped habitually. So in honor of his persecution I post my own terrorist interrogation story. When I moved to Ireland for a year the immigrations officer spotted me as a sex slave extraordinaire. Seriously, an average, educated white girl from the States?

I was standing in a long line of foreigners wanting to shoot myself. I’d left my mom 26 hours ago at DIA and had been crying for nearly as long. I was moving to Dublin and was traveling 2 days after the terrorist attack at Heathrow. Puffy eyed, messy haired, no make-up, ratty white T and sweats, I stood out in the crowd of Euro travelers who actually take time with their appearance. In a state of sleep deprivation I drug my sorry ass and luggage up to customs. The official took one look at me a frowned. Then in rapid Irish, which sounds like a drunk on speed, fired pointed questions at my arrival to his blessed country.

Being illegal (staying over the 90-day limit, no visa and employed) I had been instructed by the family I was working for to say that I was here to stay with friends. What I didn’t know is I needed the address I was staying at, the name of the family (I had met them once and was terrified I wouldn’t recognize them when they picked me up), plans, etc. If I’d been born a charming deviant the lies would easily have dropped from my lips. Unfortunately, I was born with a tendency to blunt truthfulness and a damsel in distress look.

After 30 minutes of unsatisfactory answers from me, the official stamped my passport with a restriction and instructed me to report to the Garda. My story “didn’t add up” and he’d love to “hold me for longer to fill the gaps and get the truth” but obviously I was not the only passenger that needed to be welcomed to Ireland. I marched, er slinked, into the shadowy halls plastered with human trafficking posters.

Every month we’d visit continental Europe. And every month I would receive interrogation coming back to Ireland. The Garda were slightly more forgiving. Probably because Jay and Jodi were with me to answer questions, you know back up my story, or embellish it. He was my proof of residence and had come to vouch for me so I could obtain a visa. I sat to his left with his wife on the other side, whom he also had to vouch for (seriously patriarchal over there). Returning to Dublin for the last time a young guy granted me entry, by cheerfully reading my Irish criminal record. “So ya’re leavin to home in a few days, ar ya? Bin stoppt at yer boyfriends, livin wit ‘im. Still leavin?”

Yeah, I’m leaving. But as a terrorist or sex slave?