The blur months: Number

I took the noon time flight back to Manila on the 7th of November. As I was leaving the airport, I was greeted by a bit of a scuffle with a taxi driver who attempted to charge me more than what I’d normally pay for with the meter on. I know that the yellow cabs cost an arm and a leg while there are cabs that cheat unwitting passengers with an incredulous flat rate of 35 USD or else…god knows what. The trick is to hail an (ordinary) cab from the second floor and be charged by the meter which, trust me, is a lot cheaper than these tricksters and opportunists.

I unfortunately got on one of these bastards despite the precaution. As the bastard began to drive his way out of the airport curb, I noticed that the meter was covered by a towel – that alone was fishy. Calmly, I asked the driver to turn on the meter to which he coyly insists that I pay him 300 pesos. I asked him nicely to turn on the meter instead, which he ignored. My heart raced. Just as he was about to overtake the cab in front of us, I opened the door. He stopped abruptly otherwise his door would have collided with the rear end of the vehicle in front of him. I walked away briskly without looking back, which I later regretted since I wasn’t able to catch his plate number.

I got on another cab but this time a metered one. I was quiet throughout the ride, reeling from the absurd turn of events. Stunned.

I felt the urgent need to destress. Thankfully it was a holiday and I arranged to meet with my friend, Cristine, who was free that afternoon. I walked to our meeting place shortly after I got settled in to my hotel. That walk reminded me how much I enjoyed walking around Ermita. It evoked not just nostalgia but a great deal of familiarity. I still get surprised with myself how well I know the area and how my mind can navigate around it accordingly.

We chose to stay in a cafe overlooking Padre Faura. Tin just got back from her Europe trip and this time, she had more travel stories to share. I was pleased to see her after a couple of lovers — I tend to measure the time we last see each other by the love affairs that passed. She always had a lot of questions about my exploits as though it was curious to her how I lived my life. It’s not surprising since she’s been living with the Opus Dei for nearly four years now and I live quite an opposite life. I like that we respect each other, our differences. I like how she listens well. I like how she is very sensitive to the underlying emotions that come with my stories. I like that I learn quite a lot from her too. I especially like the fact that she lives far away enough not to get involved in that gossip-mongering circle that Davao tends to be. This is why she is my confidant. Time flew as we exchanged stories. We laughed and teased and sighed over some. Then Tin had to leave for dinner with her dorm mates. We hugged and exchanged knowing looks before we parted ways.

I spent that night in the hotel alone. I was in a state of panic for my immigration interview the next day. I slept at around 3AM. I woke up an hour and a half later. Had early breakfast and walked from the hotel to the US embassy. I panicked when I saw the slew of people there. I spent thirty minutes lined up outside, waiting for my turn just to get in. I thought I was late since I got in past my appointment time but it went smoothly. I spent nearly six hours the entire duration of that wait. A lot of waiting. I fell asleep in my chair, waiting. I took several trips to the bathroom while waiting. By the way, I love the bathroom at the embassy. The sink ran on warm water and this calmed my nerves. I don’t know why I was nervous. I could hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me not to screw things up. I watched the other applicants stand in front of the windows, which looked like eyes to the soul of another world. Across the glass was the stern gatekeeper – the consul. You instantly have an idea of what the blinds and plexiglass were for. They were for disgruntled applicants who at a moment’s provocation could turn violently on the consul. This was a very crucial and very emotional interview. Some brought a briefcase of documents, standing defensively, desperate to get through. Some took a long time to finish, like questions seemed to spiral down to oblivion. Some left with irrepressible smiles. Some walked down that long hallway to the exit with that stony face looking as though they were served a death sentence.

Then my number was called. I’ve befriended some of the Bisayas in the waiting area and they all wished me good luck as I stood up and made my way to the window. Consul leafed through my files and asked me factual questions. Not that any other question wouldn’t consist of facts, but I imagined from the onset that I would get essay questions. Questions like, “Are you ready to migrate to the US?” Now, a slight miscalculation on my part could possibly railroad my petition. Instead I was asked the following questions: how are you related to the petitioner? When do you plan to leave? What is your mailing address? The consul looked up at me in one instance as though to scrutinize a harmless creature. Everything is in order here. Your visa is approved. Please wait for your number to be called.

My number was called after five minutes and I proceeded to a window where I was asked how to correctly spell my name. My second name is a single r and single n, please. That’s all, you may leave, the lady tells me. That’s it? She looked up at me with an I-haven’t-got-all-day look and emphasized, “That’s it, miss. You may now exit.” On my way out the Bisayas waved at me and I gave them a thumbs up.

I walked out of that building with the lightest feeling in the world.

My phone was filled with several calls and messages, all asking about my interview. The first person I dialed was my mom. It’s done, Ma. I’m approved. Oh! Well then, good! I can’t recall the last time my mom smiled over the phone before that call.

It was a blur after that.

I left Manila that night coming to terms with a new reality that I now go by. Soon enough everything will be new to me: new permanent address even a new social security number. My passport was mailed to me a few days after the interview. The glossy surface was overwhelming by itself, though one line caught my eye.  It was at the top part of the visa.  It said “United States of America”.  It seemed like the sort of thing that someone with my upbringing and education would find all too daunting. I’ve read a great deal about neo-colonialism and the pitfalls of the capitalist, at times, unilateral, Christian fundamentalist and consumer-driven America.  Next to that line was my name and the number which would serve as a reference to all the information the US government had about me.  I was now case number: XXXXXXXXXXX.  THAT my friends, made all the difference.