THE NARRATIVE ARC

How My Immigration Interview Almost Earned Me Five Years in Jail

Or how I became ‘Ulf Wolf the American’

“Have you ever been arrested?” asked the Immigrations Officer.

Under oath, I lied, “No.”

I got my green card in 1981 but at that time I had no plans to apply for U.S. citizenship since Sweden had yet to allow dual citizenship and I would then have had to surrender my Swedish (very useful — as in zero restrictions) passport.

Fast forward about twenty years and Sweden (finally) passed legislation that allows dual citizenship. This was Sweden telling me I should start to ponder U.S. citizenship.

At that time, I was still married to my American wife. I had been gainfully employed for about twenty years by American companies and had lived a very good, law-abiding, and tax-paying American life. I also sported two American children. Those in the know, and I knew a few who claimed to be, said that U.S. Citizenship was a shoo-in.

Would I need a lawyer, do you think?

No, not at all. Just get the papers, fill them in, and memorize the names of at least ten presidents, going back in time from our current one (which was the George W. version of Bush at the time), you’ll need that for the final interview.

You’ll also need to know how many states there are — fifty. Thanks.

I forget where I got the papers from, but I got them, filled them all out to the very best of my ability, and submitted them — personally — at the Los Angeles Immigration office, or one of them, the one local to me, or as local as anything gets in Los Angeles.

A couple of follow-up letters and a phone call or two later and I am all scheduled for my final interview: the yay or nay interview, the all-or-nothing interview.

I must admit, I was a little nervous. Not very, but a little. After all, I could be turned down (it was not inconceivable) and if I were, I believe my green card might be in jeopardy as well — at least according to one of those in-the-know claimers. So, a little nervous was not out of place.

It’s a fairly crowded waiting room. Others in the room look a lot more nervous than I am, probably weighed down by more uncertainty and much more riding on this one, final, gatekeeper’s interview.

And here’s my number both called and flashed on a screen. I raise my arm, show my number, and the young lady beckons me to follow. I do. She knocks on a door, and we hear “Yes” from the inside and she opens it and tells me to enter and take a seat.

This immigration officer looks about as average white male as you can look average white male and still not be a mannequin is what I think as I sit down.

That such average looks can possess so much power, I think. All that dishing out of irreversible fate. Life-affecting fates. He doesn’t look up at me at first, just studies the papers in front of him, my dossier as it were.

Then he looks up and does not smile. Okay, be cool. You’ve got this. There should be no problem, especially with my employment history, land of origin, and two U.S. citizens as children. Breeze.

“This interview is under oath,” he informs me as he digs out and places a Bible on the table in from of me. “Place your hand on it and repeat after me.” He sounds very, very official to my ears. My fate in his hands official.

I place my hand on the Bible and I repeat after him.

Sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but did little to calm my insides, I actually found myself a little clammy.

“Okay,” he said. “Just a few questions. How many states do we have in this country.”

“Fifty,” I said.

“Good,” he said, and checked a box. “Who is our president?”

“George W. Bush,” I said.

“Good,” he said, and checked, presumably, another box.

He does some more reading of my dossier, then puts his pen down as kind of a forewarning, and here comes the Alice’s Restaurant question from way out of far left field:

“Have you ever been arrested?”

All right, in my defense, I heard the question to mean, “Since your arrival in the United States, have you ever been arrested?” And since I had not been arrested, ever, in America, I answered, loudly and with sincere and blue-eyed, sworn-to-tell-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but conviction, “No.”

My very, very average white male Immigration Officer, still studying my dossier, frowns and says, looking back up at me: “The way I read this, son, you just perjured yourself.”

“WHAT?”

“You have just committed perjury. You can get up to five years for that.”

Talk about walls tumbling down and stomachs revolting along with an instant dryness of mouth (amazing how quickly that can take place). “No, Sir,” I finally managed. “I have not perjured myself. I have never been arrested.”

Still frowning — this is serious business, now — he re-consults my dossier and says, “Spring 1969, Helsingborg, Sweden. You’re arrested on suspicion of possession of hashish. Later, at trial, you plead guilty of possession. Are you saying this never took place?”

“Oh, my God,” I say. “That? That was in Sweden, what, thirty years ago? And that was even expunged after ten years, which is how I was granted my green card. I thought you meant have I been arrested since my arrival in the United States.”

This is still serious business. “That was not the question,” he says. “The question was, have you ever been arrested? And you lied to me.”

He still frowns, and my mouth, quite inconceivably, turned one or even two notches drier. I felt a little sick to tell you the truth. Prison? Five years?

I guess that would be the end of my green card as well. This was not going well, at all.

I tried again, and this time with the most obsequious voice possible, brought to you by the driest mouth possible:

“I am so sorry, Sir. I misunderstood. I am truly sorry.”

He finally stops frowning, and says, quite dead-pan, “Ah, but that was so long ago, who cares?”

And I just lost a hundred pounds in shit-bricks.

Now, finally, that most average of average white males is smiling. The joke is obviously on me. Jesus. He can tell I’m relieved and smiles again. Somewhat reassuringly. Immigration officer fun, I guess.

“Well,” he says and keeps smiling, “it all looks good.”

“Thanks,” I say, and smile in return. “Thanks a bunch.”

“So, what name do you want on your Certificate and Passport?”

I had heard about this but had not paid it much attention. The point being that as you are granted citizenship in the U.S. you can assume slash adopt any name you want. James Mozart Gaspump would fly, legally, if that’s how you want to be known going forward in America.

And here is where I — out of nowhere, more like hearing myself — say: “Ulf Wolf”.

True, I had been using Ulf Wolf as my pen name for a while, and out of the blue, being asked the question, given the choice, it just felt right — and, I realized as I answered, it would also fit perfectly on a California license plate which is seven digits / letter long; and to this day, that is precisely how my license plate reads: ULFWOLF.

“Ulf Wolf?”

“Yes.”

“Any middle name or initial?”

“No, just Ulf Wolf.”

He writes this down. Then stands up and says, giving me his hand, “Welcome to America, Mister Wolf.”

© Wolfstuff