The Blond Polka Dot

I have a green card. I don't know why they call it that. It isn't green. It's an invaluable card issued by the federal government of the United States of America that says I get to live here without being hassled and I get to keep my job. I am an immigrant.

We all have perceptions and ideas about what an immigrant looks like. I picture the lines of youthful Europeans entering Ellis island in the late 1800's, their faces line with work and worry but shining with the hope of a new beginning on a young continent. Those of us in Texas also think of Mexicans, desperate to come to America to escape unimaginable poverty. I also imagine the Asian parents of my students who cam to this country to give their children a better life and stringently remind their children of this sacrifice whenever a "C" comes home on the report card. The one thing that does not come to mind is a blond three-year-old from a middle class family who is fluent in English and didn't need to come to American for a better life. Yet, here I am.

Green cards must now be renewed very ten years. This means that once a decade I get to be reminded how weird I am. (I'm sure my children will start reminding me more often when they get a little older.) I dutifully place myself at the end of the four-hour line outside of the United States Citizenship and Immigration office at 8101 North Stemmons Freeway in Dallas. I don't notice at first how out of place I am until I become aware of the strange looks from my fellow line-mates. After a quick glance to my left and a momentary peek over my shoulder, I come to the realization that I am one of four white people in the entire line that has grown to three football fields in length. (They cleverly bend and twist the line to hide the true wait time in the Texas heat.) I am a blond polka dot on the brunette dress that clothes the outside of 8101 North Stemmons Freeway.

I admit that I don't tend to think of modern immigrants as white people. I forget that I myself am an immigrant until I'm reminded by the need to produce a green card in order to get a new job or cross the Canadian border. I know I am not the only person with these preconceived notions. A friend recently asked me why I was talking about being an immigrant. When I reminded her that I was a Canadian, they were startled for a moment before admitting that they don't think of Canadians as immigrants.

So, I am forced to ask: Is this because the majority of Canadians are white or because Canadian and American cultures are not outrageously different? I once had a friend describe Canada as "America Lite." I confess that I was fairly offended by this statement. You don't hear Canadians calling the US "South Canada," after all. However, both labels do make strange sense. Both America Lite and South Canada stemmed from incredibly similar roots a relatively short time ago. These countries have an unprecedented amount of trust between them as a result of these comparable cultures and values. They share the longest demilitarized border in the world.

Society's perceptions of an immigrant are no longer valid in this ever-shrinking world. Immigration has more to do with lines on a map than with culture, race, and hair color. So, I'll keep carrying my green card and I'll be one of the blond polka dots outside of the immigration office on North Stemmons every ten years but I don't feel like an immigrant. I did not come to the US on a crowded steam ship to Ellis Island and I don't think my parents had any thoughts of a significantly better life when they moved from Saskatchewan to Montana. I am an immigrant because I happened to be born on one side of a border and now I happen to live on the other. No more. No less.