Regular Situation

M. and I spent some time at the Bureau de l'État Civil et des Etrangers, located in the sprawling compound of the Prefect yesterday. M. remarked that my parents probably did not imagine that, after having jumped through all the bureaucratic hoops to become American citizens, their own daughter would find herself waiting in an immigration office. How true.

We found ourselves amongst a group of 30 or so waiting to be called, the palest two in a roomful of black. Most, I believe, were Haitian. Signs scotch-taped to the wall were written in Haitian creole, sometimes with French. Li entedi manje nan sal la (1). All four walls were darkened at seated head level by the hundreds or thousands of heads that have waited here. Children stumbled over legs and benches while babies sat in mother's laps. The children looked healthy, the babies were fat - these children eat more than just mudcakes. This piece of France floating in the middle of the Caribbean is refuge and asylum for Haitians who have managed to travel the 740 miles, with or without papers. In comparison, my request for papers seems so much less urgent, almost indulgent.

(1) Il est interdit de manger dans cette salle. Eating is forbidden in this room.