The Immigration Problem

So I find myself at a quandary. I am to choose one of two classes, either immigration law or international law. I can only take one.

International Law is at a decent hour, with a professor who is a known quantity, and I know a lot of people in the class. Enough, at least, to be able to copy off someone's exam someday.

BUT. Immigration Law. If someone should take that class, it's me. Charlie. From Ohio.

I mean, I look at the syllabus and it looks so useful. "Immigrant Quotas." "Marriage Fraud." "Exclusion Grounds." "Deportability Grounds." This last one is scheduled for two weeks. It's like it was tailor-made for me. And the class ends with "Acquiring Citizenship." This seems exactly like a crash course on everything I've been working towards. It should be called, "Charlie, here's how you become a citizen, and we'll even tell you how to not screw it up."

BUT. The class is on Tuesdays and Thursday nights. From 6.30 to 8. We had our first class today, and, halfway through the class, all I could think was how much I wanted to leave (the class, not the country), because I'd already been in the Tower of Terror for 12 hours. And I can't imagine on Thursday, at the end of the work-week, when everyone else has begun their weekend, how I'll even pretend to pay attention.

Plus, there is also the fear that what I will learn in that class will be bleak and depressing and the cause of much anxiety. Apparently, they can revoke your citizenship. Whoa. When did that start? God Forbid I find out that I've already screwed up my chances to stay. God Forbid I find out that marriage, that most drastic of steps, is not even a guarantee.

Then where will I be? Lost, desperate and on the run. Which is why I came to America in the first place. I don't want to flee another country. And I refuse to go to Canada, just on principle.

Fact is, I might not take the class because, maybe, I'd rather not know. Then, when the INS finally shows up and says, "Chaaaaarlie... vaaaaamonos," I can just smile, shake my head and ask "Que?" as I lace up some running shoes. And then life as a fugitive will begin, but hey, at least the mail works, and I get to keep enjoying the beautiful smell of freedom.