When borders reopened, everyone began travelling again, in full force. There would always be another variant. Best to see the world while you could. Around this time, I developed insomnia and began driving by myself at night. The first night, I drove to a twenty-four-hour supermarket. I stood in front of the frozen-food section, occasionally opening a freezer door to grab something, then changing my mind.
It was not that, in year three, I couldn't travel, but to do so was ill-advised. My husband was an American citizen, and we lived in New Jersey. Renewing my work visa yet again seemed like a complete waste of everyone's time, so we'd hired a lawyer for my green-card process and, in one of the six-minute phone slots we had with her, she told me to stay put during the period between the application submission and the interview. I could travel within the U.S., but leaving the country was tricky. My husband asked how long we would have to stay put. The lawyer said that the average case took at least eleven months now, since the prior Administration had stalled many green cards, since the prior Administration had wished to limit immigration from certain countries. I reminded the lawyer that I was Canadian, and she said that to leave the country and try to come back was to risk being held up at customs for not having a clear residency status in either Canada or the U.S. Once we submit these forms, she said, your status will be in flux.
The lawyer also emphasized that I absolutely could not quit my job during the application process. The company I worked for had already submitted proof of employment. If I quit, the company would rescind the form and my application would be far less strong.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der June 26, 2023-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der June 26, 2023-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
Starten Sie Ihre 7-tägige kostenlose Testversion von Magzter GOLD, um auf Tausende kuratierte Premium-Storys sowie über 8.000 Zeitschriften und Zeitungen zuzugreifen.
Bereits Abonnent? Anmelden
YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”
COLLISION COURSE
In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.
NEW CHAPTER
Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?
STUCK ON YOU
Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
REPRISE
Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.
COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.