Next Stop: Immigration 🇩🇪

That time I got denied permanent residency and threatened to be thrown out.

The following is an essay I wrote back in February after my permanent residency appointment. I’ve finally returned to it, removed my emotional ramblings, some of the curses, and am sharing it with you for this week’s newsletter.

Hope you enjoy it more than I did experiencing it.

There's a long line outside of the Landesamt für Einwanderung (State Immigration Office). A man with a bright yellow vest over his coat with "Sicherheit" or "Security" on the back approaches me. I tell him I have a 9 a.m. appointment and he tells me to stand in line until 15 minutes before my appointment. He then checks my vaccination certificate and wraps a light blue wristband around my wrist like it's a drink ticket for a concert.

The line grows behind me as I wait. Finally, right at 8:45 a.m., they start letting people pass the makeshift gates. A man glances at my appointment invitation I have tucked inside what I call our "immigrant folder," full of all the requested documents for my appointment and whatever else they could possibly ask for.

I follow the people ahead of me. Some split off to different buildings listed "Haus A" and "Haus B." My meeting is supposed to happen in "E2.1," so I assume I'm looking for a "Haus E." I get to the last building, walk inside, and see "E3.1." I turn to another yellow vest man for clarity.

"E2.1?" I ask. He pulls out a color-coded cheat sheet smaller than a business card. I can see that I'm supposed to be in Haus C before he's able to decipher the chart. He confirms and I'm on my way to Haus C and up the staircase. It feels like a bleak junior high school for forgotten souls. The staircase reminds me of the kind in parking garages with a tubular handrailing covered in chipped red paint.

There's just one other group in waiting room E2.1, a family with two kids. One of the kids is rockin’ a Spider-Man beanie as he swings his dangling legs and slumps backward against his mother in that kind of boredom that melts a child’s body during grown-up tasks.

I start to feel silly just staring at the board, waiting for that loud beep like class is over, and for my number to show up. News alerts roll in on my phone as I wait to become a permanent resident of Europe. Putin’s tanks have just rolled into eastern Ukraine.

Right at 9 a.m., a slew of bells start chiming and numbers fill the screen. Mine comes up a minute or two later and I quickly shuffle down the hallway, looking for my room.

I enter the room, lit only by the bleak February daylight.

"Guten Morgen!" I announce myself, trying to sound chipper.

"Guten Morgen, Herr... Baur?" he asks. He doesn't look at me beyond maybe a glance, but I quickly take stock of his features. He's a bald guy with thin-framed glasses, probably in his 40s, and no mask. I assume it must be up to them if they want to wear a mask or not.

"Genau," I respond, putting my backpack down. "Yes, that's me."

I take a seat and he asks me for my passport. I hand it over, offering my current German ID as well, mainly to show that I’m well-prepared. He declines and then asks for my payslips, work contract, and a separate letter from my employer that confirms my employment, no older than 14 days. That’s when things fall apart.

“Did you start this job in January?” he asks, finally looking at me.

“Yes, I got a new job.”

“Oh, nein,” he says, turning away.

“But I have my proof of employment with my previous employer as well,” and I hand that to him, thinking he just wants to see no gaps in my employment.

And so the merry-go-round begins. The issue is that I apparently need to have worked at my current job for at least “ein halbes Jahr” or "a half a year." (He didn’t say six months or anything more specific.) When I plead that that’s not listed in the requirements listed online nor in my letter inviting me to the appointment, he says that doesn't matter. Things quickly get heated.

“I don’t care what the website says," he says. "The person sitting here is telling you.”

I try arguing, which may seem like a bad idea. But the last time I was in this building, they tried to deny Melanie and I documents that would let us leave Germany and return during the beginning of the pandemic while our new visa was processing. We had to argue that we needed it in case there was a family emergency back in the US, it being a pandemic and all. Finally, the guy reluctantly gathered the paperwork to grant us the pass.

So I thought if I argued with this guy for my permanent residency, in German, maybe he’d relent.

I was wrong.

The best I can get out of him is to admit that he understands my “unmut” or displeasure. But that's it.

“If it were so easy, we could just go down and print it out right now!” he says as if I wasn't already aware that it's not meant to be easy. Five-plus years of working in a foreign country, losing a parent from afar, learning a notoriously unforgiving language, and the stress that comes with mentally preparing for these appointments where you know you're ultimately helpless and at the whim of whoever sits across from you is not easy.

"I'm not saying it should be easy," I respond. "I'm saying I have everything that I was told is required. It's not fair to me or other immigrants sitting outside that there are more rules that aren't public."

"You can look it up online," he says.

"But how would I have known to Google something that isn't listed as a requirement?"

"We can't put everything on the website because there are so many constellations, so many cases," he says, starting to become repetitive. This "Konstellationen" or "constellations" keeps popping up to justify that there are so many possibilities, that everyone needs to be handled on a case-by-case basis instead of just having one list of requirements that everyone can easily find online.

I try to explain that I called and wrote emails since I got the appointment in November to make sure I had everything I needed. And that they were unreachable.

“We get hundreds of calls and emails a day and cannot respond to them all," he says, wildly unsympathetic.

“I understand that but I’ve tried since November to contact someone. Why don’t you just list the requirement on the website?”

Again with the constellations.

The thing is, there already is a requirement to bring proof of employment that says “nicht älter als 14 Tage“ or "not older than 14 days." All they need to add is “und zumindest ein halbes Jahr beschäftigt” or "employed for at least half a year." Six words. People change jobs all the damn time these days. I can't imagine I'm such a far-out-there scenario that it can only be addressed after I've schlepped my ass across town, waited in line, and hunted down the room of my appointment.

“I understand every case is different," I say. "But it’s a waste of my time and your time.”

“It’s not a waste of time.”

“I should be working right now! And now I have to come back again.”

To him, this wasn't a big deal. Of course, it wasn't! His fate doesn't rest on what I decide. He’s fucking lucky it doesn’t.

"There's no need to fall into a panic," he says, enraging me further. "Your current visa is still valid for a long time."

I want to tell him that's not the point; that I don't know what's going to happen in the world, so I want what my family has earned to keep our options open. But that's when I notice a barrel-chested man with gelled, spiky Lance Bass in 'N Sync hair standing like an American football player posing for the team picture with his hands clasped behind his back. His observation from the sidelines doesn't last long before he interrupts.

“My colleague has explained to you three times now!” he erupts, going over the Cliffs Notes of what just happened. “Nothing will change. You are not the only person in the world. There are other people waiting.”

I very much resent the implication that I'm somehow being selfish for sticking up for myself. I'm well aware that in the grand scheme of immigrants, I'm on the privileged end of the spectrum; certainly more self-aware than grown-up Buzz McAllister is of their arbitrary power.

“I know I'm not the only person in the world," I reply before pointing outside where people are supposedly waiting. "And they should get to know the rules, too.”

“You don’t want to understand,” he says.

“I understand,” I counter. “What I don’t get is why you wouldn’t just list all of the requirements and not waste people’s time!”

More about "constellations" before threatening, “we can throw you out and not give you another appointment if you keep it up.”

Accepting my fate, I ask for a new appointment. It’s for May 31st. I had earlier explained that I would be on vacation then.

“Just take it home, think about it, and then if you need to cancel it, you can write us," the first guy, the bald one, says.

“You just said you can’t answer emails," I say, trying to bite my tongue. "And I’m telling you now I will be on vacation.”

“100 percent certain?”

“Yes!” May 31st falls between a couple of public holidays. He would know that most everyone in Germany will be looking to take time off then.

“Alright, then I will email you in a week or so when the appointments open up for June.”

With a terse “Danke,” I leave. My heart, body, and soul are inflamed with rage like a Street Fighter character about to unleash a Super Combo.

A punchline of sorts to this whole ordeal is that the ruling coalition that one the last federal election in Germany agreed to change citizenship laws. If enacted, I would qualify for citizenship immediately––not just permanent residency.

But there’s been nothing but crickets from the ruling coalition on changing citizenship laws since getting into power. Yes, wildly unexpected things have happened, but I’m a great believer in mankind’s ability to do more than one thing at a time. Hell, they started talking about legalizing marijuana finally, another coalition promise. Surely we ought to be up after they make the pot brownies okay… right? (At least I’ll be able to have some gummies for my growing anxiety!)

In the meantime, all I can do is show up again in June with my blue immigrant binder and hope I’m no longer a victim of the Konstellationen.

No words this week! Well, except all those words you––hopefully––just read with great interest. But I do have a new recipe to share.

Apple cinnamon mamaliga

Mamaliga is a cornmeal porridge, sometimes with cheese, that you’ll find all over the place in Romania.

I was talking about American cereal brands the other day and remembered some of my favorites, like Apple Jacks and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Sugary garbage, I’m sure, but my childhood nonetheless.

So I can’t get this apple-cinnamon flavor out of my head and it suddenly hits me that these are flavors that would work in a mamaliga.

I used a mamaliga recipe out of Irina Georgescu’s Carpathia cookbook to get the ratios. I subbed in coconut butter and grated apples, and I added cinnamon and honey to the mix.

I went the full breakfast route, subbing the dollop of sour cream that usually goes on top of mamaliga with Greek or Oat Milk Yogurt to keep it vegan. It’s also rhubarb season here, so I topped it off with a scoop of homemade compote before sprinkling some chopped toasted almonds, apples, and cinnamon to finish my bowl of Apple Cinnamon Mamaliga.

Find the recipe and see how to make it here.