Case files

It didn’t occur to me, not on the first day, or the second

* * *

If you asked me to describe the job 

I could talk about the case files, conspicuously green and occasionally misplaced 

I could talk about scanning documents onto the one USB shared by the whole office 

I could talk about the people, and how I, amidst my work, sometimes forgot they existed  

But if you were to ask me in the middle of it all 

While filling out an I-589 or an I-765 or any of those other silly little forms with names that sounded like interstate highways and were about as interesting 

While assembling exhibits for each case, impeded by the convenient printer mishap that could make a thirty-minute task last three hours 

While hole-punching an exhibits packet in five parts because it was too thick to fit in the hole-puncher all at once

I would likely explain it in one word: paper 

Because that’s really all it was, paper. 

And when dealing with so much paper, 

nothing really meant anything 

because there was too much of everything to care. 

Words, numbers, signatures–lost value. 

And there was no reason to try and look for value either.  

The files weren’t people, they were just 

passports 
visas 
green cards 

The stories of persecution were just the same old sad stories 

The stories of hardship were just the same old sad stories 

Whether it was real or not was irrelevant 

Because I didn’t care, and I didn’t have to either. 

* * *

It occurred to me on the third day, when I saw for the first time 

That clients came into the office 

And I saw the real emotions 

The real tears 

The real people 

People who were evidently more than numbers or case files 

People who had experiences that could turn your blood to ice 

People who merely sought a better life 

that the words and numbers and signatures mean so much more than marks on a piece of paper.