Case files
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.
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