Skatteverket

By the time I was five years old, I knew all about immigration. I think it's one of those things that leave traumatic scars in the deepest tissues of the soul. Even at that age I could tell apart the IRS from the INS; the word Green Card registered as more than a green piece of plastic in my mind; I was well aware of the consequences of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and potentially revealing that we were "illegal." I've sat in dinky bureaucratic waiting rooms with lots of nasty manila folders spilling out of rusted file cabinets, usually tattooed with words like "confidential" or "Denied." I knew that deportment wasn't a store where you could buy lots of things, and visa wasn't only a credit card. Yes, I've been to many an immigration office in the United States, usually accompanied by my mom who was naturally stressed to the bone about our legal status. Kids pick up on stuff like that. Parents: don't think that by saying, "it's too complicated for you to understand" you're fooling anyone. Until we achieved legal status in the US (yes, it has long since been achieved!) I lived in a world of secrets. Everything from my last name to my neighborhood, to what kind of car we had was an utter secret. I was allowed to reveal nothing. I learned that nobody could be trusted, everyone was potentially following us, and that authorities of all sorts were to be avoided at all costs. What a wonderful, carefree childhood I had!

I can't complain though, and I am extremely grateful that my mom decided to move to the US. Despite all it's shortcomings (which I've been very honest about), I had the chance to grow up as a native English speaker (among other great opportunities) and that can never be taken away from me.

The immigration snake snuck up on me again, hence this retrieval of traumatic data from some place in the back of my mind where I've been shoving it all these years. Today I visited the immigration office here in Stockholm, in attempts to get a Swedish social security number. I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be and I was greeted by extremely friendly employees who made me feel much more at ease than I thought I would. I was expecting sweaty palms, a dry mouth, shaky hands and a careful tongue, but my symptoms were much milder.

Pull a number

I have applied for a Social Security number, and my documents are stronger than those of many other applicants, so I have a pretty good shot. But I will have to wait for about a month before I hear back—by post—with a decision. It's going to be one hell of a long month. Walking home I started to feel that anxiety of, "oh shit, what happens if I don't get it?" and all those horrible memories of immigration pounced upon my conscious and started twisting bile-drawing knots in my stomach. But I shook myself out of the grasp of that ridiculous snake. I will not allow the fear of some bureaucratic entity to ruin my life. I will find a way and it will be okay. If I don't get it the first time around, I will apply again and again and again and again and again until I'm a fucking Swede. But having fear is absolutely pointless.

I will just have to step it up a bit in finding a more secure job; one that can give me a contract of at least 6 months of work. Or I could start studying. Or, or, or....there are actually many opportunities for me to be here so I am not going to stress about it. For now I will enjoy my days off of work and soak up the last days of summer before the fall really starts. I will continue to breathe the beautiful Swedish air, drink the pristine Swedish water, gaze fondly at birch trees and little red houses and drown in the beautiful, bubbling language. One day at at time. No stress. Just breathe.