Or how the American consul talked to me in Ilokano
My paper abstract was
accepted for presentation at an international conference in Hawaii scheduled on
November 14-16. And the next step was to get a US Visa. I was anxious. For who
among us hasn’t heard of heartbreaking, if not horrific, experiences with
consuls at the US embassy?
The whole process
of applying for a visa, and the mere thought of it, seemed daunting to me: bank
payment, online application, setting a schedule. My journey began with an
online application that was, alas, delayed by a series of unfortunate events:
unsuccessful attempts to schedule a group interview (there six seven of us from
our university applying together), lack of common available time among us six,
adjusted schedules because of flooding in Manila, and the university staff in
charge of assisting us traveling abroad for two weeks. Meanwhile, plane fares
were steadily going up as days passed.
Then the schedule
came: September 6, 2013, 6:30 a.m. All of us got the same appointment, but we
were to be interviewed as individuals, not as a group, which I thought was
unfortunate because I heard group interviews have lower casualty rates. Anyway,
I made sure I had all necessary documents that may be asked: passport,
appointment letter, certificate of employment, bank certificate, samples of my
published works, and a draft of my research paper.
A few days before
the interview, I searched on the Internet articles about actual experiences of
Filipinos during visa interviews. There are a lot of tips shared online, but
aside from coming in prepared and having documents that may be asked, the
greatest advice I got was to be honest. Consuls are rigidly trained to detect
lies, I read. And I learned too that they have eagle eyes for inconsistencies
between what you wrote in the application form and what you say during the
interview.
I don’t have a
problem being honest and consistent, for I know myself quite well, and I am
comfortable being me. My real fear was in being assigned either to a cruel
consul or to a good one who woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And so, the
night before the interview, I prayed to God to give my consul a good night’s
rest, and, hopefully, sweet dreams.
It was a rainy
morning, but we arrived at the embassy on time. Although the line was long, it
was orderly and it moved steadily. I bought an overpriced umbrella from a
street hawker to protect myself from the rain. In less than an hour, after
going through rigid inspection, we stepped inside the consular building. We
then proceeded with the first two steps: getting a number (mine was 2025), and
going through the biometrics system. While waiting for my turn, I tried
listening to the ongoing interviews with the consuls. I was seated in the front
pew, and I was able to hear every word and witness every reaction, both of joy
and frustration. It’s usually either, “I’m sorry, sir/ma’am, but you have not
strong ties outside US and, under US immigration law, you do not qualify for a
visa” or “Your visa will arrive in a week… Enjoy your trip.”
Listening to the
ongoing interviews, my anxiety escalated. Next to meeting one’s Creator and
listening to His judgment, an interview with a consul could be the most
heart-pounding experiences a person, especially one from a third-world country
like ours, could have. Furthermore, I was fully aware that some factors could
be taken against me. I am young and single. I don’t have properties under my
name. And neither do I have a fat bank account.
By the time my
number was called, two of my colleagues have already been turned down. “You
can’t afford that trip, it’s too expensive for you” said the consul to one of
my colleagues whose salary is equal to mine. “You’re too young to present a
paper,” was the reason another young faculty researcher like me was denied.
When 2025 was flashed on the queue screen, I proceeded to and lined up at the
designated counter. The consul was attending to the woman before me, a yuppie
working in Makati. Their conversation was pleasant and jolly, and that made me
feel a little relaxed. However, towards the end of the interview, the consul
suddenly became serious and told the Makati girl, “I am sorry…” and handed her
a blue paper detailing why she was not granted a visa. He dispensed an advice
on what the applicant should do next.
And then it was
my turn. I moved forward and greeted the consul.
Me: Good morning,
sir. [And then I slipped my passport and appointment letter through his
window.]
Consul: Good day,
how are you doing? [He glanced at me and then continued looking at his computer
monitor.]
Me: I am doing
well, sir.
Consul: What is
your purpose of going to the US?
Me: I am
presenting a paper at the Nakem International Conference at the University of
Hawaii at Manoa.
Consul: Tell me
what your paper is about.
Me: My paper
examines the “English-only policy” being implemented in some Philippine schools
and its effect on linguistic education and learning at large.
Consul: Why does
that interest you?
Me: In Laoag
City, my hometown, there was a case of three students expelled from school just
because they spoke Ilokano inside the campus. As a writer and sociologist,
linguistic justice and cultural integrity is very close to my heart. Also, the
use of the mother tongue in the early years of basic education is now being
enforced by the Department of Education.
Consul: Use of
the mother tongue? Is that really beneficial to students?
Me: Yes, sir.
Various researchers positively correlate the use of mother tongue to higher
aptitudes in science and math. In developed countries like Japan and South
Korea, for example, science and math education are done using the native
languages.
“But I don’t get
it. Filipinos’ facility of English seems to be deteriorating. Won’t it decline
further if native languages are used in school?” the consul asked in what was
beginning to sound like a thesis defense.
Me: No, sir.
Using the L1 or an individual’s first language will better prepare him to learn
an L2, a second language, and so forth. In the case of many of my students in
the university, they cannot write good Ilokano, and neither are they confident
with their English or Filipino. Fortifying a person’s linguistic foundation
must be done in the early years of schooling.
Then, the consul,
half-smiling, spoke: “Ti agpayso, Herdy,
ammok ti agsao ti Ilokano.” (The truth, Herdy, is I know how to speak
Ilokano.) [I was surprised. I anticipated many scenarios, but not this one. His
Ilokano had a very minimal, almost unrecognizable, twang.]
The interview
went on:
Consul: Napadasamon ti napan ballasiw taaw?
(Have you experienced traveling abroad?)
Me: Wen, sir. (Yes, sir.) [Then I briefly
enumerated all my foreign trips.]
Consul: Mano a tawenka a mangisursuron? (How
many years have you been teaching?)
Me: Agraman tay panagisurok ditoy Manila idi
sir ket 11 years. (Including my stint
here in Manila, 11 years, sir.)
Consul: Ah, sangapulo ket maysa a tawen. (“Ah,
11 years.”) [As he was checking on his computer.]
Me: Yes, sir, sangapulo ket maysa a tawenakon a
mangisursuro ken agsursurat. (Yes, sir, I have been teaching and writing
for 11 years.)
Consul: “Mangisursuro. Agsursurat.” (Teaching.
Writing.) [He nodded and smiled. It looked like he was amused with the words.]
Consul: Ala ngarud, urayem ta visam. Sumangpetto
idiay ‘yanyo kalpasan ti makalawas. (Okay then, just wait for your visa. It
will arrive in your place in a week.)
Me: Thank you,
sir. Thank you.
Consul: Dios ti kumuyog. (God be with you.)
Still holding the
documents I brought which he never asked to see, I walked away from the booth
feeling like it was just a crazy dream. An American consul speaking in very
fluent Ilokano! But why?
Out of curiosity,
I returned to the consul’s counter as the person next in line was beginning to
step forward.
Me: Apay ammom agilokano, sir? (Why do you
know how to speak Ilokano, sir?)
Consul:
[Observing how amazed I was, he laughed a little.] Agsursuroak. Agbasbasaak. (I am studying. I am learning.)
As I walked out
of the building, I bought a coffee mug at the souvenir shop to remind me of the
pleasantly odd experience.
Two days later,
my passport arrived through courier. Neatly pasted on it was a 10-year
multiple-entry visa.
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