Yeah, but hell of a way to get it. The immigration building was not in a nice part of town. It would be 5 a.m. in the morning...one side of the street was prospective Americans, the other a mix of drug addicts and homeless people. It was a tall glass building and in the morning the sun's rays would cook you alive as you stood there, waiting for the line to move forward a few inches more. Around mid-day, you'd finally get into the building, only to find you were barely half way through the line as it continued it's long, snaking path through hallways like some demented Disney ride. At least there was air conditioning though.

Hours later you entered a room, are handed a ticket with a number, and get to sit in a seat in a waiting area with 50 other people. You've essentially arrived at the DMV. At least you have a chair to sit in though.

An hour later, a gruff ill-tempered short lady in a immigration uniform calls you up to her desk. She doesn't even bother to look up at your face. You explain that INS transposed incorrect information onto the application you filled out 2 years ago.

Without looking up she grabs and brand new 2" thick immigration application and explains you have to start the whole process from scratch, because of their mistake. No, she is the Supervisor, there is no one else you can talk to about this. You take the packet and walk out into the street. The sun is getting low and the homeless are settling into their spot on the street for the evening. You walk around the corner to the bus stop.

That was the only time I ever say my dad cry.