La Migra

La migra
Not having a green card means:

Arriving at JFK in the middle of the night and immediately feeling like a criminal.
Spending a chunk of your vacations queuing in the US Embassy to get your paperwork renewed.
Crying in the US Embassy at least once a year. Because you’re jet-lagged and they’re fucking with you.
Listening to an immigration lawyer who, while excellent, talks at quarter-speed so that you become intensely aware of being on the clock. Restraining yourself from yelling ‘Spit it out, goddamnit!’
Eventually marrying your long-term fianc&eacute at eight weeks notice in order to get a crummy student spouse visa.
Furtively starting a company under the sketchy ‘Actively managing investments’ spouse visa provision.
Having no choice but to work in technology (on the bright side: it saved me from literary publishing, where I might have progressed to refilling the editor’s stapler by now).
Listening to white upper-middle class Americans who can’t understand that you don’t have a green card because—whisper it—you’re one of us.
Dealing with well-meaning friends who suggest sabbaticals, career changes, major relationship shifts without understanding your indentured slavery.
Suppressing your deeply-held belief that you are special and deserve special treatment.
Having your social security card stamped with stern warnings about your alien status.
Not being able to run for president.
Having to explain that no, you can’t just have a baby and become a citizen.
Being a stranger in both your homes.