Just Go Away

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" asked the security guard, a woman about my age, as she checked me through security inside the San Jose Federal Building.

Goodness, no! Do I have fangs?

"No," I laughed. "I'm a professor." I couldn't imagine how she would have guessed either of those professions, though, since on this day I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and wearing running shoes on account of all the running around I'd been doing. On account of the fact that I don't have my car.

I'm a professor. I'm not used to saying that. It doesn't sound true. But it is, now.

At the end of my first full day as a resident of California, I had acquired an employee number, an I.D. card — nice photo; sunburned nose — and an office. I don't have keys to my office yet, nor a phone, but I have email, and that's much more important. There was mail in my mailbox, both at my new apartment and in the faculty office. And I got whistled at on the street. Twice.

All in all, a successful and productive day. Except that I don't have a social security number, which is the reason for my mission to the Federal Building.

Inside, I take a number and a seat in the waiting room. There are 34 other people there. I'm no fool; we have federal buildings at home, too, we just don't call them that. So I take out my notebook and write this story.

Americans are loud.

If you talk much louder you could get an award
From the federal communications board
—Blondie

There's a young man sitting in the row of chairs perpendicular to mine, and a little to my left. He's black, and has black hair pulled into what I can only describe as a low bun — like Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. I'm sure this is not the look he was after. I'm equally sure he doesn't know who Granny is. He looks to be about 17 years old.

And he's rude. He's slouched in his chair, legs spread wide and away from him, like he was sitting on his divan watching a basketball game. As I watch him, he pulls a handful of candies out of his pocket, stuffs them in his mouth, and chews loudly, open-mouthedly.

Before he's quite done chewing, he calls to the security guard, who is stationed clear on the other side of the room, "Excuse me!"

The security guard walks over to the young man, but the young man doesn't wait until he gets there before he asks his question. "Can you tell me what number they're at?"

The tickets are distributed according to your situation. Numbers beginning with A are for change requests; Bs are for new issues, and Cs are for everything else. I have ticket number B213. The young man has B225.

They're serving B209, as is clearly indicated on the LED screen on the wall. Right beside where the young man is sitting.

The security guard points this out to him. He replies, "I know," as if that explains why he would ask, if he already knows. I've been sittting here since B199, and it's been over an hour. The young man came in about fifteen minutes ago. He makes some noises of frustration, then pulls a set of headphones out of his bag and straps them on. So he has no chance of hearing his number when it's called.

The woman beside me is Mexican, and we share a brief and quiet rolling of the eyes moment, as commentary on the young man's behaviour. She has her daughter beside her, and her daughter's birth certificate in her hand.

"See her name," she says to me, and holds the certificate so that I may see it clearly. "It says Barrayo, with a Y. Marissa Barrayo Valdez. That's her name. But when they make her social security card, they print a W instead of a Y."

"It never ceases to amaze me how that happens," I tell her. "I have a difficult to spell family name, too, but I know how to spell it, so I know that when I fill out forms, I spelled it correctly. But official paperwork still comes back to me with it spelled wrong."

"I'm from Mexico but she was born here, in Santa Clara County," continues Mrs. Barrayo. "But now they say she can't register at high school by her real name unless it matches on her social." She moves her head first to the left, then to the right, so as to include Marissa in our conversation. The girl nods my way and smiles. She's quiet, and polite.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Barrayo asks.

No Canadian would ever ask so foward a question of a total stranger in these surroundings, but I don't mind. I sense a good story.

"I just moved here, yesterday, so I'm here to get a social security card. You're not a real person in this country until you have one, I've learned."

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Toronto," I reply.

"That's in Canada?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Don't you have social security down there?"

"Well, no, it's a different country."

She seems surprised at this. Not at the idea that Canada is a different country, but that we wouldn't have all the same administrative minutae as America. I've learned to expect this attitude from home-grown Americans, but she's an import.

"Well, do you have social security numbers in Mexico?" I ask, not unkindly.

"No," she replies. "It's Mexico. We have something else there for I.D. numbers."

Americans can be loud, but they can also be geeks, and Sass loves geeks. The social security system is a mystery to Sass, but that's nothing compared to the American health care system. And ten weeks later, Sass is still waiting for her social security card.