Paper Chasers

The word paper is fairly neutral. When we were children, we scribbled on it. We used it to paint, to draw and to create art, with varying degrees of success. I was rubbish at art but I loved paper as there was nothing quite like a clean sheaf on which to scribble my ten year old thoughts. As we grew older, the word paper was adulterated to become synonymous with the cold hard face of currency. Today, the plural form of the word takes on a special significance in the vocabulary of the immigrant. Papers are a whole new currency- it is a hot commodity representing a passport to the right to reside in the developed world. The value of this currency never fluctuates.

There are paper chasers on the streets of Paris: the processions of sans –papiers of Cameroonian men and Ivory Coast women in Barbes-Rochechouart fill the churches of Saint Denis to pray to a God who would wash away old lives and give them new documented ones, in the same way that they fill the bank accounts of unscrupulous avocats who promise every year, next year they will have the legal right to reside and to remain. There are paper chasers in London- Nigerian men and Jamaican women who have overstayed the duration of their permits, armed with either a false British passport or a fake residence permit, or both. They work cash in-hand in hairdressers’ salons in Peckham and on construction sites in Hackney. There are thousands of paper chasers in Brooklyn, New York- Grenadian men and Guyanese women who have literally given up solid, reasonably well paid jobs in the Caribbean or brighter prospects at home, to become one of Patterson’s invisibles- they babysit in New Jersey literally cleaning up the shit after affluent slave-owners employers, they try to fleet in and out unnoticed in Caribbean hair shops and nail shops and takeaways. They make us believe that all is okay with their combination of Baby Phat, lace front weaves, Clarks and Timberlands or all of the above.

Paper chasing has its own rules, its own honour code of conduct and regulations, which vary according to the host country’s norms and mores. I quickly learnt that in the United States, a sophisticated money marriage system exists and it is rare to find a paper marriage for free. When it comes to marriage, there appears to be an irrefutable presumption of illegitimacy. I explained to a friend that someone I knew got married. The immediate question was “Papers?” Wedding photos on Facebook are gossiped and whispered about. More often than not, citizens are paid for their time and trouble, often to sums topping $5000- $10,000. This is presumably to represent the cost of the hassle- mere green card holders do not have permanent rights to reside, so often these arranged marriages subsist for over 7 years to ensure that the deal is seen through to completion. The United States’ Citizenship and Immigration Services is often swiftly on the heels- they require photos showing evidence of long marital life, and I have heard, anecdotally, that the questions they ask require intimate knowledge- what colour is your husband’s toothbrush, what was the colour of the dress you wore on your wedding day? A marriage for papers therefore requires forward planning- an easy familiarity with spouse’s family members and background- it is not for the faint hearted. However, many are unperturbed. I know of citizens who have married three times over to allow spouses to obtain rights to reside. I have heard of couples who plan to migrate and each to marry US citizens to obtain that elusive green card, and then to marry each other after the ordeal. I hope it is worth it and it lasts.

In the UK, there is a more covert, laissez faire approach to paper marriages. There is almost always the ruse of love, and even in cases where there is no ruse- overstayers use the criteria of citizenship to filter out any potential marriage applicants. It is the ultimate economic cost-benefit analysis. What good is it falling in love with someone who cannot help? Older women are often targeted. Lots of Eastern Europeans in economically strained circumstances consent to these marriages and contract them for sums as low as £1,000.

Nothing really surprises me about green card marriages in the US anymore except for the profile of those who overstay and who seek to undertake them. I probably expect them of persons who are unemployed in their home countries or those who really have nothing to lose. College graduates really should know better. Is at home so bad? The bourgeois set from the Caribbean/Africa whose parents sent them abroad every summer. Surely during their many sojourns proper research could have been undertaken as to the myriad ways to enter and to remain legally in the West. Up to two years ago, the UK offered working holiday visas and nanny visas to Caribbean nationals, yet thousands still chose to come through the system illegally. Is it the thrill of the chase or is it pure ignorance, the failure to question and to be informed, accepting this indignity of crouching low in another man’s country as the only way? Papers are ascribed an almost mythical significance- "she ehn fix up yet". Someone I know referred to a mutual friend with a  BA, MA and PhD as "not having shit" on the basis that she did not yet have the permanent right to reside. This, to me, is incredulous.

Many who migrate do not tell us the real story, they present a skewed picture of what they romantically term the “hustle”. They do not tell the truth- that the hustle is really a sale. It is a trade in peace of mind for economic gain, without which many of our families would probably not have advanced, but this does not make the choice any more viable or sane. They do not say that the wheel of the hustle is notoriously difficult to climb atop because there are thousands, if not millions of hustlers running along for that chance, to do the job for longer hours than they would, at a pay vastly cheaper than they would, and yes, probably better than they would. They keep quiet the fact that not many employers would take the risk so that for every yes there are maybe one hundred no’s. That to pay bills and to keep on top of rent and demands at home, the hustle becomes two and three and even four hustles, with no time for rest. They keep it on the down low that they are often paid less than permanent residents for doing the very same job. That unscrupulous rich families in the East side would try to hold on to their passports and make them work for more than their contracted hours because they knew that they do not have a choice. That every hustler knows of at least one mother or father whose sons or daughters died whilst they were abroad and that he/she could not come home to bury their own children. And that yes there are no taxes, but undocumented there is also no NHS, no insurance, no services if you happen fall sick. That the hustle may also involve having sex with a man you do not like or love. That very often you learn to love the man you are having sex with, because only that offers a way out.

I do not judge our paper chasers. I envy their audacity and their resilience. I could not do it. I have too much pride to eat at the crumbs that fall of the table of another man’s country whilst its citizens dine Michelin-style. I judge instead the failure of our own countries to harness the skills of its citizens, to create employment opportunities, to encourage initiative among our people so that it won’t be necessary for us to leave. If all the “hustlers” hustled at the same rate in the same way in their home countries, the Third World would be buzzing with vibrance and economic actitivy. I judge the developed West with its McFoods and McJobs and McEducation that lure us with McPromises. And I hope, that by the Grace of God, I would never be placed in a position where all I feel I can do is to paper chase. No one should.

(Pic from www.paperchase.co.uk. All rights reserved. Paper Chase has nothing to do with paper chasing or illegal immigration).

Flatbush, New York

It's like a jungle, out here
So much struggle, out here

And my dream's still unphased....

Alicia Keys, Empire State of Mind Part II

Dedicated to Deslyn Franklyn

The mother of one of my closest friends died last week. In a Brooklyn brownstone, she drew her last breath, a heart weary from the pain of over-love of children so far away, feet tired of walking to the subway to between Lexington and 33rd street, blood congealed by a never ending winter, soul burdened by the harsh realities of New York life. She was not the first to die, and she will not be the only one. Many have died weeks, months, years, before and drift the streets of Flatbush like corpses, haunting barbershops, rotishops, hairshops- the meaning of their lives flat and empty, snuffed out prematurely.

The almond toned Guyanese girl, with legs to die for and a killer smile, had her dreams of being a model slaughtered almost instantaneously. She was informed by her boyfriend that she had to earn her keep; she now contents herself to practicing "fierce" ANTM shots with her Blackberry camera and posting them on Facebook, in purple, yellow, and orange technicolour clothing combinations, defying her aspiration's bereavement. Her red carpet is the small area of the weave shop where she works, advising customers on the right type of hair to channel Nicki Minaj.

A Grenadian ex army corporal is being all he can be in a shoestore south of Utica, his vision of serving in the UK marines lying as flat on the floor as the gangsters he once made lay prostrate. The Trinidadian teacher who migrated for a better life has not fully sacrificed her degree- she practises "early childcare training" in her job as a babysitter to New York's Jewish elite in Manhattan. O'Levels and A'Levels don't count. Its Hustle and Flow or Crash. Young Jamaican girls who came seeking college degrees have hearts that are now stone cold and eyes that are already deceased- they wrap immobile bodies and lives around poles that had seen better days in frosty Harlem to pay bills and to buy formula for kids they did not necessarily want, but who prove to be their salvation. The currency of these living dead is papers- a green card- to be traded and bargained and wheeled and dealed, the cost of the American dream.

West Indians have long migrated to New York for a better life. They think that they pack their struggle away by packing an empty suitcase and boarding a flight to JFK but they soon learn that a suitcase is not enough to hold a dream of a better tomorrow, enhanced education prospects, enough money for a house and a plot of land in the pregnant Caribbean plus Boysie’s school fees, plenty toys for the baby, and requests every month for money and school books and a barrel and some tablets for the rheumatism please. Some leave their children behind in the care of neighbours, family and friends, hoping to win in the lottery of the American dream, inspired by the macabre vestiges of gold-chain, gold-ring, costume jewellery, brightly coloured clothes and ten dollar shoes that those who manage to return flaunt as evidence of the largesse of the after-life. Their children grow not to know these absent parents, these cracking cackling voices at the other end of the telephone, who seem like Santa Clause except they do not even come once a year.

Their tiny apartments remain unkempt while they clean the houses of their employers to perfection, their own children roam the streets of the Caribbean while they tuck the children of their providers to sleep. The cockroaches that infiltrate the city sleep better than they do. They are far from home and hearth because they do not know that their very same employers have left Brooklyn to move to Jersey because of their influx. If they know, they do not care. They balance weekly cheques like they used to balance buckets on their heads from the standpipes- precariously. Rent, electric, gas, cable, credit card, store card, Western Union.

Some live in limbo- not knowing whether they are going or coming. They have no papers. They do not exist on Governor Paterson’s books. Like spirits in prison, they are in America but cannot enter it. Funerals, weddings, christenings, baptisms, births and deaths of sometimes their own children pass them by - afraid to venture outwards back home lest they are not allowed back in. Those who do not have medical aid pray not to be ill and when they are ill, they pray that their persistent, hacking coughs will go away. They remember the youthful days when armed with a ten dollar bill, you went to see Dr Varma for every ailment no matter how minor.

Parents and children back home wait on dreams that never come true. The pre-cut house is still not fixed, the side verandah and the second bedroom still has gaping holes that leak in the night and there is a new TV but the old sofa has no stuffing. They will send for you next year. There is yet no bathroom inside the house. Promises of a better tomorrow are broken but each time reinstated, parents and children back home know that you have not forgetten them- that you will send it next month please God, after the damn super get off your back about the increase in last month's rent, and after you collect the sou-sou hand from Leo.

Parents and children back home eagerly anticipate a barrel for Christmas filled with tins and packets and bottles of samples of your good American life. They pass pictures of you and your new baby to friends and family, a photo that hides that Errol beating you and this time go be the last time he put he fucking hand on you because he think you don't know he sleeping with that nasty red-skin Jamaican bitch, and oh gosh you can't afford for this curry mutton to stain the top because you have to bring it back to Macy's tomorrow because God knows you can't afford it but you have to buy things and bring it back because Grenadians mouth too bad and they will say you seeing trouble especially as you see Melo wife on the Q train almost every day, and that's why you don't want them in you place at all or even know where you staying because they will badtalk you and tell people you living in a basement. Them bitches.

Yes, Flatbush has many corpses. They congregate to create another Caribbean, this time one purified by snow. They celebrate last suppers over jerk chicken, pelau and rice and peas. They have processions for their Via Dolorosa at Secrets or The Island where they genuflect to the gods of bacchanalia, confessing to sadness beyond their years in weekly vestments purchased from Strawberrys. The crosses they bear are sometimes too much to carry, and they often falter.

Yes, my friend’s mother died last week and she left many corpses behind.

Image from forgotten ny.com- all rights reserved.

The Face of the Immigrant is Mine

According to the quality journalistic broadsheet that is Daily Mail, the face of the immigrant is a fat, lazy, scrounging Somali woman who is awarded a six bedroom semi by the council in Chelsea, and who takes self righteous, almost religious reproductive pleasure in pushing out an Aisha every year for an additional £86 a month in benefits. The face of the immigrant is the builder Pole who works on weekends at a dirt-cheap rate and who has stolen the honest British man on the Clapham omnibus' living (irrespective of whether or not the man actually wants to make a living). The face of the immigrant is the man or woman on permanent job seeker's allowance who spends it buying trainers at JJB sports, teenage moms with gold teeth in Brixton who frequent Chicken Cottage, the Jamaican "bad-bwoy" youth in Walthamstow stabbing innocent locals, the Pakistani who refuses to speak English and whose only contribution is a good curry, the "hordes" of Bangladeshis who "swamp" the local area and reduce house prices. Well, surprise lads, the face of the immigrant is mine.

On my first impression of the UK, I did not want to live in it. Who would? It was permanently grey, sublimely murky, and unfashionably dull. I wished the Siberian winds in Cambridge could blow me back home. The weather was depressing and the stiff British upper lip contrasted starkly with the belly rolling laughter of island life. I could not get the fascination with tea- coffee was so much better. I couldn't understand why people walked so fast all the time even if they were not in a hurry. I didn't like Marmite. Or baked beans on toast. Or velour track suit bottoms. The taste, the smell, the colour and the vibrance of the Caribbean stayed with me like the memory of a good lover, they were gently pulling at my heartstrings and wooing me back. I certainly had no intention to stay. Grenada was and still is home. And certainly, New York or Miami seemed brighter, more cosmopolitan, more colourful, more fun. Europe was my adventure into culture much in the same way as backpacking around Thailand or Africa was the adventure for many British young people.
Almost ten years later, I am still here. Why? Because I was taught that success was not the birthright of any one, least of all, those who because of the lottery of birthplace feel so entitled. Britain is one of the places where I can obtain myriad opportunities and have the chance to be successful in my field and I deserve the right, as long as I am honest and hardworking citizen of the world, to prepare a better place for me and my family. British workers once flocked to the West Indies to capitalise on our sugar- they bled us dry, they congregated on the shores of India and the Far East seeking expensive spices and silks, 17% of the UK population swamped the United States for commercial opportunities in the nineteenth century. Every year, hundreds of thousands of Brits leave the UK to take up hallowed status in embassies, government, industry, around the world. They drive up house and land prices in Barbados and St. Lucia, they have changed the cultural fascia of the coastal towns of Portugal and Spain. It is for the same reason we come to Britain, with a steely glint in our eyes. Why should we let arbitrary factors like nationality and geography determine our fate and our place in the world? Just like you, we want to be where it's at. And quite frankly, I don't give a rat's arse if anyone has a problem with that.

I worked hard for my degrees and for my job and so did most of my fellow migrant workers. Whilst most students I knew got a loan to pay for the LPC, I had three part time jobs and juggled the role full time student. I spent days, if not weeks poring over job applications, proving and overproving my worth. I trained for a number of years. I poured tea and coffee for senior management. I spent hours lost in hundreds of thousands of documents. I did my time. For six years. Most immigrants I know are like me. Even those migrant workers I know who are what we would term unskilled workers and who arrived via the student or marriage route are not content to sit at home to wait on the government for a measly weekly cheque. We came here for a better life, not for an easy one. We often work jobs way below the skill and education level of that which we are qualified to do. The security guard at a law firm I know is an ACCA qualified accountant. My cousin, who has an MBA manages a shop. Sometimes, even when we succeed in finding a job, we are often paid less than British workers. Fact. We live in a country that is for the most part, not the most welcoming and discard ourselves from any hubris all because we are jealous and envious. Jealous and envious of opportunity. The money that we earn often does not belong to us, they belong to our families, our communities and we are therefore more watchful, more focused, more driven.

We are not entitled to claim benefits. We do not qualify for government assisted housing or special payment schemes to get on the housing ladder. We do not have access to student loans. We pay our fair share of taxes but have no safety net if the proverbial shit hits the fan. If we are made redundant we cannot use government funded agencies like JobCentre Plus. We are not eligible for most grants and tax allowances. In higher education we pay four times as much as home students. We pay our national insurance without complaint. We pay exorbitant "visa" fees. We work very hard and face the same challenges that you face, plus more. After saving up tooth and nail for a deposit, we are more likely to be refused credit for a home purchase. We are refused what most people take for granted- a telephone contract, a credit card, a store card, a free bank account. This seems to make no difference to the average Jack on the street. Immigration is the biggest single issue in British politics.

According to the Daily Mail, 98% of the new jobs created over the last few years were awarded, on a platter, to immigrants. The fact that this statistic is implausible and quite frankly, ridiculous did not matter to the 2,495 zealots who commented on the report and cried shame on the UK government. Equally, The British National Party, a party whose founder John Tyndall describes Mein Kampf as his Bible, foams at the teeth: non white people must absolutely not be allowed to stay, even if their parents were born on British soil, they should be regarded as "permanent guests". The BNP's immigration "policy" (if you can call it that) wishes to not only deport over 2 million illegal immigrants, but also to review all recent grants of residence and citizenship (a breach of the rule of law), to offer generous grants to persons of foreign descent who wish to leave the UK permanently, to stop all new immigration and to reject all asylum seekers who pass safe countries on their way to Britain. I knew Nick Griffin is off his rockers but if he thinks that genuine asylum seekers have a choice in where they choose to escape he is worse than I thought- a crazy idiot. What is scary is that the BNP appears to be appealing to lots of voters. How exactly do they intend to execute this neo-Nazi campaign to keep the bloodstock of Britain pure? Because for sure, this small group of Britons who think like this would not have a chance in hell of rounding up us black people on the streets of Peckham, Brixton, Lewisham and Catford. In no uncertain terms: we will get them before they get us.

Even the ones who were once regarded as moderate are up in arms. The Tories are vituperative and wish to entice potential BNP voters with their rhetoric. Immigration is out of control. Britain is being swamped. Uncontrolled immigration is leading to higher crime rates. It is a strain on the demand for more housing. The environment is suffering. Educational standards are being compromised. Immigrants drive down wages. Britain is suffering higher unemployment. There is a loss of British identity, a breakdown in community spirit. Immigration, it is alleged even causes higher council taxes, long hospital waiting lists, a shortage of council homes, and in general, wait for it, higher levels of stress and unhappiness. In the last election it was set out in no uncertain terms "Are you thinking what we're thinking?" In short, let's Blame The Immigrant for Everything. Jay Leno joked that the problem with immigration is not new and that the Indians in the United States had a short term name for it “white people” but on a more serious note, as Margaret Mead an American writer explained: “Society is very like a fish society. . . . Among certain species of fish, the only thing which determines order of dominance is length of time in the fishbowl. The oldest resident picks on the newest resident, and if the newest resident is removed to a new bowl, he, as oldest resident, will pick on the newcomers”. It was telling that the first question in the first Prime Ministerial debate was “What formula would you use to assure a clear working immigration policy?”

David Cameron promises to drive immigration down to tens of thousands and to place limits on the numbers of non EU migrants. That means I, and the other non EU graduates who are in law, investment banking, and medicine will have a tougher time of it, for no reason at all, even though our fields need the best individuals, irrespective of nationality. With respect, Tory Boy, we are not the ones that you need to target. Under European regulations, EU job seekers need to leave the UK if they do not find a job within three months. This is very scarcely utilised. Surely, it is a waste of resources to kick out functioning contributing members of the British economy? He then proposes tightening the belt around the already tight student visa system which will more than likely cause it to implode. Your universities already cannot function without our overinflated fees because the government refuses to award more funding to higher education. He then suggests English language tests for persons who marry British citizens. What is it with the Tory party and marriage? If I wish to marry a person who cannot speak English I think I have a constitutional right to do so. His backwards politics are certainly out of touch with the proletariat viewpoints (maybe in touch with his Eton alumni?) and probably only looks not out of place in his Royal Reader style manifesto. Him emphasising that he spoke to a 40 year old black man- he did not mention race in any of his other anecdotes- demonstrated the mindset of the Tories. We are always the “others”.

Nick Clegg, in the just concluded debate, appeared almost Obama inspired. Campaigning on fairness, and a change in the status quo, he was real and refreshing. The Lib Dem’s immigration policy appears fair and workable. They wish to reintroduce exit checks so that Britain can have a handle on who are leaving. Fair enough. They wish to accord citizenship to families residing in Britain and living in the paperless exploitative limboland for over 10 years. Fair enough. They also wish to improve the National Border Force. Fair enough. He then wishes to introduce a third element to the current points based system where migrant workers would only be allowed to enter in areas where there is a shortage. On first glance, this system appears fair but from a pure selfish point of view, it is here I depart with Nick- he seems to be penalising the City and workers like me.


Labour, because of their experience probably have the most detailed policy on the issue. My score is Must Improve. Their recent reform of the points system was decried as too harsh so the 1 April revision has succeeded in ensuring that Britain continues to retain the best and the brightest. Gordon closed the bogus colleges that gave student visa beneficiaries a bad name and he took action against rogue employers- the precise persons against which action should have been taken. I have concerns about the Migration Impacts Fund, which is no more than a tax by stealth. Labour’s reliance on ID cards to prove identity of foreigners also has an aura of the Deep South about it. Otherwise, electronic improvement of Border Controls seems fair.

It was heartening to see both Brown and Clegg dismiss Cameron's cap on immigration as unworkable. Talent would inevitably be stifled. Statistics issued by the BBC clearly show that Britain needs migrant workers. At the top end of international law and finance, people who can dialogue in different languages and across different cultures are the lifeblood of the industry. Migrants are needed to prop up the construction industry especially with the advent of large projects in London like Crossrail and the Olympics. The fruit picking industry would not survive without the Poles, who pick fruits in summer on British farms for low wages- jobs Britons feel entitled enough not to want to do. British people are not the ones doing catering, childcare and cleaning. The NHS stands on its legs thanks to foreign workers- Indian doctors, South African nurses and Caribbean administrators. Immigrants. Even private companies like Sainsbury’s are high in praise for foreign workers- they usually have a stronger work ethic. This is for the most part because we are more grateful. Vacancies in social work and counselling are also highly dependent on migrants- very few "indigenous" Brits wish to work in these highly valuable but poorly paid roles, or let’s be honest, have the inclination to pursue the qualifications necessary. For a lot of young British kids to whom I have explained my career path, the consensus is that university is "long" and a job requiring you to put in the hours is "nang". There are 7.7 million economically inactive Britain- persons who can work and who are not working, nor are they are not looking for work. This figure dwarfs the hundreds of thousands of migrants who come in every year.

Immigration is also the most sincere form of flattery. We want to stay in Britain because for the most part, this is a fair liberal-minded country. Britain is the hub of Europe; it thrives in culture and the arts. We stay because we build communities, families and friends. We stay because we grow to respect and love this way of life. How much greater would Great Britian be it would be if the British would overcome their fears. We are here to build not to destroy, to add not to subtract.

As Jean Jacques Rousseau said:

"The first man who, having enclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not anyone have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows, “Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.”