Fingerprinting Fun

This Tuesday, we drove downtown during the height of the morning rush hour in a snowstorm to be fingerprinted for the 5th time in less than twelve months. It was actually pretty fun. The lady who operates the parking garage for the Crowne Plaza Hotel was very nice when we drove right into the garage without taking a ticket or even stopping to say hello. And she didn't care at all when, five minutes later, my husband identified himself as the "idiot who just drove in without taking a ticket" and asked if we could leave without paying so that we could come right back inside and get a ticket this time.

Also, the man in the hotel elevator was also very polite when we mistakenly pushed the button for the lower level instead of the ground level and we all got out of the elevator and realized we were not in the lobby.

The nicest person of all was the rotund security guard at the Federal Building who truly believed that I worked there and looked genuinely confused when I was unable to produce an identification badge but instead showed him my driver's license and my letter from the Department of Homeland Security saying to arrive at 8:00 a.m. for my immigration fingerprints. After I convinced him that I was a visitor here for an appointment he kindly explained that visitors had to wait until the precise strike of 8:00 before passing through security. He told us to go back to the other side of the security gates and x-ray machines and stand in the corner with the other visitors.

We hadn't noticed them prior to that, but there were about 20 other people standing in the corner. We were obviously all going to the same itty bitty little office on the 12th floor. There were Latinos and Asians and Middle Eastern men and women. There were also a few young white couples like us whom we assume were there for adoption purposes too. And there was one family that especially caught our attention. It was a mom and a dad with three red-headed sons and one adorable daughter of Asian descent. It appears that this family wasn't quite complete, because Mom and Dad were getting fingerprints taken for another adoption.

Finally, we were allowed to go through security (again), and Stan and I (both secretly pretending we were contestants on the reality-TV program "The Amazing Race") were the first ones to get to the long row of elevators and even managed to get into one of them and push the door-close button before anyone else could get in with us and take away our first-place standing. When the elevator doors opened to the 12th floor, I knew right where to go. And when we got into the little room through which all the immigrants in northern Ohio must pass, we already knew the drill. Take a clipboard and answer the questions. Turn it in to the lady at the window, and she will give you a clue -- I mean a number. I was number one. Stan was number two. And Mr-Dad-with-the-Asian-daughter-and-three-red-headed-sons was number three. Everyone knew he was number three because his little girl kept saying, "Daddy's number three!! Daddy's number three!! Daddy's number three, isn't he Mommy?" And then she would look very serious and say, "Who is number two?" And I would think, "The idiot who drove in without taking a ticket is number two."

While I waited for "number two" to be printed and ushered back to the waiting room, I watched this little family with great interest. They were really funny. The little girl asked her mommy if the new baby would cry. The mommy said yes, everyone cries. The youngest son looked into his mother's eyes with great curiosity and said he had never seen her cry before. She told him that she would be sure to come and show him the next time she cried. He seemed relieved but very concerned. The older son, who had not observed any of this conversation but had instead watched television throughout, now asked his mother what "organic" means. She told him that organic means that the fruits and vegetables are grown without bug killers. The middle son chimed in, "But that doesn't kill ALL the bugs. Only 99.9% of them."

The only thing that could (and did) tear me away from this great entertainment was overhearing the clerk at the window say, "Are you male or female? You are male? Because you wrote down female." Poor guy. He was obviously struggling with the English language and not experiencing a gender crisis.

Every time we get our fingerprints taken, something funny happens. The last time, on Christmas Eve, I kept adding $35 plus $35 in my head and getting the answer of $75. Stan and the girl behind the desk just looked at me as if to say DUH! and I finally realized that $70 was actually the sum of $35 plus $35. I asked the lady if she would be kind enough NOT to share my obvious arithmetic deficiencies with the "adoption police."

And, of course, there is the nice Italian man in Mayfield Heights who took our fingerprints last summer. He was downright hilarious. When we arrived at his office, he gave us mints to eat and played Frank Sinatra on his CD player. He would ask us a question and we would answer promptly. He would look up from whatever he was writing and ask us the same question all over again. We learned to either shout or wait for eye contact before answering.