Know yourself

Ok, I think I am just going to ignore the fact that I haven’t talked to you in two weeks. This is not the first time I’ve done this but I’ve really tried to be better this past year. I won’t go into why I haven’t written because you wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t have any time (but it’s true).

Anyway.

By the look of this post, it may seem like I am going to channel Oprah and harp on about how you can truly know yourself, how to open yourself to your life’s meaning. No. I have no idea.  Don’t look at me. I pretty much failed my Identity Interview on Saturday.

See, when I became a British citizen, you probably all thought I was done with the tests and the paperwork and the fees. In a way, I was but if a British citizen wants a passport (which I still need even though I have a perfectly good American one) they have to attend an Identity Interview at the Identity and Passport Service office.

It doesn’t matter that you send in all the supporting documents and photos. They want to see you and quiz you and read your body language.

Here’s the part that any male readers can skip:

Ladies, you know those days when you just don’t feel good about yourself? Well, that was Saturday morning. I had a hair cut booked in the afternoon so I didn’t bother to wash my hair and I chose an outfit I didn’t feel good in. Recipe for disaster.

(Ok, men, you can come back in.)

When we got to the IPS office, Scott was told to sit in a separate seating area while I waited to check in with reception. When the man called me to his desk, he said he was just going to check my appearance against the photo I submitted.

Now, what really gets me about this photo is that the British government does not let you smile or show any teeth in your photo. If anyone knows me in real life, you know this is really difficult. I got the photos taken in one of those little booths at Kings Cross train station during rush hour. I have the most deeply troubled expression on my face in the photo, as if someone just ran over a puppy in front of me. When really I was just thinking, Are my eyes in the right position? Am I sitting high enough? Do they consider side swept bangs to be in the category of hair covering the face?

So, the man peered over his glasses and eyed me up and down. Then he tilted his face to the computer and said, “Hm…you look quite stern in this photo.”

You wouldn’t let me smile!

My eyebrows must have gone into the same shape as my “deeply troubled” photo because the man approved my photo and sent me to the waiting area with Scott.

When they called my number, I went into a small interview room with just a man, a desk, a computer and a chair for me. I imagined a table with a low lamp and maybe a lie detector test set up. This was better but still unsettling.

I perched in my seat as the man explained the process of the interview. He told me we’d be going over the answers I provided on my application form and he would ask me for details about my bank accounts, my parents, the person who acted as a reference for me, etc.

The first question I got wrong was my home phone number. Who uses their landline these days, I ask you? He kept looking at the computer and then back at me.  He said, “Why don’t you try to remember the number?”

“Um,  1…4? 5? Umm…8? 7…”

“Ok, let’s move to the next question.”

As he’s asking the questions, his eyes are all over me. Not in a gross way – but in a trained government agent way. I kept fidgeting with my top. God, why did I wear that top? Why did I even buy it?

He sees me fidgeting. I start scratching my neck, suddenly aware that I must be showing him about ten red flags right now. He doesn’t understand. I am who I say I am. I just hate this stupid outfit!

The IPS agent asks me other questions about banks and accounts and even though he told me he doesn’t know my credit balance, I blurt out that, “Oh, yes, I do have a store account. I forgot. But I only bought one thing! Just one thing in September and I’ve never used the card again! I don’t even like what I bought!” (No, it’s not the top I was wearing.)

The agent says, “Ok, it’s all right. Remember you don’t have to tell me what you bought” but he’s really thinking, I can’t wait to get out the FRAUD stamp and stamp the hell out of this one.

He asks about my reference and I practically jump out of my seat with relief because I know this one! I know the answer!

“See, my husband and I have actually been together for 10 years and 8 years ago I was visiting England and I met a friend of my husband’s on a night out and eight years later, by coincidence, we work together! It was his birthday yesterday!”

Yay. I get a point! Not so fast with that stamp, mister.

He asked more questions which I won’t detail here because there are real frauds out there and I don’t want them getting any ideas. But I will say that there were a few more snafus on my part. I just hope they look at my file a little more closely and see that I am actually who I say I am, it’s just that my husband handles all the joint finances and I don’t listen to him when he tells me about it.

At the end of the interview, he said I should hear something from them in four days but if it’s been more than 10 days, get in touch.  He points to the reception desk and suggests I pick up a pamphlet about identity theft. I nod and hesitate by his desk. He smiles and says, “I hope the interview was ok.”

I want to tell him, It’s not you, it’s me. I just hate what I’m wearing. But if you’re asking, where are the questions about my hopes and dreams? What about who I really am inside?

Instead I laugh nonchalantly – “Oh sure. It was fine!” – and grab a pamphlet on my way out.

It’s been four days.