I Married an Illegal Immigrant: A First-Hand Account of How Screwed Up This Country's Rules for Foreigners Are

Immigration is an issue that always spurs heated debates. There are some decent arguments floating around, some kooky ones and one that reveals that the person making it is utterly clueless about the issue. That argument, in a nutshell, is that the system's fine.

Sure, there are around 11 million people in this country illegally; sure, many toil away in horrific conditions without any legal protections; yes, we detain suspected illegal immigrants (children included) -- meaning some number of legal immigrants and citizens as well -- in obscene conditions that human rights groups say violate international norms and, yes, those citizens who employ undocumented workers do so with something very close to impunity.

But the system's not broken, according to these folks. That's just a liberal talking point bandied about by those with a perverse desire to actually fix it. (This is closely related to the even more ridiculous assertion that the government doesn't do much to enforce the immigration laws. It does -- much more than enough, in fact, given the nature of the offense in question.)

Now, there is a significant group of people who would never, ever suggest that our immigration system is anything less than dysfunctional. That group consists of anyone who has ever had any opportunity to interact with it in any way whatsoever.

Although I am a U.S. citizen -- belonging to a fourth-generation immigrant family -- I count myself among that group. What I learned through the experience is that the difference between a "legal" and "illegal" immigrant often comes down to whether one can afford a decent, well-connected lawyer.

Here's my tale:

When I was very young, I fell in love with a woman. She had the misfortune of being born in another country, but we didn't let that stand in our way, and eventually we married. (And, for the record, it was by no means a sham marriage -- we had lived together for three years before tying the knot.)

We had lived in Germany for a while -- where my application for permanent residency was processed with typical Teutonic efficiency. Then we moved to New York and ran into the U.S. immigration system, a black hole of an agency staffed by incompetent, gray-faced bureaucrats whose performances would have shamed the DMV.

Their sole joy in life seemed to come from making applicants' lives miserable, but we soldiered on, traipsing down to lower Manhattan to file endless pieces of paper and attend about four interviews.

Eventually, my (now ex-) wife was granted a temporary permit to work while her application was being processed. She was, officially, a "legal" immigrant, one of the ones that Lou Dobbs supposedly loves.

Then we made a huge error, at least as it relates to the immigration system: We moved to Florida (I know, how rude of us?).

We paid a fee to have our file transferred and were assured that the application process would continue smoothly in the sure hands of the Miami field office (this was back when CIS was INS, and not part of Homeland Security).

Only the file never arrived. It was transferred, but to Maine. And then somewhere else (I forget where -- I think it landed somewhere in the Pacific Northwest).

Months passed. we were repeatedly told that the file was being tracked and would appear in the Sunshine State any day now. The authorities renewed my sweetie's 'temporary' authorization, and she remained, thankfully, "legal."

Until the day cruise.

If you've ever been to Florida, you've probably seen a lot of ads for these tacky junkets. They jam a bunch of pasty, brightly clothed tourists into a ship -- most of which are packed with E. coli bacteria -- and for 50 bucks they stuff them with cheap booze and fattening foods, toodle around the Atlantic for 10 hours, relieve them of a few more bucks in the casino and then back to port. We got one of these cruises as a gift.