It feels like it’s never going to end, but you know it will eventually. You’re locked out and waiting for your housemate. You’re queuing for ice cream in the interval.
Welcome to my limbo. The empty letterbox.
I moved to St. Louis in June 2018 because Alex, the boy I quite like, ended up getting a job here and we fancied a break from London. After jumping through various visa hoops, we faced our final hurdle: my work permit. Frustratingly, you can only apply for it once you’re living in the U.S., which meant my career as a Creative in advertising was temporarily on hold.
After sending off photocopies in the post (yas, I’m serious. #AmericaIsAnalogue) of all my important documents to the Department of Homeland Security, I was ghosted for nearly five months, while an anonymous immigration officer (let’s call her ‘Donna’) muddled me over and decided whether she’d write back and grant me the luxury of employment.
It could have been an instant dinner invite. It could have been,“I’m quite busy for the next few months (work is crazy!) but why don’t I text you when everything’s calmed down?”
Well, if Donna wouldn’t tell me what was going on with my case, then I was going to tell her what I was doing in the meantime. I was sure she’d love to know how I was getting on with involuntary unemployment.
