INS Glitch Keeping This Voter Home on Election Day

On this election day, I feel like that last little Who down in Whoville, sitting on the sidelines while all my fellow Whos are screaming at the top of their lungs.

You remember the stirring Dr. Seuss story about Horton the elephant, who tries desperately to save a microscopic colony of creatures that only he believes in. To prove they exist, the Whos must all make noise in unison to be heard. They don’t succeed until they rouse the one remaining holdout, a Who who was taking it easy instead of helping save the world. The original slacker.

The metaphor isn’t perfect, since nobody expects voters to pull in the same direction. Yet, the moral of Horton’s parable still fits: Every voice counts.

Politically, I’m no slacker. It’s not apathy that’s keeping me from voting this year. It’s La Migra, that plodding elephant of an agency optimistically named the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

Almost 20 months ago, I applied to become a citizen of the United States. I’ve lived legally here since my family came from Mexico with me as a baby but did not apply earlier for complex reasons. Since February, the INS has twice scheduled me for an interview, then canceled with no explanation. That’s right, twice. The second cancellation “due to unforeseen circumstances” came in August, after an earlier column I wrote berating the INS for its mystifying procedures.

This is a great country in many ways--wealthy, strong, stable, open and free. But whatever happened to efficient and organized? I mean, they can put a man on the moon, but they can’t keep track of one lousy citizenship application.

OK, so it’s millions of applications. Aren’t there computers for that?

Well, yes, but computers can’t think for themselves. INS machines kept sending me notices about interview dates even though my application was stuck. Somewhere along the line, somebody knew what went wrong. But it seems nobody could get the system to inform me, The Applicant.

It took a team of top INS officials to get to the bottom of it. On Friday, they all gathered in an office at the agency’s monstrous facility in Laguna Niguel for a conference call to fill me in. At that moment, I was the country’s most coddled alien since Elian Gonzalez. Speaking into a squawk box, here’s what they told me.

My application stalled early on because my cashier’s check for the fees was not honored by the Mexican bank that issued it. Too old, said Banamex of the check I bought in Mexico City on June 21, 1996, but never cashed. They kicked it back to the INS.

Don’t ask me why I had stashed away an old bank check made out to the INS. Long story. The point is, I thought it was good as cash and wouldn’t expire. My mistake.

The agency knew about the problem payment way back in May 1999, when my check was returned to its Debt Management Center in Vermont, a central collections operation. Vermont notified Laguna Niguel, but nobody notified me. If I had bounced a personal check with my address on it, officials said, I would have automatically received a new INS invoice.

My photocopy of the Mexican check shows I printed my name and date of birth at the top. Does it take a rocket scientist to match that to my file with my address? No, but the humans kept assuming the computers were doing the job.

“In the name of efficiency, we’ve gotten more and more automated,” said INS spokeswoman Virginia Kice, noting a dramatic reduction in delays. “The downside is that when we encounter little hiccups like we did in your case, the computer doesn’t know quite how to deal with that.”

My new friends in Laguna Niguel were obviously embarrassed. They liked my suggestion that any future notices of canceled appointments include the specific reason, rather than the current vague wording: “We will advise you of any further action. . . .”

Which leads me to the next glitch. Rather sheepishly, officials informed me Friday that I must now provide a new set of fingerprints, since the others expired. Oh, and there’s that matter of the $200 in interest for the unpaid fees.

“That’s baloney,” said Kice, coming to my defense. The flack persuaded her colleagues to reduce the penalties to a $30 bounced check charge. Thanks, but I wonder how many anonymous applicants would get the same consideration.

Looks like I’ll have to wait to vote in 2002, barring any further hiccups. Meanwhile, I’ve managed to awaken some sense of civic duty in my 19-year-old son. Earlier, I had to twist his arm to get him to register for his first election. Monday morning, though, I found him voluntarily studying his sample ballot to a punk rock soundtrack blaring from his stereo.

Why the sudden interest?

It’s a close election and every vote counts, said Miguel. He paused, then added: “I mean, it matters.”

Welcome to Whoville.

*

Agustin Gurza’s column appears Tuesday. Readers can reach Gurza at (714) 966-7712 or agustin.gurza@latimes.com