“So, Ms Detroit, all we are going to need is your social security number, your bank account details, your last three employers, your place of birth, your references….and we can move towards getting you into the apartment.”
I laughed. I laughed so hard I think I strained something. I laughed so hard it wasn’t funny.
Ms Domestic violence worker…you know I don’t have any of this shit. None of it. None at all. You know even if i did, I am running for dear life away from a man, and I wouldn’t give it anyway. But we both know I don’t actually exist in bureaucratic terms. I am undocumented. Which means..well what it says. I’ve no fucking documentation. We both know this. Why are you asking me to print out forms, and fill them in saying, “I don’t have this.” Besides, since the shelter is paying the rent with a subsidy, shouldn’t their bank details go on the damned form? Shouldn’t it basically be a sublet to the shelter for the year? I start wheezing with pain, I think I might have cracked a rib.
I have to go and try and get into a clinic to get my eyes tested for free, it’s at 2.20pm. I don’t think I have a choice, I can barely see what I am doing. Then I have to fill in more forms saying I have no information to give them…and possibly go present myself to try and get a city ID, which seems fraught with danger.
Society has moved too far into demanding papers, documentation, proof. We are sliding into a future which should have been averted when the Nazis were beaten.
I would rather be writing about music and falcons, flights and roadtrips. Instead I am printing out my name a thousand times, like a school kid writing out lines in punishment for some kinda thought crime, for a sick teacher.
I must not try and survive
I must not try and survive
I must not try and survive.
Papers!
Shudder