Confessions of an illegal immigrant

Many Americans are applauding Arizona's tough new immigration law. They believe America must stand up to illegal foreigners whose undocumented presence wreaks havoc with the U.S. economy.

So I think it's time I came clean about my past. For three years I was without papers. In today's parlance, I was "illegal."

It all began innocently enough. I possessed a legitimate visa for my two-week visit to Italy in the summer of 1976. But then two weeks led to three, and along came four. I had an English roommate whom I rarely saw and a three-room apartment where I rarely stayed. Before you knew it I was running out of money and had to tap into Italy's underground economy.

In the '70s there must have been at least 50,000 Americans living in Rome without proper papers at any given time. Most of us were college-age kids who didn't feel like going home.

The Roman tourist industry readily tapped us to fill its strong need for guides conversant in both Italian and English. After all, we young Americans were willing to work for wages well below even Italian standards of that day. We were paid in cash and tips. The dollar was stronger then, there was no Euro, and the lira counted for ten times more than it was worth to print.

A policeman's demand

Every night after work, a group of us would hang out at a local bar not far from the Via Vittorio Veneto, which at the time was really a Little America on the Tiber. Like everything else in Italy at that time, it was a great bargain.

One summer evening in '77, as I approached the front, a policeman stopped me. With a threatening hand (this phrase in Italy must be accompanied by one) he demanded l'encartamenti (that is, my papers). What he wanted was my permesso di soggiorno (permission to stay in the country), which I did not have on me because I didn't have any.

Technically I could have been fined right there. But the officer, looking over at the bar, told me he'd be back tomorrow and I'd better have them or else. It was his "or else" look that I didn't want to think about.

My manager steps in

Naturally, I was scared. It's hard to describe the helplessness and loneliness you feel when you're living essentially alone without a permanent home when the long arm of the law comes calling. It was the first and only time in my life I was visibly shaken.

After the officer left, Cosimo, my manager at the tour guide company, heard what happened and quickly reassured me. With a wink, he asked me to point out the cop for him.

That policeman never returned to his beat again. I don't know what happened, and I don't want to know.

Eventually I drifted back to the States and the mountains of Oregon. Italy stayed put. The influx of all those Americans, some of whom chose to stay on as expatriates, did nothing to alter Italian pathos whatsoever. After all, throughout its long history Italy has absorbed and withstood many invaders, from Hannibal to Napoleon to a McDonald's at the foot of the Spanish Steps. Today the Via Veneto is expensive. The bar, last time I was there, had become a Chinese restaurant.

The new Know-Nothings

The U.S. similarly has benefited from the contributions of diverse immigrants over several centuries. So it amazes me how people who claim to be the biggest patriots seem to have the least confidence in the uniqueness and impenetrability of the American soul. It's especially dismaying to witness grandchildren of immigrants joining this Know-Nothing rampage against their new neighbors.
Will someone remind these folks that their ancestors didn't need permission or a visa to enter this country? All they needed was payment for passage and the ability to work once they arrived— the same prerequisites, come to think of it, required of our current "illegals."