HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS: a true tale

Canadian-born Blair Zarubick has been a permanent resident of the US of A nearly all his life. His mum brought him to the States at such a young age, he retains barely a memory of the Great White North. The boy got his Green Card at least 10 years before most of got our driver’s permits.

Some restrictions apply, of course. Permanent residents can’t vote; gotta be a US citizen to do that. They still have to support a “democratic form of government,” though, by paying their taxes and, if they’re of the male persuasion, registering for the draft. And they risk deportation if they violate immigration law or become criminal masterminds (and get caught).

But a Green Card is pretty sweet. As a Green Card holder, Blair had a permanent right to live here, work here, and enjoy the protections provided by the laws of this nation, his state of residence, and his local jurisdiction. When we met (backstage at a junior college production of Romeo and Juliet – great story for another time), he was a strapping young scalawag honing his acting skills and working at Bob’s Big Boy – a once-iconic American casual-dining franchise (“Home of the Original Double-Decker Burger”).

For decades that Green Card did Blair proud. Didn’t make life easy, but when is life easy for true poets and aspiring actors? Still, he did alright. Escaped LA, moved to Northern California. Succumbed to the amorous persistence of a gal who knew what she wanted. Got married and had a couple kids. Bought a house and did a hellacious commute so he could work two jobs and pay the bills.

It was hard, but the truly hard times came a-knockin’ at the door when the Subprime Mortgage Crisis of 2008 burst the housing bubble. The collapse of the housing market was a major factor in the 2007-2010 multinational Global Financial Crisis. The worst economic recession since the Great Depression left Americans reeling, and folks who’d bought their homes with help from a subprime lender – like Blair – were left royally screwed.

He lost the house, his marriage fell apart – ungracefully, to say the least – and in noir-novel style, his off-track life started a slow spiral into the abyss. He did his best to find a foothold, a handhold, a promising path, a decent job. I think he picked up the guitar around this time (I had an old steel-string stuffed in my music closet that was getting no love) and began teaching himself to play. He starred in a totally different JC’s production of MacBeth …

Yeah, there were momentary bright spots, but mostly Blair was feeling his way in the dark. If not for shelters and friends’ couches, he wouldn’t have had a roof over his head.

That roof was ours when it happened. You know, that twist in the tale – the one where the hero says, “Ok, that’s it, things can’t possibly get any worse,” and then Fate laughs, spits in their face, and makes everything infinitely worse?

If memory serves, he was sleeping on our floor for a bit because there was a position open here in Sonoma at the Boys and Girls Club. He applied. He interviewed. He got the g’ddamn job.

Blair went to sign the papers, we sang Hallelujahs – and, all too soon, he was back, looking dejected. He couldn’t sign the papers, couldn’t take the job. He’d lost his Green Card.

In fact, he’d lost his wallet. Well, not lost it. It had been stolen at a shelter. I think he even knows which shelter and when. So, he’d “lost” everything. Money, driver’s license, library card, health insurance card, JC student ID … but losing the Green Card was the kicker. Without that, he couldn’t get legit work.

Ever try to get government agencies to help you out when you don’t have a permanent address, your phones are charity hand-offs that barely function and don’t live long, and you sure as hell don’t have regular internet service?

For the last 15 years or so, Blair’s been attempting to secure a replacement Green Card while sleeping in shelters or homeless camps and busking on the streets (omg, you should hear that man play the blues). Finally, a couple years back, maybe when he turned 60, Fate decided he’d spent enough time at rock-bottom and let him make a solid connection with an organization that had some people who were fer-reals trying to help the homeless. Once he had a couple of actual allies on his side, the slow wheels of bureaucracy miraculously started turning.

In another stroke of luck, the goodhearted owner of The Big Easy, an underground restaurant/nightclub, gave Blair under-the-table work as a doorman, occasional work as the opening act for his headline bands, and even gave him the club to sleep in on cruel winter nights. This year, Blair didn’t need to avail himself of that last kindness; another goodhearted person pleaded his case big time, and he ended up with a one-year stay in his own tiny house.

Things were looking up. As a replacement Green Card became a real possibility, Blair set his sights on his next goal: becoming a US citizen.

I’m rolling my eyes at this. Were it me, I’d be – and would have been – trying like mad to reestablish my Canadian citizenship. But hey. It’s his life. It’s always been an American life. Gotta respect his choices.

As the government wheels laboriously ground to the part of the arc where folks started setting Blair up with official meetings, the oddest thing happened. An over-stuffed, lumpy, legal-sized envelope showed up in our mailbox. Had our street address, but the addressee was Blair Zarubick. No return address. I got hold of Blair, asked if he wanted me to open it. He did. So I did.

Inside was his stolen wallet (looked like it had been buried in a marsh for the last decade), his JC ID, his outdated health insurance cards, his long-ago expired driver’s license, and a fuzzy-edged, wrinkled, dirt-crusted but entirely legible – you guessed it – Green Card.

Yesterday, Blair told me the rest of the tale. Here it is, in (mostly) his own words.

So, after 14, 15 years of Kafkaesque craziness, someone finds the Green Card and mails it to you, and you mail it to me … funny, huh?

Three months later, I take it to the Customs and Immigration building for my meeting, along with my appointment letter for my interview and test. I show the letter to the security guard in the lobby, then head up to my appointment. When I get there, I go to show my Green Card to my interviewer … and it’s gone.

I figured I dropped it when I showed the security guard my letter. The interviewer sends me back down to the lobby to look. It’s nowhere.

I am crushed! I drag myself back upstairs to the interviewer. She’s pretty mellow about it. She says, “Oh, well. It’s lost. If it turns up, bring it to your citizenship ceremony, because we want it back.”

I leave my interview more than a little crestfallen. Scanning the ground as I leave, I suddenly see my card on the sidewalk! I had dropped the most important document in my life – a document coveted by terrorists, criminals, and spies – on the ground right outside the Green Card store.

So, I get back to my tiny house and put the Green Card in an envelope in my dresser along with my new social security card. I check them every couple of days, make sure they’re still there. Today [19 Dec], I take the Card and my letter to the same Customs and Immigration building, where I meet up with my case manager Scott … and I am paranoid as hell.

I get inside, make it to the check-in, and show my Card to this sweet old lady who gasps and says, “Are you sure you’re ready to say goodbye?”

“Yeah, it’s old,” I tell her.

She hands me my letter, my Card, and an envelope from the president. I sit down, open the envelope, and read Joe’s message while waiting to be summoned upstairs. Just before my group is called, I get a psychic hit from my grandma – this queer feeling comes over me, same as it sometimes came over her. Immediately I check my belongings. And I cannot find my Green Card.

Scott says he thinks the old lady kept it, but I remember getting it back from her. We go upstairs, and the next lady says. “No Green Card. That’s not right.” She sends me back downstairs. I’m in a f*cking panic.

I find the Green Card under the chair where I’d been sitting. I go back upstairs and give it up.

“Thank God!” Scott says. “That thing is cursed.”

Scott may be right … but then, all artists are cursed and blessed, making them particularly susceptible to the pranks of the Trickster who lies in wait for us at the gates of change. Ask me, it was Loki, Anansi, or Sun Wukong – or maybe Laverna, Goddess of Thieves – lifted BZ’s Green Card 15 years ago and has been leading him on a merry chase to the threshold of American citizenship ever since. Only a crazy vagabond poet and bluesman could have followed the Trickster’s path through the cracks between the worlds and made it home to America for the holidays.

It’s a tale of hope – something we’re desperately short on of late – with an ending happy enough to inspire joyful celebration. So, get some 12-bar blues playing on your listening devices and lift a cup to winter’s darkness and the birth of the light.

Good Yule, Happy Solstice, Blessed Be.