Last Thursday, I decided to take a document, specifically our marriage certificate (required to obtain the birth certificate, which is required to obtain any further documents), on a trial run of the bureaucratic gauntlet that is the CRBA (Consular Report of Birth Abroad) process here in Viet Nam. The process began with me waiting for an hour and a half at the US Consulate for the document to be "certified," which includes at $30 fee for an official piece of paper and a stamp, after which I was directed to a second office down the block in order to "authenticate" the Consular signature. This second step was new to me and a bit baffling as I couldn't understand why a Vietnamese agency needed to authenticate an "official" signature of the US Consulate and if such authentication was necessary, what good was the backing of the US Consulate in the first place? But figuring I couldn't argue with bureaucracy, once the Consular step was completed, I made my way out of the Consulate to the "authenticating" office.
This next office was simply a small building, not much bigger than the inside of a school bus, with two rows of plastic chairs and one wall lined with windows, much like the DMV in the US. I walked up to one of the windows and, hesitantly - not knowing if the woman behind the glass spoke English, informed her that "I was told to come here to have these authenticated," pushing my papers through the slot in the glass dividing window. The woman behind the glass took my papers, gave them a quick once-over and then proceeded to tell me that she would not be able to authenticate the document - our marriage certificate - as it was not an original document. Wracking my brain for memories of our wedding day over two years ago when Steven and Jane and I had signed our original marriage certificate before mailing it off, trying to remember if I ever received the original via mail after our marriage had been registered and coming up with a vague memory of having received a certified copy, this very one, and wondering, then, why we didn't receive the original. Armed with this memory, I patiently, and perhaps more convincingly than I felt, explained that in the state in the US where we were married, we never received an original, only a certified copy, which was just as legitimate as an original, so that she could, in fact, authenticate this document as it was all that I would ever have to present to her.
Just as calmly, the woman shook her head and again stated that she needed an original in order to complete the authentication process.
I tried a different tact, explaining again that I did not have the original and that this was the "official" certified copy that would serve as the original and that the actual original was retained by my government, which was why I presumed I had just been to the US Consulate and paid $30 for them to verify that this document was legitimate, and I indicated where the US Consulate had put their stamp and signature to emphasize my point.
The, still patient, woman behind the counter again shook her head and pointed to a statement on the paper provided by the US Consulate and stapled to the copy of our marriage certificate, which in bold letters, stated something to the effect of "the US Government will not be held liable for the validity of this document."
Stumped now, wondering why it was that I just spent an hour and a half in the US Consulate for a signature and stamp on a piece of paper which was virtually worthless, other than the $30 I had paid for it, but not yet ready to admit defeat, I asked the woman behind the counter if there was anything she could do, again repeating that this was the only marriage certificate that I had and that ultimately, it would have to suffice in this process. She agreed to ask her supervisor and left me standing line, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the rising tide of anxious voices in my head.
"Why don't I have the original? Was there ever an original? How long is it going to take me to get the original? At least a month in the mail, plus processing time. The baby will be here by then! Will they even give me the original? Can I get my $30 for this worthless Consular stamp or am I going to have to pay another $30 - $60 in total - once I have the original, for yet another worthless stamp? Will we have everything in order in time to get the birth certificate? Will we be ready for our CRBA appointment? When are we ever going to be able to buy plane tickets? How are we going to get out of here? And this is just the first step...".
Feeling my anxiety levels rise and my eyes start to tear up, a very rare, yet telltale sign that I am about to lose it, I tried to concentrate on my breathing to calm myself as the woman reappeared.
She again calmly explained that she could not authenticate the document because it was not an original and presented me with an actual original of someone else's document with a raised notary seal and a "wet" signature as an example of what an actual original looked like.
I explained that I knew what an original document looked like and that I knew that my document was not an original, but it was all that I had. Having somewhat resigned myself to this outcome before she had returned, I then thanked her for asking, took my papers back and turned to walk away. But just at that moment, something inside me snapped. I turned back to her, brandishing the notarized, certified, official copy of our marriage certificate and began, calmly and then somewhat hysterically to ask, "Do you mean to tell me, that just because I don't have the original copy of THIS ONE PIECE OF PAPER. That my baby and I will not be able to leave Viet Nam? That we will be stuck here FOREVER?!??!" before dissolving into hysterical sobs.
The poor woman began patting my arm rapidly saying, "Miss, Miss, please don't cry, please don't cry. I will ask again. Let me go ask again for you." As she left, I was vaguely aware of members of the all Vietnamese crowd, not used to such public displays of emotion, come up and pat me on the back and say that it would be okay, as I tried desperately to compose myself behind cupped hands.
When my breathing was a bit more regular, I made my way, sheepishly, through the crowd, not daring to look up, and settled into one of the plastic seats as far from the scene of my outburst as possible. Willing myself invisible, the only westerner in the tiny little room, I stared down at my lap until the woman came back with my paperwork and informed me that her supervisor had agreed to authenticate my paperwork, "just this one time, just one time, just for you, just this one time." I gave her a grateful smile and followed her back to the counter, where she completed the process and handed me my paperwork, not even looking up when I expressed my gratitude and what I felt like was a sincere apology for my outburst. Papers in hand, I hurried out into the street where I was soon, I hoped, just another anonymous face in the crowd.
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