One of the best thing about a farm is that it seems to be about as far from bureaucracy as we can get. There are a number of definitions for the “B-word”, my favorite being : government characterized by specialization of functions, adherence to fixed rules, and a hierarchy of authority (As provided by Merriam Webster). On a farm I make the rules and I get to make the really key decisions, like whether to use hardwood or pine mulch or whether to believe the gas gauge on the tractor when it quivers towards (E). The real world however,the one that survives on petroleum, paperwork and staples, is a bureaucratic mine field; the rewards look enticing but there is always something hidden beneath a bureaucratic sheen to blow a leg off.
Last week I took a hiatus from farm life to venture to a distant land called D.C where I was told I could acquire the most desirable of papers, a student Visa, from the French Consulate. The way this works is fairly straightforward:Student A makes an appointment online and assembles the appropriate paperwork to appease the Bureaucratic gods in order to make it safely across the mine field . On one end is Student A and on the other end is a little piece of paper that says the French government will allow you to spend money in their country. In between Student A and a little piece of paper stand several things including crabby french workers (personifying every possible french stereotype) as well as a great deal of paperwork Student A ( who has trouble remembering to brush his or her teeth in the morning) must fill out. Assuming Student A follows directions correctly all he or she must do is visit the consulate on the day of his appointment and, in exchange for paper and staples, will be given his Visa (more paper and staples). In theory this system should work quickly and efficiently but, as anyone who has ever visited the D.M.V knows, the system is a huge lie, similar to being told at age 40 that you were adopted.
On the day of my appointment I arrived 20 minutes early, sat down with all of my papers and put on my “May I help you?” smile. This smile is reserved for retail jobs and situations where one must win over those bureaucratic pawns who stand between you and your goals. For example I attribute my perfect score on my driving test, despite driving over an orange cone, to the “May I help you” smile which I executed to near perfection on my driving instructor Ms. Shantrice. Thus armed with a sharp blazer and my carefully practiced smile I was positive that my exchange with “Ed Rooney” would go smoothly.
( For the record, the person who I dealt with on this day was in fact a remarkably crabby woman but since I could not remember her name I have decided to give her the nickname “Ed Rooney” after the fun-sucking principle from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”)
Eventually Ed Rooney called me to his little window where he requested my passport, application and photo I.D. Luckily I was remarkably well prepared and had all these things waiting ready for Ed. I slid my little pile of papers underneath the glass partition ( glass partitions are the bread and butter of Bureaucratic impersonality) and glowed at Ed as he sifted through my papers. Next he asked for some other pieces of paper that I had thrown my John Hancock on and had oh-so- thoughtfully brought with me. At this point everything was under control, I was ten minutes from having my visa and about two months from boarding a plane to Paris. It was all too pretty though, I was running wild through the mine field…Ed took my leg off.
“And do you have the photo copy of your passport?
Now, Ed was holding my passport and was sitting all of ten feet away from a fax-machine/photo copier, so I just smiled politely and apologized for NOT having this minor sheet of paper and asked if Ed might be able to make me a photocopy. From my point of view this request seemed incredibly reasonable but apparently , judging from his facial expression, I had just asked Ed to give me a sponge bath in the waiting room. Ed stood up and replied ” let me ask my supervisor if we will be able to help you today.”
I just about lost it because I knew what was coming next. Supervisors crush dreams.
Ed left his glass cubby and walked through the door to his left under the pretense of going to ask his “supervisor” if he could make me a 2 cent photocopy. I understand the Euro is down but I was hoping Ed might have been able to make this key decision on his own. I’m pretty sure he just went to the bathroom, flushed a couple of times and turned around, never discussing anything with a supervisor. He came back to inform me that they ” would not be able to help me” and that I would need to make another appointment. “By not having the copy” he said, ” we are left no choice but to assume you do not have the other appropriate copies.” At this point I started pulling out all of the other sheets and putting them up against the window to prove to Mr. Rooney that I did in fact have all the “appropriate” sheets. He told me I was getting belligerent (could be some truth in that) and that I would have to leave immediately. I tried to convince him to help me in the name of common good but when he again asked me to leave I turned from pleading to lecturing and then eventually yelling. By this point I was making a bit of a scene and Ed again asked me to exit the premises and make another appointment for a later date.
It seemed I had been beaten. I tried to politely ask if I could make an appointment for later that day or for the following one but the damage had been done and Ed told me that online applications were the only acceptable form of scheduling. Just to put the nail in the coffin he added that they were completely booked for the next three weeks. I gave Ed one more icy glare in order to negate all of my previous ” may I help you” smiles, put all of my papers back in my bag and took as much hand sanitizer from the Purell bottle on the counter as I could for it seemed to be the only small victory I could muster. Ed called the next client and that was that, I had been blown to pieces over a photocopy.
I would say “stick it to the man” except that apparently the man is more than capable of sticking it to you. I have my next appointment this Tuesday to which I will bring every possible piece of paper one could ever need to prove their significance in this world. I suppose I have learned my lesson but I’m already planning on walking out of there this coming Tuesday smelling of success and Purell, tightly clutching the entire bottle of sanitizer. They may take my sanity but I’ll be able to sanitize the entirety of Paris by the time I’m done with them.
Rod
