2012 was the year I moved to Port Townsend from Tacoma. While I immediately loved this place, our proximity to nature and the beach, I found myself having difficulty relating to people in my new home town.
It wasn’t that I felt anyone gave off a negative vibe. Most of the people I met in my Uptown neighborhood just seemed like they were worlds apart from my own. I tried volunteering at the Wooden Boat Festival, Film Festival, etc. I spent some time at the Uptown Pub. While I had a good time, I never met anyone I connected with.
I grew up in Federal Way. The people I’d known there and later in Tacoma were, you might say, a bit rougher, grittier, more down-to-earth than the people I was meeting in Port Townsend.
Perhaps strange, I began to feel most comfortable at the Penny Saver, often late at night. Many folks coming in late in the evening were dirty, just ending a long day of work at the boat yard, mill or other blue-collar job. I’d built my own automotive businesses. I knew the dignity and joys of getting dirty in work you love. I found it easy to strike up conversations with this side of Port Townsend.
Many of the homeless would come in during the later hours. I was honestly more comfortable talking to the homeless than pretty much anyone at the Co-op and the parties I’d attended since landing here.
I’d been through plenty of highs and lows in life by this time. I’d never been homeless myself, but it was easy for me to relate to these people. I enjoyed listening to their stories. We had shared experiences. I’ve seen things they’ve gone through and I was really at ease around them.
Over the years, I have gotten to know many of the homeless, mostly those who are “from here.” I’ve gotten to know their stories. They’ve shared their struggles and triumphs.
I’ve seen things that bothered me: the people who come out of Penny Saver with a six-pack of beer and give a can or bottle to a homeless person leaning against the wall. Or the teenagers who pay homeless person to go in and buy beer for them.
In all the time I’ve spent with this town’s street people, I have only had a couple uncomfortable experiences. A homeless alcoholic man threatened me and stuck his head and hands in my car through the window. He said, “You better watch you back and hope you have good insurance on your car.” I immediately stepped out of my vehicle and confronted him. He backed down and apologized. The cause for his anger: I refused to give him cash for the sandwich he said he wanted and instead offered to buy him one. I had known any cash in his hands would only be used to get him drunk.
Another time, I found a bicycle in the middle of the road behind McDonalds. This was late at night. The homeless hang out back there in Kah Tai Park or in the landscaping around the parking lot. I got out of my car to move the bike to the sidewalk and someone I couldn’t see started throwing rocks at me. I calmly but loudly shouted, “If this is your bike, please, I was just moving it out of the road.” Instead my car and my person continued to be pelted with rocks.
Each week I will be telling a story about someone who is or has been homeless that I have come to know. I hope my personal experiences can open up the minds of our readers and tie in these experiences to our past article by our anonymous contributor entitled, “Knowing the Homeless.”
It is my intention that by putting a face on the homeless, being realistic about who they are, their problems, and the dangers and problems they pose for the rest of us, my writing might help us have a better informed discussion about things such as a homeless shelter, the increased crime attributed to transients, and the impacts of the homeless on our public resources. We can’t start to address the problem of homelessness unless we know who these people are.
It would have been easy to break the law. My Russian fiancé Elena and I, along with our new baby, could have easily obtained a Canadian tourist visa, hopped the ferry in Victoria, B.C., and illegally set up home in sanctuary city Port Townsend. In this city that has announced its welcome to illegal aliens, Elena could receive public benefits, a driver’s license and enjoy police protection from federal detainers and deportation orders.
But that would have meant that Elena’s first act upon stepping on American soil would be to commit a crime. We would implicate our child in criminality. We didn’t have to think twice. This would not be the route for our family. Honesty and respect for law are among our core values.
Our journey was arduous. We confronted despair and frustration. Our situation was incredibly complicated. We made mistakes. We learned. We persevered.
If we could do it, so can anyone else. There is no excuse for entering this country illegally.
A Long Journey
I awoke Christmas day, 2017, in the Dubai International Airport en route to a pregnant Elena in Belgorod, Russia. We had heard nothing after submitting her application for a fiancé visa six months earlier. As my flight departed, I found myself in a rare moment of prayer. I prayed for our immigration application to be approved so our daughter could be born in the United States.
I arrived in a freezing Belgorod. It was a thrill to be met by my future wife and be able to spend the holidays together.
Bad news arrived in a letter from the US Customs and Immigration Service requesting additional evidence. They wanted proof that ours was not going to be a sham marriage. This was a heavy blow. Such a letter often means visa denial.
In Belgorod I suffered a severe skull injury that sent me across Europe for a dizzying array of treatments. That did not stop us. We hired a lawyer to ensure we submitted the correct response to the USCIS letter. The paperwork we submitted was an inch and a half thick.
We waited. I called the US embassy and was told to wait more. Weeks later we got the news that Elena’s visa had been approved. We were instructed to call and schedule an appointment at the consulate in Moscow.
Bureaucracy, delays, frustration and fear
Due to the political tensions between Russia and the US, making an appointment was extremely difficult. Besides, no appointments were available. Elena’s due date was fast approaching. We had to accept our daughter not being born in the country we wanted to be her home.
We constantly tried to get an appointment while completing a list of tasks and gathering required documents. You cannot imagine the nightmare of obtaining Russian government documents. Elena had to travel to a medical appointment 500 miles away to meet a visa requirement. She began experiencing pregnancy-related problems. We felt helpless and frustrated. We were stressed to our limits.
May 25, 2018 was one of the greatest days of my life. Our daughter Anastasia was born after suffering trauma from needlessly induced labor. We now had daily trips on her behalf to doctors, physical therapy and massage.
Elena was finally able to get an appointment. We rushed to complete our documentation. The three of us took an all-night train to Moscow and went straight from the station to the embassy. We presented a stack of paper a foot high. Elena’s visa was approved in ten minutes!
But now we had to prove that Anastasia was our daughter.
The extraordinary travel required by my medial care had produced “too many passport stamps,” we were told. We needed more medical documents for Anastasia. Once they were submitted, we could again expect to endure more waiting and uncertainty. We quickly returned to the train station, made the long ride to Belgorod and got to work.
Two weeks after submitting all that was asked of us we still had no word. I called the embassy and got a clueless bureaucrat. I called again and was successful in finding someone who confirmed they had received our documents.
On July 19 we received approval to travel. We arrived in Seattle July 26 and are now happily building lives here in Port Townsend. Elena and I have our American marriage certificate.
The Right Decision
We are thankful we took the righteous, lawful path. It is a contemptuous insult to follow the law diligently only to hear many of our fellow Port Townsend residents and elected officials—who swore to uphold the law upon taking office—celebrating law-breaking, open borders and clemency for illegal immigrants. Our city council has dictated that police ignore our nation’s immigration laws and refuse to cooperate with fellow federal law enforcement officers. The Russian girl I fell in love with has exhibited more respect for American law than these politicians.
Elena read over this article and wants to add this: “People who are desperate enough to decide to break laws in general are not respected in their own countries. If Americans want to live in a civilized society, they should keep sending illegal immigrants back home.”
I am elated to be here with my wife and daughter. The difficulties we endured were worth it, ten times over. God bless America!
