Passport
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

While looking through his papers one day, trying to find his birth certificate in order to apply for a tax number with the IRS, Jeff came across Sarah's passport. He opened it to see the picture, since passport photographs were always amusing. It was a nice likeness, as passport photos went. He was about to put it down when he noticed a detail that he knew was off. Since Sarah was out, he put the passport in the top drawer. It was a quick matter to fill out his W7, place his identification into the envelope, and drive to the post office to send it to the United States.

Upon returning home, he put on some Gillespie and read the latest Saturday Night. An hour later, after he'd finished reading, Sarah returned home from visiting her cousin Zohra.

"How was the visit?" he asked.

"The usual," she replied.

He got up, walked over to the CD player, and restarted Gillespie. Once the music had started again, he walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead.

"And how was your day?" she asked as she put her coat in the hallway closet.

"I got the paperwork in to the IRS," he said.

"Good," she said. "It was getting close to deadline for that."

"Yes," he said. "Oh, and I found your passport," he added, heading for the drawer. He pulled out the document, opened it, and walked back to her. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at the description of her hair color. "Brown? Your hair is as black as hair gets, short of being indigo," he said.

Sarah pushed his hand aside with a smile and blush. "Oh that," she said, walking past him to get to the kitchenette. "I wanted to put black on the forms, but I was still living with my mother at the time."

"And?" he said. "What does whom you were living with have to do with the color of your hair?"

Sarah opened the fridge and pulled out a can of soda. She opened it carefully, so as not to break her fingernail, and said, over the top of the can, "My mother insisted that brown sounded more Caucasian than black. Iranians are Caucasian, you know."

Jeff pointed at another line in the passport. "And what about this? Says you're five feet tall. You and I both know...."

After finishing her sip, Sarah explained. "Yes, we know I'm four foot ten and a half, but my mother said that officials look down on anyone who isn't at least five feet tall. You know, treat them like children. So, she made me say at least five."

Jeff walked into the living room and sat on the couch. "How about this one? This is a classic. Says you were born in Teheran. You were born half way across Iran from there. How does this click?"

"That's a bit more complicated," she said, joining him on the couch.

"I can't imagine anything more complicated than lying about your height, eye color, and hair color on a passport application," Jeff said. "Imagine if I had said my father's name was Fred on the IRS forms I just sent in."

"Your dad's name is Bill," Sarah said.

"My point exactly. So what's this about Teheran?"

"Well, at that time -- Shah's time -- where you were born had future implications on what kinds of jobs you could get and where you could get them," Sarah began.

"How old were you when you were born?" Jeff laughed. "Already had your career planned, did you?"

"Well, Teheran is the center. I was born in a rural area. It could have been a burden on my future plans, had my family stayed in Iran."

Jeff closed the passport and put it on the coffee table. "Well, at least the picture is you."

Sarah laughed, placing her now empty soda can beside the passport.

"So, let's say we're at the border some day, and who the hell knows decides to put you through the ringer," Jeff said.

"Pardon?"

"Sees that you're a Canadian citizen, but notices you were born in Teheran. That sort of stands out, doesn't it? Some little rural town totally blows by them, but Teheran stands out. Bet your family wasn't thinking of that when they fibbed on the birth papers." He offered a grin. "Border people take a look at your hair, and say, 'Hey, that's not brown.'" He ran his hand through her black curls. "Take one look into your beautiful black eyes and say, 'Beautiful, beautiful, but certainly not brown eyes.'"

Sarah smiled.

"Next thing you know, you're in a room with Wanda the Four Hundred Pound Border Witch," he continued. He lifted his hand as if pulling on the fingers of a surgical glove. "Snap. Snap. Snap. Bend over! You get the idea."

Sarah started laughing and it made him smile.

"Funny as it is now," Jeff then said, "it's a real concern. I mean, if I'm at any border, my passport describes me ... not something my mommy wanted me to be to fit into the world better. This is a passport to success, maybe, but it's not a passport. Who on earth does your passport describe?" He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes.

"An ambitious Iranian-Canadian," Sarah finally replied.

Copyright © 2003 Quinn Tyler Jackson
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist's apprentice, antiquarian bookseller's assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, and computer software and hardware consultant. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn. To learn more about Mr. Jackson's writing, please visit his Homepage.