The Little Black Room: Navigating US Customs as an International Student

The American embassy in Shanghai tells the tale of Harvard’s long relationship with China. Its walls are adorned with the words of the former leaders of the Harvard Center Shanghai and Fairbank Institute for Chinese Studies. They sing of the amicable and illustrious relationship between the two giants.

I glance at it, then join the people waiting in line. No phones or electronics for the next two hours.

Thirty minutes in. The person in front of me keeps muttering a script on repeat: “I am hoping to study music at the New England Conservatory for a Master’s. I sing professionally in the opera. I currently have a bachelor’s degree from Shanghai’s Music Conservatory. My fiancé will pay for the education.”

She practices this over and over without smiling. She flashes her pearly teeth at the officer when it is finally her turn.

***

One hour in. A man ahead of me is escorted out of the embassy.

“Why are you applying for a visa?” the officer, the only Asian American in the room, asks the forty-year-old man.

“I do Ph.D. Computers Science.” From the back, he looks like my uncle.

“Where are you studying?”

“Computers. Ph.D.,” the man repeats again.

“I asked you where you are studying.”

“AI. America. Computers.”

“In which state are you studying.”

“Computer science?”

“Sir, you are not getting the visa.” He passes the documents back.

The man doesn’t understand and still stands at the booth. “PhD Computer Science? Computer Science in America. Wife. Kids. America.”

“You have to leave.”

He doesn’t move. They call another officer who tries to escort him out.

“Computer Science. PhD. Michigan,” he says.

***

As soon as flight MU587 lifts the seat belt warning signs, I run. I have learned that the line at JFK Airport for foreign nationals can take more than four hours during peak back-to-school season.

One year, I traveled back with my Shanghai classmates to my high school in Massachusetts. Three friends, ranging from 14 to 17, were held for hours of questioning in a separate room without access to technology. The rest of us were just lucky to not have been selected by the lottery.

Entering American customs is a game of chance. The officers hone in on seemingly arbitrary factors: fidgeting, nervousness, hypervigilance. Yet, warned about the risks of passing immigration, aren’t we all nervous?

My classmates and I waited for the rest, staring at the spinning baggage carousel until we got dizzy. It took the seven of us four hours to make it through customs.

This time, as the masses slowly edge their way through line, I prepare myself.

The officer at New York’s JFK Airport glances at the leather-like passport clutched in my hand before waving me to a separate line. It leads not to the customs windows but to a secluded blue booth. I open my mouth to inquire, but the officer is already shooing in another kid lugging a bursting red suitcase; I have the same one.

Sometimes, I’m stopped before the customs line even begins, redirected into a special reserved one. Other times, I make it to the window before they notice my Chinese passport. A button is pressed and a red buzzer blares. I grimace at the sound, and I can see the face of relief from the person ahead of me who has made it through unscathed. An officer takes me to the interrogation room — we call it the “little black room” (小黑屋), though it is neither black nor small.

The room is filled with people from China. None of the European tourists or students are in this room. We each occupy a blue chair and wait for our turn to be called. A second round of questioning. No phones allowed. I hope for the best.

“Passport,” the officer says. I avert my eyes from his buzzcut.

I smile at him, and he smiles back without revealing his teeth. I try to wipe off the sticky remnants of a half-peeled name tag my mother stuck on the passport in case I’d lose it. He taps his foot, and I hand him the nut-brown book.

It bursts at the seams with stapled I-20s and Letters of Good Standing signed by my high school attesting that I am, in fact, a student. His hand briefly sticks to the layer of unpeeled glue before he yanks it.

“You’re not from America?”

“No.” My passport betrays me.

“Where are you from?”

“China.” The small golden letters engraved on the front cover read “The People’s Republic of China.”

He grunts. We’re all from China, the 40 or so students crowded in the room, awaiting our first trial in this land built by immigrants.

“Why are you here?”

I clear my throat. “School.” The Letter of Good Standing my mother stapled peeks out behind the flimsy passport pages. The school says I might need it. I hope I don’t.

“This is a travel visa.”

“The I-20 is on page 46.” My student visa.

He flips to page 45. “It’s stapled on.”

He lets out a “hmph” and flips to the front page of the passport, holding it next to my face, playing a game of “spot the difference” with a four-year-old picture. I wipe my crusty eyes from the 14 hour flight and stand up straighter.

Finally, he picks up the blue stamp and slams it against the page. The wood table wobbles, and he gives the passport back to me.

“Have a nice day.”

It’s time for me to step across the worn-out, trampled white line that demarks the United States of America from the rest of the world. For some reason, I hesitate.

***

International students can work for 12 months after graduation without applying for a work visa. Students majoring in STEM can work for an additional two years. Once time runs out, international students have to enter into a H-1B work visa lottery.

Even after gaining acceptance to an American institute, obtaining an F-1 student visa, going through customs countless times, finding a job that sponsors, and graduating from college, our fates are ultimately left to a lottery.

Here at Harvard, my international friend’s Datamatch profile jokingly said: “I need someone… who can get me an American green card.”

Whether my friend can remain in the U.S. post-graduation is up to a game of chance. A 12.37 percent chance in 2024, to be precise.

But my friend is one of the lucky ones. He made it through the first hurdle: obtaining a student visa.

***

My middle-school roommate dreamed of studying game design at NYU. She wanted to work at Blizzard or Riot Games. The thing is, she could only afford an American education abroad because her parents worked at the Huawei — a subject of American scrutiny.

Shortly after the embassy denied her visa, her mom quit her Huawei job. Her visa was denied two more times, and she was on her second gap semester. She messaged me once at 3 a.m. pleading for help, asking me about my own visa application process. But even I don’t fully remember what happened when I was at the Shanghai embassy.

I only remember my mother’s warnings and the lines I repeated over and over again. I don’t study STEM. I want to go back to China after graduation — all my family is there. None of my relatives work in tech.

When it is finally my turn, I stand up straight and smile, hoping my native-sounding English will ensure no difficulties.

The customs official asks me something I cannot recall.

“I don’t study STEM. I want to go back to China after graduation, all my family is there. None of my relatives work in tech,” I answer.

A one-minute Q&A — my visa is approved.

I walk out into the daylight. I’m closer to reaching the United States of America.

— Associate Magazine Editor Xinni (Sunshine) Chen can be reached at sunshine.chen@thecrimson.com. Follow her on X @sunshine_cxn.