The first time I applied for a journalist visa, I wasn’t able to get one — although I was given a B1/B2 visa, the one we often call now as tourist visa.
Since what was given me was a three-month single entry visa, I had to apply for another one when I had to go back to Seattle the following year for another coverage. Again, despite telling the consul at that time that I was going to the US for a press coverage, I was issued a B1/B2, but this time, it was one-year multiple entry visa.
I really didn’t care whether what I got was a B1/B2 or journalist visa, as long as I would be allowed entry into the US. When I arreived at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, the immigration officer there asked me the usual what’s-the-purpose-of-your-trip question. And when I answered I was there for a press coverage, he gave me a hard look and at the visa stamp in my passport. Then he asked me, “Did you tell that when you applied for your visa?”
He let me in.
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In a span of ten days, I was interviewed at the US embassy three times. It can be done then because one just had to walk to the embassy grounds, fill out an application form, pay the visa fee and join the long queue to the consul’s window. Today, a visa applicant has to call a call center to set an appointment; and when denied a visa, can only get another appointment in the next two or three months.
In my third interview, I was quite aggressive, almost doing all the talking in front of the consul.
“Look,I have to be in Seattle,” I said. I then proceeded to explain the importance of the trip to me as a journalist. The provincial government was sending a large delegation, including the governor then, to Washington State and the event was a good news material.
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The first time I applied for a US visa I was refused. It was one learning experience yet also an unforgettable and a humbling one. While most of my companions that fateful morning were already imagining the scent of Washington apples, I quietly sat in one corner trying to figure out why the consul did not even give me a chance to talk when it was my turn to be interviewed.
Down but not out, I returned the following week to the embassy and joined the long morning queue to the consul’s window. This time, the woman at the counter simply opened the last page of my passport where stamped a date indicating the day the embassy received my application the previous week. “I’m sorry,” she calmly said as she handed me a piece of mimeographed paper explaining why I was denied a visa.
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