Undocumented Citizen

One evening when I came home from work, I found a letter addressed to Etta Abram, from the Internal Revenue Service. I sat in a chair, hesitated to open the envelope, then decided to make myself as comfortable as I could. I changed into a housecoat, said a prayer, and opened the letter. The IRS was summoning me to be audited. Did someone steal money from the IRS, or Best Freight Forwarding Company, and blame me? Is this a ruse to catch me, and then turn me over to the INS?

The letter asked that I bring in my pay stubs and income tax forms from previous years. I had no such forms. I knew I had to pay taxes, but I had no idea I had to file anything. No one had ever discussed income tax with me. And as for the pay stubs: I had been disposing of them.

            There is so much information that undocumented residents don’t know about that citizens and legal residents know and take for granted. Luckily, I was negligent in getting rid of my last pay stub; it was in my purse. I would take it with me to the appointment I didn’t want to keep, but about which I didn’t have a choice.

            In my mind, I went over events that would have something to do with the IRS. I’d held on to my Social Security card for three years, and Social Security cards were tied in to the IRS. I had been paying taxes since I got my first part time job. Facing any government officer totally terrified me. But I had to be strong.

Jackki rang the doorbell, and I let him in. “Jackki, I’m afraid. The IRS has called me in for an interview,” I said.

At my appointment, I was directed to see a young white woman. She asked me to have a seat and make myself comfortable. Her demeanor calmed my fears, somewhat, but I was still anxious, even though I kept cool. All of a sudden, I had the urge to run. It was as if I wanted to escape from some thing.

She smiled. “Welcome to the Internal Revenue Service. May I have your Social Security card?”

I trembled inside, but my hand was steady as I gave her the card.

She seemed to sense my discomfort. “How many dependents do you have?” she inquired.

            I thought of myself. “One,” I answered.

            “Did you file last year’s income tax?”

            “No.”

            “How much money did you make?”

            When will the questions end? I swallowed hard. “$150 a week.” I removed pen and paper from my purse, and multiplied 150 by 52. “$7800.”

“Did you file taxes the year before?” she queried.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I answered.

The phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and then picked up the instrument. “Internal Revenue Service: Sarah Gross, speaking.” She paused for several seconds. “Yes. I wasn’t given a copy.” She held on for several moments. “I wasn’t given a copy of that, either.” Several more moments went by. “Of course there’ll be penalties and interest. And they all add up.” And after another pause: “She’ll have to pay up if she doesn’t want to go to jail. Advise her to get an attorney. Listen, call me back in fifteen.”