I just finished reading a book this vacation called Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World. Although it may be a little over-indulgent in its patriotism, it does call to mind how painless it usually is to be a British immigrant-America has a certain fondness for its mild but dignified mother country, and expat Britons quickly become used to affectionate pats on the head every time we mention tea cravings or cress sandwiches.An immigrant, however, is an immigrant. And every now and then it is vividly brought home to me how inescapably hard it is-even if British-not to be an American in America.

"I can't stamp your passport, they destroy your green card," the fat Hispanic woman at the immigration office counter said to me, dismissively. "Excuse me?" I asked, with weary surprise. "Looks like they send your green card to the wrong address one too many times, so they destroy it," she explained. "Um...right," I say, "so...what should I do?" The woman looked at me with boredom. "I don't know. There's nothing I can do. Make an appointment," she suggested, vaguely pointing to another window.

I don't think I've ever come so close to crying in front of a room full of people than when, just before winter break, it looked like my trip to England to visit my dad for Christmas was going to be cancelled because of the immigration service's incompetence.

Somehow, they managed to lose my chart about four years ago, and I'm the one lucky person in my family who never received a green card. Every six months, for the last eight years, I have had to get my passport stamped to extend my visa, and every six months I am at the utter mercy of whatever delightful character is behind the immigration counter. As much as I usually enjoy these trips, I'd never actually been told that my elusive green card didn't exist any more.

The first appointment I could get to have a new card made was Dec. 28. "But my tickets are for the 24th," I said, politeness wavering in the face of desperation, "What should I do?" "I don't know, ma'am, that's not my job," I was told. "If you come here tomorrow at 5 a.m. and you're first in line, maybe we can see you."

I'd been up since six that morning, it was the middle of finals week and never in my life had I been so full of disgust for this insultingly inept system. I strode out of the J.F.K. federal building in Government Center, my eyes filling with tears of resentment.

Mulling over a cup of coffee 20 minutes later in the serenity of Fanueil Hall Marketplace at 10 in the morning, I was at a loss as to what I should do next. The United States Citizenship and Immigration Service is impenetrable-they don't accept phone calls or letters-all you can do is be one of a hundred immigrants in a crowded room, waiting for hours on end for the arbitrary generosity of bored and loutish officers.

It is such a strange thing to be articulate, financially comfortable, and easily successful at most things-but yet to be in a situation of complete and utter powerlessness. Since I was 12 years old, these trips to the immigration offices have filled me with a strange emotion-in one crowded room sit hundreds of Hispanics, Europeans, Asians and Africans from all walks of life-and for quite possibly the only time in our existence, we are equal in our helplessness.

Nothing has inspired me to be a journalist more than the fury that comes from the knowledge that we are speechless-the immigration system is one of the hardest to protest, because an immigrant's life can easily be turned around on the whim of an irritated officer.

I called the state representative for my town, James Eldridge, whose office contacted that of U.S. Representative Marty Meehan. In the middle of my economics final three days later, I was called down to the front by my professor, who said that a policeman had a message for me from a congressman. I had, apparently, two hours that day to go to the J.F.K. building where a head immigration officer would stamp my passport.

I have to give them credit-the officer I spoke to was kind and knowledgeable and he fully reassured me that he would do what he could to sort out my card. I am so grateful to Eldridge and Meehan and their staffs; I'm not sure how to thank them enough for the work they put into my case. They certainly illustrate the good that exists in American politics.

As far as I know, however, the immigration service still doesn't have my correct address on file.

In the gaunt gray stone that welcomes U.S.I.C.S. customers as they enter the federal building are engraved the words, "ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country."

After eight years, the United States, apparently, is still not my country.

And sometimes, when I look back at the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless and the tempest-tossed who still have hours of anxious waiting ahead of them, I wonder if I ever really want to be an American.

Yes, I say to myself, looking up at the Boston skyline and sighing wearily, I suppose I still do.