Welcoming Committee

My beloved and I arrived in the USA on December 22nd 1997, flying into a bustling Newark airport. We carried with us a sealed envelope that we guardeed with our lives. In this were the documents from the American Embassy in London that gave me permission to immigrate to the states. We had been warned, if this package arrived opened then I would be sent back to England and not allowed into the country.

We were ushered through security into the Customs Office, the first stop on what would eventually prove to be a long, trying journey into bureaucracy. Glancing around at the welcoming committee of officials that were sitting behind the barrier-protected desks before us I wondered if I was being examined as a potential immigrant or a cockroach. Every one of them managed to give those sidelong stares while talking to their colleagues that gave the message: We know you're coming here to take good American jobs and social security; you don't belong. In retrospect, I expect that this has become far worse since the terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001 and understandably so.

Someone indicated a row of seats for us to sit on and we did. That's when we learned about the other occupant in the room, an Indian woman with no shoes and very little grasp of the English language. We wondered why she was shoeless and why she seemed afraid. But through careful overhearing of the conversation of the customs officials as they tried to communicate with her (this primarily involved talking loudly and slowly at her rather than getting an interpreter) we learned that she had been there several hours waiting for the relation who was meant to be picking her up to get to the airport. As nobody had been able to reach this person her shoes had been taken to make sure she stayed put.

Eventually, we were called forward to the counter and one of the officials took our packet, gave us a withering stare, and examined its contents. The assessment of my right to breathe good old American air went faster than I expected: A few questions, some stamping of papers, and I was allowed to go. The Indian woman remained as we left and I said a silent prayer that she would be ok.

Breathing a sigh of relief, we walked through Newark airport towards where my beloved's son was waiting to drive us home. I was surprised to see that half the airport seemed to be in disrepair until I was told that Newark was going through a period of upgrading. Still, that gave me something to look at as we walked.

Then I received my major welcome. An advertising poster from Sun Microsystems graced the wall right before me and its message simply read: GO HOME ALREADY!

Now I'm not sure which genius decided that a major international airport was the best place for a slogan like that, but having just been through the joy of customs and entered what was to be my new country, the words seemed to say that Customs had changed their mind and I should leave. Thankfully, I could see the irony and simply burst into laughter. But for any advertising execs out there - please be careful which slogan you place where. Meaning depends on context.

The Philosophical Soccer Hooligan

I'll never forget the first time my wife got angry with me. We weren't even engaged at the time. We were thousands of miles apart - she living in the USA and I in England. In truth, if you discount the internet and the telephone we hadn't even met yet, although we spoke more on the telephone than many couples do face to face as our thousand dollar a month phone bills testified. We were at once deeply committed lovers and strangers divided by an ocean. This is a strange mix that only those who have experienced long distance relationships can truly understand...

I remember it was a sunny day and I was calling her on my coffee break from work. I mentioned in passing that I was reading a book and when she inquired further I told her it was a book of philosophy. That was when she yelled at me.

"Philosophy? You led me to believe you were a dumb soccer hooligan and you're reading philosophy?"

It's astounding how loud a voice over the phone can sound when it's pressed to your ear.

Anyway, after taking a breath to recover from my surprise I discovered she  had made her assumption because I had told her about my weekly attendance to the games of Cheltenham Town Football Club (that's soccer to Americans). She'd learned something of the obnoxious and extremely rude chants we used and had heard me barely able to talk having screamed my way through watching the matches. I suppose, on reflection, her assumption was understandable, but here's the irony: Not long before she had told me how a co-worker of hers had come into her office and expressed surprise that she - a dedicated worker and political appointee - was also a quilter. Yet there she was, categorizing me into as tight a box as her co-worker had her. What it showed me was that even the very best of us are guilty of falling into that particular trap. Still, no harm no foul, right?

Not so fast. My wife graduated from the Vassar College English Literature program with very high grades. For those of you who don't know, Vassar is a top-notch college, about on a par with Cambridge and Oxford in England. She had assumed that with me being little more than a yob she had fallen in love with she was going to have to dumb herself down for me. This is a shame as I came to value her mind to ever greater extents as I learned more about just how smart she is. And boy is she smart!

So, there you have an explanation for the title of this blog. We all make assumptions about others and ourselves that can affect how we all interact. I want to use this blog to show some of the assumptions I've encountered in my journey as an English immigrant to the USA, as well as to explore the several loves of my life. I hope you find the voyage interesting.