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.