NATIVE TONGUE Bafana Khumalo
BROTHERS and sisters of all hues, religious beliefs, sexual proclivity and shape of nose, don’t go to America. The Americans don’t want you.
This discovery I made recently at the American consulate in Johannesburg while trying to go about the business of getting a visa to visit the land of the mighty, the free, of chewing gum and Ronald Reagan. (You have gathered that this is a column designed to show off how well travelled I am, haven’t you?)
After filling in the lengthy application forms — denying their insinuation that I might ever have been a prostitute, pushed drugs or participated in genocide — I walked over to the consulate in the city centre, where I came into full contact with American bureaucracy.
You can tell these people don’t want you in their country. You can see that by the badly uniformed security guard at the door. The poor man, I hope he doesn’t wear his uniform on the street for it seems to have been designed by a Salvation Army colonel on a crack trip.
Dressed in a pair of fawn trousers with whitish stripes going down the sides, the man cut a bizarre figure as he stood in front of a security archway, ready to deal with all manner of visitors. He seemed to be straight out of the prop room of a made-for-TV cops and robbers movie. This effect was completed by a very shiny badge in the shape of a shield stuck to his shirt, so shiny I wished I had not taken off the clip-on sunglasses I sometimes wear.
After giving my form to the relevant pen pusher and paper clip swinger, I sat down — while waiting for my forms to be processed — and paged through back numbers of Newsweek and Time. My little rest was being monitored by the benevolent gaze of the American chief, Bra Bill, and his sidekick, Little Al. This state of peaceful boredom was rudely interrupted by the sounds of negotiation from a young woman who — from her conversation with the clerk — had been to America to study, had returned and was now trying to go back to finish her education. The clerk hidden behind thick slabs of bullet-proof windows was merely doing her job, and the poor student was shouting at her — not in anger, but in an attempt to make sure that her voice went through the thick glass in trying to explain her position.
But she was staring at the steely face of a bureaucracy that seemed to automatically assume that anyone applying to go to America is intent on competing for the fruit-picking jobs in Florida. The clerk she was talking to outlined a lengthy process: she had to call the college she had studied at and have them send her a fax which was going to prove that she had indeed placed her feet in the land of plenty. That seemed to be far too lengthy and complicated a process to the student, who was attempting to find a short way around the process. No can do, came the short answer.
She was in a better position than another women who also was trying to get a visa. It seemed that she and her entire family had acquired this magic wand to make their dreams come true — all but one child. She was trying to acquire a visa for the child who had been excluded.
This woman, dressed in the manner of the really wealthy — subtly whispering through the manner of her speech and the understated design of her clothes — was used to getting her way. But not here. She was told that what she required was impossible to get and she was reduced to begging, trying to do everything in the book to manipulate the system. Her pleas went unheeded by Billy and Al.
I heard her ask the clerk whether it would make any difference if they paid the tuition fees at a technikon where the child was to have studied. She was told no and, in despair, I heard her say: “You see we are all going as a family and it would not be the same, if she were to stay behind.” This was a desperate plea which was perhaps unfair to make to the clerk for what was in the books seemed impossible to change. But she was told to take a seat while the clerk went to inquire somewhere.
As this was happening my attention was attracted by the entry of a youngish man in his twenties. He went to the window and asked the receptionist for information on emigration to the United States of America. I don’t know what was going through the man’s mind but I wondered how bad things could have got for him for him to make such a huge jump and consider emigration. This, I thought, would make quite a profound change to his life; he will need a lot of information and he probably is going to spend quite some time reading up on the country that he is considering adopting as his home.
One would have expected him to be given an entire library of information, everything from how you flush an American loo to where not to smoke — but no. The receptionist directed him to a window and he went there, to come back less than a minute later with a single sheet of paper in his hand.
After I completed my business, I left, with a bad taste in my mouth. How about a little bit of respect, dear America, for all those huddled masses yearning to breathe the polluted air of New York for a fortnight’s holiday, or even compete for those fruit-picking jobs in Florida?
Surely, if you are going to make people beg, the least you can do is what pornography shops do in this country (we are very civilised here): put a curtain between the street and what the people are doing inside.