THE IMPERIALS #6

I AM an American!

When Chandrit Singh was nineteen years old he left the humble village in his native India and traveled to a new land with hopes of building a better life. He originally settled in Toronto, Canada and attended Seneca College. He studied Information Management Technology and English as a Second Language learning a lot more about computers than he did speaking English.

After graduation he took a position with Global IT Consultants in Dallas, Texas. The money was good, but the job was demanding. Providing customer support for a worldwide client base he was on call 24/7 and traveled constantly. Chandrit soon learned the high cost of the American dream.

The process of becoming a naturalized citizen was lengthy. There were forms to be completed and filed, a requirement to be legal resident for five years, American history and English language classes, more forms to be filed, interviews, court dates, and finally the oath of citizenship.

Immediately up naturalization Chandrit applied for a job with the Foreign Service. Another long, drawn-out, bureaucratic, ordeal ensued obtaining medical and security clearance. More forms to be completed and filed and additional interviews to be conducted. Finally, eighteen months into the process, the offer of an appointment was received. It was the opportunity that Chandrit had been searching for. It was less money than he earned at Global IT Consulting, but the job held considerably more prestige. He hoped for an assignment to India. He envisioned his triumphant return to the land of his fathers; an American citizen, an American diplomat; living in India in the style of their colonial masters.

He soon found the reality did not measure up to the fantasy. He never made it to India. His first posting was Kigali, Rwanda. Compared to this plush condo in Dallas his house was deployable. The sad fact was that the US government supplied some of the best housing in the country. What modern conveniences that existed were unreliable. The electricity was sporadic with the houses being powered by noisy generators the majority of the time. Restaurants and night clubs were few. With a limited number of television stations available, mostly in French, and no dependable internet, staying home wasn’t any better. With nothing else to do the expat community was quite active. If it weren’t for the parties life would have been unbearable. If he had wanted to live in the third world he never would have left his small, isolated, rural, village in India.

His next posting was Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. A large, beautiful, vibrant, modern, city, KL was a welcome change after Kigali. Chandrit was assigned to a spacious apartment with a view of the twin Petronas Towers. He thought he was going to like KL. Living in a country with a large ethnic Indian population he felt comfortable. Everywhere he turned there were the sights, sounds, and aromas of home. The one problem was that he was always being mistaken for a local.

His first day at work he arrived at the embassy with a tilaka on his forehead, the large red dot symbolizing his Hindu faith. As he prepared to enter the Controlled Access Area, where only Americans with a top secret security clearance are allowed to enter, he was confronted by the oafish Regional Security Officer demanding to see his ID badge. One hour, and a search of Chandrit’s personnel file, later the RSO grudgingly allow him access to the CAA and his office, all the while Chandrit repeating in his heavily accented English, “I AM an American! I AM an American!”

Chandrit’s outlook on life began to descend into a mass of doubt, regret and self-pity. He had had a good life in Dallas. Made a nice salary. Lived in an upscale condominium community. But like so many people he didn’t appreciate what he had. He had gone in search of something he didn’t really need. Now he was a low level government functionary making half the money he had made in the private sector. A fact of which he was continually reminding his co-workers, to their extreme annoyance.

He had found himself in a strange land surrounded by strangers. He began to feel isolated between two cultures. He didn’t fit in anywhere. His American coworkers asked him not to play Indian music in the office. He didn’t understand their jokes. “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!” What the hell did that mean? And who is this Ginger and Mary Ann? Chandrit didn’t understand his fellow American and they didn’t understand him. Though he looked like the locals, and spoke their language, they held him at an arm’s length, never really accepting him as one of them. He was an American. At least that was what his passport said.

By the time he arrived in Nordeland his attitude had almost completely soured. He had become hypersensitive regarding his status as a naturalized citizen and resented almost everything about the Foreign Service. Nothing was good enough. He had left a job making more money, and sacrificed to serve his adopted country. He wasn’t treated like a diplomat. He was technical support.

Chandrit was assigned to a beautiful apartment in an historic old building near the waterfront. The district dated back to the turn of the twentieth century and was originally a national center for manufacturing. Over the decades, through war and peace, the ebb and flow of economic boom and bust, the district had deteriorated into a blight of dormant factories and empty warehouses on the face of the otherwise beautiful city. In recent years the government had instituted a major program of revitalization for the area restoring and converting the imposing old buildings into a trendy neighborhood composed of shops, restaurants, nightclubs and highly sought after loft apartments. Chandrit didn’t like his. His condo in Dallas was better. And he made more money back then. Chandrit had his regrets.

He was in a foul mood as he made his way to the embassy early on a bright Saturday morning. He had received a frantic phone call from the Marine on duty that The Ambassador needed assistance with her computer. He hopped off the tram and walked up the steep hill, arriving at the front gate to the compound at 7:35. He didn’t normally get up till after 8:00 on the weekends. As he entered the front door to the chancery the Marine on duty stood behind the thick bullet proof glass enclosure nodding his head no. “They’re over at the Residence.” Chandrit scowled, turned and marched across the courtyard to The Ambassador’s house.

The weekend maid let him in and escorted him to the private study where he found The Ambassador sitting at her desk, surrounded by her cadre of personal staff, all eyes transfixed on the blank screen of a laptop computer. The maid announced their arrival then excused herself. Chandrit stood in the doorway feeling quite awkward as the entire cabal silently stared at him. Finally he broke the silence and in his Hindi accented English asked, “Madam Ambassador, did you call for me?”

She gazed up at him with her politician’s smile and replied, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Nordelandean. Can you speak English?”

Chandrit was barely able to maintain his composure as the anger washed over him. His very soul wanted to scream out I AM AN AMERICAN! Instead he slowly, deliberately answered, “Ma’am, I am Chandrit Singh, the AMERICAN Information Management Officer. We met last week. Did you call for me?”

Unfazed, The Ambassador retained her empty smile and replied, “Yes, my computer won’t work.” Getting up from her chair to provide him access she continued, “Can you please fix it?”

Chandrit was quite perturbed, but worked hard to conceal it. He cautiously stepped closer to take a look. “It’s pink,” he commented.

“Yes,” Madeleine Howell beamed. “I had it special ordered.”

“It’s a Mac,” Chandrit correctly pointed out.

“Yes, Steve is a personal friend.” She liked to drop names more than she liked to shop.

“Ma’am, we don’t have any Macs in our inventory.”

“So?”

“I am a government employee. I am only supposed to work on government systems.”

Her smile began to melt. “Are you refusing to work on my computer?” she asked through tight lips.

“But it’s a Mac.”

“Are you refusing to work on my computer?” she asked again more forcefully.

“But ma’am, I’m not familiar with the Mac operating system.”

The Ambassador crossed her arms and stood glaring at him like a petulant child.

Bob Coleman quickly intervened. “Chandrit, this is for The Ambassador. I am sure there is something you can do.” Bob looked at him with pleading eyes.

Chandrit paused momentarily. He looked at Bob who appeared demoralized. He looked at The Ambassador. He couldn’t read her expression. She reminded him of a politician who had been caught in a scandal. A little of “What, who me?” with a dose of “How dare you?” He looked at the computer. He figured ‘what the hell?’ No use falling on his sword. He didn’t want his next post to be another third world hellhole. Besides, maybe he would break it. He stood hunched over the computer, checking the cable connections, projecting the image of a man intent on his work. In actuality he was too pissed off to even think straight much less work. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an electrical plug lying loose on the floor. He visually traced the cord to the computer. The damn thing wasn’t even plugged in and the battery must be dead. With a disgruntled groan he got on his hands and knees underneath the table and found the outlet. The prima donnas must all be too good to perform such menial tasks. Sitting down in front of the computer he paused for a moment to familiarize himself with the controls, found the power button and pushed it. Seconds later the screen flickered to life. The gallery gathered around him released a collective “Ahhhhh!”

Chandrit relinquished the seat of honor to The Ambassador. “Thank you. Bob, please see to the gentleman,” she commanded in a dismissive tone as she settled into her custom-made leather chair.

The two walked silently through the darkened halls of the Residence. As Bob opened the front door he turned to Chandrit with a look of contrition on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders and hands outstretched with palms up as if praying. “I tried, but she wouldn’t even let me look at it.”

Chandrit returned his gaze with a vacant expression, turned and walked through the door into the brilliant, sunlit morning. He was definitely going back to Texas.

Semper Fi

Bruno Jefferies, Sergeant Major, United States Marine Corps, retired, stood in the middle of The Ambassador’s living room listening to the cacophony of suggestions and instructions emanating from The Ambassador and her coterie of advisors, decorators, attorneys, event planners and personal assistants.

“The room should be bigger.”

“The room should be smaller.”

“The room should be grand.”

“The room should be intimate.”

“The room should be gay and joyous.”

“The room should be warm and inviting.”

“The house is a marvelous old mansion in need of careful renovation.”

“The house is a barn, an eyesore, in need of tearing down.”

“Call the architect!”

“Call the demolition company!”

“Call the construction company!”

“Move!”

“Stay!”

The individual voices began to blur into a mass of white noise as Bruno tried to tune them out. His body remained, but his mind drifted away. Some days he wondered where had he gone wrong. How had his life taken this turn? Had he offended the gods? Created bad karma? What had he done? It was one of those days.

Bruno had left his home for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina bright and early on the Monday morning after his high school graduation. He was only seventeen years old at the time and had been in service to his country in one manner or another ever since. It began with a tour in the jungles of Vietnam during which he distinguished himself by winning the Silver Star. In the years following Vietnam he sailed around the world as a Fleet Marine, made the rounds through the states: Camp Pendleton, Quantico, Camp Lejeune, and served in Japan and Korea before being assigned as First Sergeant to H Company, Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, in Frankfurt, Germany, where his life would be forever changed. He met a pretty, little exchange student from Nordeland named Riikka. They dated while she finished school and were married upon her graduation. She was content with their life while in Germany. They would spend long weekends indulging in their favorite past time, traveling. The surrounding regions are a rich mélange of ancient cultures and customs, with historical sites dating back a millennium. There are castles and forests. Beaches and museums. Restaurants and quaint little inns. Cruises on the Rhine and the Mediterranean. With the promotion to Sergeant Major came a transfer back to Camp Lejeune. Shortly after their move, Riikka became pregnant. Rural North Carolina lacked the cosmopolitan atmosphere to which the couple had grown accustomed in Frankfurt. The heat and humidity of the American South could be overwhelming. They both missed Europe. Pregnant and homesick, Riikka wanted to return to her home in Nordeland. Bruno wanted to make her happy. He retired from the Corps and moved one last time. 

With his experience in the Marines, Bruno was ideally suited to work at the American Embassy as a locally hired General Services Officer. His job description read “to provide all the logistical support for Embassy operations in the advancement of American foreign policy.” That sounded good. Would probably please the tax payers. But in reality his primary function was to make The Ambassador happy.

“Well for the time being we have to do something with this room,” The Ambassador stated in her most decisive manner. “Bob, at the very least have the servants re-arrange the furniture.”

“Madam Ambassador, these are government employees,” Bob answered in a hushed tone. “They don’t like to be called servants. They find it rather insulting.”

“Oh my, you’re right. Please forgive me,” she responded with a look of sincere contrition in her eyes. “Could we have the government employed servants rearrange the furniture?”

“Madam Ambassador, that is why we are here,” Bruno interjected. “If someone will just tell us exactly what they want moved, where, we will be glad to do it.”

“I wish Mr. Kwan was here,” The Ambassador declared in a desperate tone.

“Yes, what will we do without Mr. Kwan?” Lynn Nguyen, The Ambassador’s personal attorney and chief of staff commiserated.

 “Mr. Kwan may be in Singapore but Mr. Kwan’s plan is here,” Roberta, The Ambassador’s personal interior decorator, jubilantly proclaimed as she entered the room waiving a piece of paper over her head.

A chorus of applause rose up from The Ambassador and her personal staff. “That’s wonderful.”

”Who is Mr. Kwan?” Bruno asked Bob in a low voice.

“Mr. Kwan is the The Howell Family Foundation’s feng shui consultant,” Bob responded, leaning over close in a conspiratorial manner. “They keep him on retainer. He’s based in Singapore and unfortunately he is tied up with a big hotel design project there and couldn’t make it.”

“I e-mailed him the floor plans and photos. After careful analysis he has prepared THE plan for use until we can make some significant changes to this… this… charming old house,” Roberta explained. “Have the servants rearrange the furniture according to this diagram,” she instructed as she handed the paper to Bruno. “Now let’s talk about the long range plan. What can we do with this room?”

“It needs to be bigger,” Roberto exclaimed in his uniquely flamboyant style. “If we want to hold true events we need more space!”

“What can we do?” The Ambassador mused as she looked around the room.

“Yes, what can we do?” Roberta asked.

“Yes, what can we do?” Lynn asked.

“Yes, what can we do?” Roberto asked.

There was a long pause in the discussion. The only sound breaking the silence was the muffled rumbling of furniture being moved in accordance with Mr. Kwan’s plan.

“Yes, I do believe it must be bigger,” The Ambassador finally determined. “In order to adequately represent the grandeur, prestige, and dignity of the United States the room must be bigger.” In her most decisive tone she continued, “We will remove these interior walls,” motioning all about, “combining all the smaller rooms into one great room suitable for entertaining.”

“Excuse me ma’am,” Bruno hesitantly interrupted, “but these are all load bearing walls.”

All eyes turned to him. No one said a word. They just stood staring at Bruno.

“They can’t be removed,” Bruno persisted.

Again he was met only with quizzical stares.

“These walls provide support for the floors above them,” he tried to explain as if speaking to children. “Without these walls we would be looking up at the roof.”

Another long, silent pause followed as if a cloud of confusion had fallen over the room. Then slowly, one by one, expressions of comprehension began to appear on their faces. Soon there were gleeful smiles all around.

“Excellent!” The Ambassador beamed. “I love vaulted ceilings.”