Greetings
From John Burbidge
Dear colleagues:
It was 36 years ago this week that I acquired a visa at the US consulate in Perth, Australia, and a couple of days later began the long journey to Chicago that would change my life in ways I could never have imagined. With the help of hindsight and the mellowing of time, I wrote about this in an article entitled “Welcome to the USA,” which I attach here as a gift to you all on this special occasion. I hope you enjoy it.
Over the years, thousands of men and women, young and not-so-young, made similar journeys, not all so far but each driven by a desire to make a positive difference in the world and infuse our lives with meaning. The familiar lines from D. H. Lawrence—“Give, and it shall be given unto you, is still the truth about life”—rang in our ears and were repeated on our lips. Often against the wishes of friends and families, we cast aside cares for financial security and social respectability and threw our lot into being of service to the globe.
The diverse pathways we traversed, the wild social experiments we concocted, the outrageous risks we took—“on behalf of all”—are now part of history and it is for history to judge their merits. But the legacy of this incredible creative force that we unleashed on the world lives on, often manifesting itself in surprising ways. Whether it be treating “the guest as a god,” as India taught me, or seeking to articulate a consensus over contentious issues in my small island community, the residue of my ICA years are firmly embedded in my psyche and permeate my thinking, mostly without my realizing it.
I am sorry I can’t attend the 2007 Living Legacy Event but I appreciate the invitation. The chance to celebrate our common history, help map out future directions, and revel in the company of such a committed group of people is hard to pass up. I wish you well for the weekend and look forward to hearing its outcome.
In gratitude,
John Burbidge
Welcome to the United States of America!
Arriving in a new country for the first time is always intimidating, no matter what your expectations. Different styles, different accents, different smells all converge to give you the unnerving feeling that you are the outsider entering their territory on their terms. At last count, I had visited thirty-four countries and only in a handful was I relaxed at the point of entry, probably because I’d had one too many glasses of wine. Some entries have been easier than others and some have faded from memory altogether. Others have not — Lagos, Bombay and Chirundu (Zambia) among them. But one stands out above all others.
My first trip abroad was to the United States in October 1971. I had just celebrated my 22nd birthday and decided to take a quantum leap in my life from sleepy, suburban Perth in southwestern Australia to the black ghetto on Chicago’s Westside. It is hard to imagine two places more contrasting but I was young, naïve and ready to take on the world, albeit terrified at what I was getting into. Before my departure, a colleague who had made the same journey pulled me aside and uttered a few words of advice. “America can be a bit overwhelming for Australians and some react defensively. Don’t make that mistake. Just be yourself, take things in your stride, and you’ll be fine.” That, along with the $50 bill my father gave me as I boarded my plane, were the two most valuable things I took with me.
Flying to Chicago from Perth was no simple affair thirty-five years ago. It involved stops in Sydney, Fiji, Honolulu, San Francisco and New York. I left Perth on a Thursday night, spent a day in Sydney where I reduced my luggage from two cases to one, crossed the International Date Line, and arrived in Chicago on a Saturday afternoon. Being a raw recruit to international travel, I lapped up every perk Qantas offered. Every movie they screened, I watched religiously; every glass of wine they poured, I gulped down; every lavish meal they served, I ate to the last crumb. By the time the champagne-and-lobster breakfast rolled around between Honolulu and San Francisco, I was feeling significantly heavier than when I left Perth. My body rhythms were shot and my digestive tract didn’t know what had hit it. But I’d been living an extremely frugal life for the last eight months and felt I needed to make up for lost time.
My first taste of America was Hawaii. After flying for hours through pitch darkness across the equator, I was shocked to look out the window and see a blaze of lights like a brilliant constellation of stars interrupting one long black hole. As the captain announced preparations for landing, my stomach squirmed. This was it. Not quite the real it, but “it” nevertheless. Although I’d lived and worked with Americans in Australia, I now was about to meet them on their home turf. I’d rehearsed my story dozens of times: I was coming to the United States to do a six-month training program, after which I would return to Australia. Along with my precious non-immigrant visa, I had a letter of invitation from the Ecumenical Institute in case I needed to prove the veracity of my claims. Alles in Ordnung. Well, so I thought.
As we touched down at Honolulu, I took a deep breath and tried to calm my rising anxiety. Everyone had to disembark and go through immigration, so at least I had the consolation of being one of a crowd submitting to the same fate as we filed down the stairs into the balmy night. This was America, the country so many people yearned to visit or immigrate to, the land of dreams and possibility. But it was 1971. It was also the land of the civil rights movement, of political assassinations, of the Muslim Brotherhood, of the Kent State University massacre, and of the Vietnam War in which Australia had participated and against which I had openly protested. Little wonder I had mixed feelings as I walked across the tarmac and entered one of the wide, low coaches that ferried us to the immigration building.
Although I was in my early twenties, I looked all of sixteen. This was sometimes a drawback, but on this occasion it may have been an advantage. I’m not sure I could say the same for my orangey-brown woollen suit with flared pants and my turquoise floral shirt with matching tie that made me look like a walking neon sign. A birthday gift from my mother, this outfit was pretty cutting-edge for its time, at least in tame old Perth. Even if I was a quivering mass of jello inside, my state-of-the-art wardrobe could allow me to pretend I was not to be taken lightly. Besides, the suit took up so much room in my case I had little choice but wear it.
As I stood at the yellow line waiting my turn to present my credentials, sweat trickled down my armpits. I looked at the overweight, middle-aged man behind the counter and tried to size him up. What was he like? Did he have a wife, two kids and a dog? Did he ever travel to other countries and have to go through this ordeal? What questions would he ask me? Would my propensity to stutter under certain stressful situations rise to the surface? The questions kept coming. Suddenly, the woman before me at the counter picked up her bag and moved on. The officer uttered a long, almost bored “n-e-x-t.” I strode up to the counter and pushed my shining new passport and immigration card under the glass. He fingered the passport and flicked it open to the page with the visa. He stared at it for what seemed an interminable length of time, then glanced at me. His glance quickly solidified into a stern, uncompromising stare.
“What’s your purpose in coming to the United States?” he drawled.
“I, I, I’m coming for an international training program,” I stammered.
“What kind of training?”
“Cultural studies.”
“What organization is this with?”
“The E-e-e-cumencial Institute.”
“Where is this institute?”
“Chicago.”
“How long is the course?”
“Six months.”
I suddenly remembered the letter of invitation from the Institute. Damn! I had left it on the plane. How could I have been so bloody stupid?
“This isn’t the right kind of visa for a six-month training program. It’s only valid for three months,” the officer spat out.
I nearly melted on the spot. My armpits were now like the Mississippi in flood. I had to do something. In the game we were playing it was clear I was on the losing side.
“The US Consulate in Perth gave me this visa for the training program. And I have a letter from the Institute but I left it on the plane, sir.”
I decided to add the most unAustralian “sir” in the vain hope it might improve my position, which appeared to be getting weaker with every word I uttered. Instead, it only seemed to make matters worse. The officer’s tone changed from objective inquirer to irritated lecturer.
“I’ll have you know, young man, I decide who enters the United States, not some consular officer.”
I began to visualize myself being led handcuffed to the next plane back to Sydney, having to explain to everyone that I had been denied entry into the US. While I stood petrified contemplating my fate, the officer turned aside, grabbed a piece of paper from a file and slid it through the opening.
“I’ll let you through this time but when you get to Chicago, you’ll need to take this to the INS office and get another three-month entry permit.”
He picked up his rubber stamp, belted it down on the page underneath the visa, and shoved my passport back with the same kind of indifference with which he had greeted me. I uttered a huge sigh of relief.
“Thank you … sir,” I replied meekly, and beat a hasty retreat to the door marked Transit Lounge.
I had cleared the first hurdle; I had now officially arrived in America. If this was the kind of reception one could expect, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. But I had told everyone I was going for six months and would return at the end of that time. Much against their better judgment, my parents had generously provided my fare, having promised equality with my sister to whom they had done the same when she departed several years earlier for distant shores, never to return permanently to Australia again. Little did I know I was about to do exactly the same.
During the hour before reboarding my flight to San Francisco, I had one priority. Although I had advised the Institute’s office in San Francisco by mail of my arrival, I was not sure they had received the letter, so I decided to send a telegram as well. In order to do this, I first had to change my precious $50 bill. Fortunately, in those days the exchange rate was in my favor and I received more American dollars for my Australian ones. However, when I found how much a simple telegram to San Francisco cost, I nearly aborted the idea. But since I wanted to make the most of my six-hour layover in this legendary city, I sent the telegram. Besides, knowing someone would be there to meet me helped me recover some of my lost composure from my encounter with immigration. Little did I imagine the reception I would receive.
* * *
On 25th October 1971, the United Nations voted to accept People’s Republic of China in place of Taiwan. Its Communist government, under the leadership of Mao Tse Tung, had come to power in October 1949, two weeks after I was born. How odd, I thought. It was as though China and I had grown up together, albeit worlds apart. It was finally making its debut on the world stage, as I was launching mine. It would be several more months before President Nixon would make his historic trip to China, but in the meantime, another prominent American had upstaged him. His name was Huey Newton, the 29 year-old African-American co-founder and leader of the Black Panther Party. The party had an international perspective and believed in worldwide revolution. Imagine their delight when they received an official invitation from the People’s Republic for Huey Newton to visit. His arrival back in the US was eagerly awaited by reporters, so a press conference was arranged at San Francisco airport on his return. Since there were no direct flights between China and the US mainland he had to fly via Hawaii, where apparently he had joined our flight.
I knew nothing of all this when I stepped outside the cabin door. I was relieved to have finally made it to the western shores of America, and eagerly anticipated the break after slogging it out for four five-hour stints in the air. The key would be finding the person whom I hoped had come to meet me among the multitudes who had gathered to greet this flight. To enable this person to identify me, I had pinned the Institute’s identifying symbol, a thumbnail-size wedge blade, on my broad lapel. Why I expected anyone could see this from several feet away I can’t imagine. But even if I had carried a six-foot wedge blade, it probably wouldn’t have helped. Before deplaning, the captain announced that all passengers would be taken to a hotel during the layover in San Francisco. When I heard this, my heart sank. It sounded like an order, not an option. How could I explain that I was being met and wished to make other use of my six hours?
Before I could think of the best way to handle this, we were ushered out of the cabin and into the terminal. After the lengthy flights and my unsettling experience in Hawaii, I was not ready for what I encountered. Entering the airport lounge was like disappearing into a tunnel. Lined up with military-like precision for thirty yards on either side of me were black men and women, many extremely large, some with wild afro hairstyles and all dressed in black. I had known black people in Australia, even some of the more politically inclined, but these men and women were nothing like them. They had an intensity and intentionality I’d never encountered. They stood poised, looking straight ahead, unblinking, feet astride and arms by their sides. I had read about the civil rights movement, I had reviewed The Autobiography of Malcolm X for a national journal, and I had seen television programs about “black is beautiful.” But that was all at a distance. This was real, here and now. This was the country in which I’d come to spend my next six months. For a brief moment, I thought seriously of getting back on the next flight to Sydney.
As fleetingly as the thought came to me, it vanished. At the end of this elaborate guard of honor, I came face to face with a frenzied mob of television cameramen, newspaper reporters and radio broadcasters. I felt like being in a dream in which I was wandering around a film set where I had no right to be. What added to this sense of unreality was the presence of large numbers of police trying to keep the surging crowd of onlookers at bay. But these weren’t like police I knew. They carried guns, like in the movies. In Australia in those innocent days, policemen didn’t carry firearms. This surely was America. But why all this hoopla? Was this how all overseas flights to the US were met? As much as I liked to think my telegram had had an effect, this was more than I had bargained for.
The telegram had made it to my colleagues in San Francisco, who dispatched Jann McGuire to collect me from the airport during my short sojourn. I had no idea what Jann looked like and she had no idea about me. Given the mayhem at the airport, it was little wonder she didn’t throw up her hands in despair and go straight back home. But not Jann. Even now, thirty-five years later, she remembers that Friday night as clearly as I do.
“The entire Black Panther Party was at the airport to meet Huey Newton, marching in formation in their black berets. Airport security was a little panicked and sent John's Qantas plane to an obscure runway and gate, and since I didn’t know him, I had a hard time connecting with him. I walked up to many people when I finally found where the passengers had come in from his plane, yelling, ‘Mr. Burbidge?’”
Alas, I never heard Jann’s desperate calls in the midst of the hubbub. I tried frantically to scan the crowd for someone who appeared to be looking for me, but nothing registered. Meanwhile, the Qantas crew was determined to get us out of this mayhem and into an awaiting bus. I made one effort to try and convince the flight attendant I needed to leave the group, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Once aboard the bus, we were whisked out of the airport and half an hour later found ourselves in a small hotel where we were to remain until our return to the airport. But first, we were herded into the restaurant for yet another meal. Given the gastronomic onslaught I’d been subjected to across the Pacific, the last thing I needed was more food. However, passing up “free” anything was against my most basic principles, so I sat down with another passenger and proceeded to order.
Just as I was getting stuck into my seafood cocktail, a tallish young woman entered the restaurant. She stood for a moment and surveyed the crowd before buttonholing a passing waiter, who then turned and announced to entire room, “Is there a Mr. Burbridge here?” Forgiving the waiter’s mispronunciation of my name, I dropped my spoon and raised my right hand, waving at the newcomer like a long-lost cousin. She came straight over to my table and introduced herself. As I recall the moment, I think of the movie title An Angel At My Table. Jann had appeared from nowhere and I’d swear she had wings. We exchanged a few pleasantries and she recounted how she had searched in vain for me in the wild mêlée at the airport. When that had failed, she persisted with the Qantas staff until she found out where they had taken us and drove straight to the hotel. I was impressed. This woman didn’t give up easily. But time was short. Would I like to go and see the Institute’s residence-cum-office? I was delighted to accept her offer and in spite of my weariness, I suddenly felt I’d been given a new lease on life.
I excused myself from my fellow passenger and, not seeing any Qantas staff around, told her I’d meet her back at the airport in a few hours. Little did I realize my absence would cause a major catastrophe. When the airline staff rounded up the New York-bound passengers for the return trip to the airport, they were one short. A quick scan of the passenger manifesto revealed I was culprit. My traveling companion hadn’t told them I had left with a friend, so the crew was beside themselves. Who was this scoundrel who had absconded into the wilds of a San Francisco night without our permission? While the Qantas office in San Francisco was about to send out a missing persons alert, I was merrily enjoying my first tour of an American city in the company of my good friend Jann. I don’t recall much of those few hours, but I do remember the reception I received as I showed up at the check-in counter at the airport.
“Where the hell do you think you’ve been young man?” was her opening line, as an irate ticket agent stared me in the face. It was not only the words that fumed out of her mouth that shocked me but the look in her eyes that she was about to devour me on the spot. I couldn’t respond before she jumped in.
“We’ve been looking all over for you. We were going to call the police. You just disappeared from the restaurant without telling our staff!”
I felt like the errant schoolboy who had broken the most hallowed school rule. It was all I could do to make brief eye contact, but somehow I managed to muster an apologetic reply, to little effect.
“You had no right to run off like that without our permission,” she snapped like an irate schoolmistress.
Wracked with guilt, I uttered a mild “sorry” and took the ticket she thrust toward me with a sense of disgust. Between my encounter with the immigration officer in Honolulu, my reception at the hands of the Black Panther Party in San Francisco, and the dressing down by the Qantas ground staff, I was beginning to have second thoughts about my new adventure in the Land of the Free. I felt anything but free right now. But I still had to cross this vast continent and catch another plane back to Chicago. I had no idea then the final leg of this unfolding journey would present challenges of a whole different order.
* * *
Chicago. A mythical place in my imagination if ever there were one, probably due to my watching too many episodes of The Untouchables. There was also the urban sociology class I took at university, in which Chicago was heralded as the classic living laboratory of the modern city, with its towering downtown Loop, its ritzy North Shore, and its endless suburbs fanning out from Lake Michigan in almost perfect concentric circles, not too mention its highly distinctive ethnic enclaves. But more than anything, it was the story of Fifth City, the Institute’s landmark “community reformulation” project on the city’s demoralized and destitute Westside, that had implanted itself in my mind as a beacon of hope for communities everywhere. It drew me to it like a giant magnet.
This grassroots effort to change the fortunes of the impoverished black population who lived in a twenty-block area was unlike most other 1960s attempts at urban renewal, which simply replaced horizontal slums with vertical ones. Spearheaded by a core of Institute staff who lived in an abandoned seminary in the midst of the ghetto, the project focused on transforming the imagination of the local residents, to help free themselves from being hapless victims of uncontrollable forces to masters of their own destiny. This was done in myriad ways—creating a community-run preschool in which local women were trained to teach, beginning small businesses such as a laundromat and grocery store, opening a health clinic, securing funding to remodel derelict housing, and more. The premise was: If you could do it here, you could it anywhere, including Aboriginal communities in Australia that were crying out for clues about how they might rebuild themselves.
Getting to Chicago was no problem. After I said good-bye to my beloved Qantas crew in New York and found the American Airlines plane to Chicago, it seemed downhill all the way. The only thing I remember of that last leg in my marathon trek was the artificial creamer served with coffee. I had never encountered it before and I after I tasted it, I hoped I never would again. America has devised some amazing inventions, but in my book coffee creamer is not one of them. But that was a minor irritation compared to the competing sense of fear and fascination that gripped me as we drew closer to Chicago. When the captain announced we had begun our descent, I tried to prepare myself mentally for my entry into this strange other world that would be my home for at least the next six months. Till now, I could escape into the unreal atmosphere of airplane travel but this fantasy was about to end. There was no turning back. A sharp pang of terror shot threw my body.
As our Boeing-707 prepared to land, I peered out the window to look at what I later learned was called Chicagoland. My first image of this massive metropolis was one of gigantic tank stands poking up all over a pancake-flat landscape. As the plane slowly turned in a 180-degree arc I glimpsed in the distance the soaring towers of downtown Chicago, thrusting up proudly to assert their dominance. As we grew closer to the ground, I noticed the trees had no foliage, as if someone had taken a giant vacuum cleaner and sucked up every last leaf. I then realized I was seeing my first real fall landscape. We had a season called autumn on the west coast of Australia, but since most of the native trees were evergreens, only a few imported varieties shed their leaves. The harsh world that appeared through my window did little to calm my rising sense of anxiety as the plane touched down with a sharp thud on the runway.
My first thought on arrival at O’Hare International Airport was for my luggage. The last time I had seen my soft brown leather case was when we went through customs in Honolulu, which now seemed light years ago. Would it make it through San Francisco and New York to Chicago? In all the traveling I have done since, I have never ceased to be amazed that my luggage has made it to its correct destination. Only twice has it failed to accompany me, and each time I have retrieved it within a day or so. But on this bleak October Saturday in Chicago, I was expecting the worst. My failure-syndrome machine was in full operation as I stood by the carousel, watching case after case go by. Finally, as I was about to burst into tears, out it slid through the rubber slats. I was so relieved I nearly clapped for joy.
The second-last leg of my journey was a bus trip from the airport to downtown. I had been instructed to go to the Palmer House hotel, from where I should take a taxi to the Institute’s campus. I found the bus easily enough but was aghast how many of my new dollars I had to spend on the ride. I remember nothing of that journey, most of which was on freeways until we approached the Loop. But it wasn’t the road system that caused my memory lapse. I was engrossed in a mind game with myself, wondering how I would survive the next hour or so. As the bus pulled up outside the stately Palmer House, I stood in awe at its commanding façade and brassy entryway. When the doorman offered to carry my case inside, I politely declined and indicated I needed a taxi instead.
Several cabs were lined up outside the hotel, so I went to the head of the queue. The young driver jumped out to greet me and asked my destination. I had seen the address on brochures and written letters to it so many times that it was etched in my memory.
“3444 West Congress Parkway,” I announced proudly.
The driver screwed up his eyes and gave me a weird look.
“You sure you have that right, buddy?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “It’s the Ecumenical Institute,” as though that should have removed any doubt.
“Economical Institute?” he queried. “Never heard of it.”
Not be outdone, I pulled out the invitation letter I had been sent by the Institute. The driver stared at it as though it were written in Chinese.
“Sorry, don’t know it,” he said. “Try the next guy.”
I picked up my case and trudged to the next cab. The driver was African American. This should do the trick, I thought. After all, the part of the Westside I wanted to go to was almost totally black, since its former white population had fled to the outer suburbs. This driver was about twice the size of the first and half as enthusiastic in welcoming my business. He didn’t bother to get out of the cab but lent over to the passenger side, chewing gum like a cow munching its cud.
“Where yu headin?” he asked.
“The Westside. 3444 West Congress Parkway. Between the Kedzie and Homan exits.”
I was sure the extra detail would seal the deal. At least, it would show that I knew what I was talking about. Instead, it had the opposite effect.
“Are you crazy?” he asked as he rolled his eyes skyward. “You’d never get me to go there if you paid three times the fare!”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d come more than half way round the world, I’d finally got within spitting distance of my destination, and I couldn’t get a black taxi driver to take me to the black ghetto! Maybe this Fifth City was not all it had been made out to be. Was I out of my mind to even try going there? Was it really too late to turn back?
Persistence has always been one of my stronger traits and it kicked right in. I picked up my case and headed down the line of taxis, telling myself to believe in the old maxim, third time lucky. As I did, a doorman from the hotel, who had witnessed my lack of success getting a cab, came striding over.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely.
“I hope to god you can,” I replied more curtly than I intended. “I’ve come all the way from Australia and I’m trying to get to this address,” I said as I thrust the invitation letter under his nose. “But these guys say they don’t know it or won’t go there.”
As he looked at the address, a wrinkled frown came over his forehead.
“Well, I can see why you might be having a little problem,” he said. “This ain’t the nicest part of town. But let me see what I can do.”
Waving me to follow, he went to the third cab in line and straight to the driver’s window. This driver was black, but seemingly younger and considerably lighter weight than the first guy. After a brief confab with the doorman, the driver opened his door and made for the rear of the car. I walked towards him and without saying a word, offered him my case, which he dumped unceremoniously in the trunk.
“Hop in,” he yelled.
I barely had time to thank the doorman for his assistance. If I had been more familiar with American customs and had a little more cash, I would have tipped the doorman, but being “fresh off the boat” I was clinging firmly to my Australian manners in which tipping was not done. However, another part of my Australian heritage I quickly relinquished. Instead of jumping in the front seat and chatting with the driver, I slid into the back and held my breath. I had begun to feel distinctly uneasy about this whole enterprise, and sensed that keeping a little distance might be a smart move.
The car sped away from sidewalk and into thick downtown traffic. Within minutes, we were racing down an on-ramp to the Eisenhower Expressway and heading west. In those days, there were no freeways in Australia. A four-lane road was about as serious as it got. Several things immediately struck me—the sheer number of cars on the road, their excessive length and width, and the wild speed at which they tore past. It was like being in a gigantic game of bumper cars that were hurtling out of control and might crash any moment. It was exhilarating but terrifying. I clung on for dear life and tried to take it all in. The freeway was lower than the surrounding neighborhoods, so I had to look up to see the passing view. For the most part, it was endless rows of three-story tenement houses, all the same drab gray wood constructions. The absence of color only added to my deepening depression.
As we zipped past exits whose names I noted on the green overhead signs, I suddenly saw Kedzie and looked at the driver to see if he seemed to be aware of it. Nothing indicated he was. Kedzie came and went and I began to feel nervous. Did he know where he was going? Was he taking me on a joy ride to extend the fare? Assuming he knew more about where we were than I did, I decided to reserve my judgment. Then I noticed the first warning sign for the Homan exit. After a minute or two, the driver changed lanes and edged over to the right to make a smooth transition to the off-ramp. With a gentle swerve, he pulled off the freeway and decelerated to a less excruciating speed.
For five minutes, we cruised around the neighborhood, both of us peering out the window for numbers that might give us a clue how close we were to our destination. Few people were on the streets, which was hardly surprising given the bitter temperature on this cold October day. Boarded-up buildings and empty lots strewn with old washing machines and abandoned cars told me I was probably in the right area.
“What’s the name of this place you’re lookin for?” asked the driver, without turning his head.
“It’s the Ecu-men-ical Institute,” I replied, as if giving elocution lessons.
“Wazzat? Some kind of school or what?” he barked.
“Yeah, like a college,” I replied, having no idea what the Institute campus looked like.
Suddenly, he edged over to the sidewalk and pulled up beside three young black men who eyed our cab suspiciously.
“You know some Institute around here?” the driver snapped.
The older-looking one among them stepped forward.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?” said the driver impatiently.
“Two blocks down and hang a left.”
Without bothering to thank his informants for their information, the driver sped off and within minutes we were alongside an imposing stone building set in the midst of a vast quadrangle, surrounded by a high fence and with a church spire in the background. I scanned the building for an entrance, but nothing stood out. Then I spotted a doorway with an armed guard outside. Bingo, I thought.
“Stop here,” I instructed the driver.
As the car slid over to the curb, the guard ambled towards us. I looked at the meter and gulped. My American dollars were rapidly disappearing. I counted out the amount on the meter and put it in my pocket. The driver went to the trunk and hauled out my case. I handed him the money. He checked each bill and scowled.
“No tip?” he asked.
“Sorry mate, that’s all I’ve got,” I pretended in my best Australian accent.
The security guard didn’t seem too impressed with my generosity either, but he let it pass.
“You lookin for the Ecoomenical Institoot?” he queried.
“Yes, I am,” I replied, relieved that at last I had found someone who knew what I was talking about. He pointed to the door. As he did, I noticed a highly tarnished brass plaque that from the road was invisible. So this was the grand establishment, as nondescript as you would expect such a nondescript organization to be.
I took a deep breath and rallied myself one last time. When I reached the door, I gave it a sharp rap. No response. I tried again and looked at the guard.
“Sometimes it takes a few minutes if the person on dooty isn’t there,” he remarked.
I waited a little and knocked a third time. The door opened and a tall young man with sharp black eyes a balding head appeared, walkie-talkie in his left hand.
“Hi, I said. I’m John Burbidge. I’ve come from Australia. I’m here for the Global Academy.”
“C-c-c-c-ome inside. I’m H-H-H-H-Henry S-S-S-S-Seale,” he stuttered, as he held out his right hand to greet me.
Henry’s speech impediment seemed much worse than mine, which I managed to conceal from most people most of the time. In a strange way, it was reassuring to find another person in the Institute who shared my little secret. What were the odds, I wondered, out of the hundreds of staff that the first person I should meet was someone who also stuttered. Henry would probably never have guessed how strangely comforting this was to me. Before I had even crossed the threshold, I began to feel at home, shedding some of the many phobias I had accumulated since I began my journey four days before. I was exhausted and ready to collapse. But I had made it, all the way from Perth. Congratulations were definitely in order.
Welcome to the United States of America, I said silently to myself.
THE END
Copyright © 2007 The Institute of Cultural Affairs USA