An Officer And An (Un)Gentleman: A Dreamlike Reflection On America

I had a dream.

I can’t remember whether we flew over Europe or took a frenzied leap over the Pacific. It wasn’t part of the dream. We did land in Chicago though. How else could we have entered immigration, with billboards welcoming us to Chicagoland?

It was understood that Shehzarin would answer all questions put to us by the officer.

Being a habitual foot-in-mouth advocate, facing the ogres of immigration, demanded I keep my mouth shut! She, on the other-hand, always had the right answers and offered them without hesitation. When we were separated, I panicked. I hadn’t thought of any answers.

Confused and thoroughly jetlagged, I watched my petite wife being herded away to the right.

Shunted in the opposite direction I was ushered into a cubicle, which housed a formidable fellow sporting a crew-cut. Attired in dark-blue serge, his uniform had a Sam Browne belt across his right shoulder and, for good measure, another over his left shoulder. They formed a cross just above the belly button … and a gun, prominently holstered on his hip!

Glancing at me from behind a large desk, he pointed to a vacant chair. I lowered myself hesitantly and had his immediate attention. Bushy eyebrows, hovering over pale blue eyes, scrutinised me. Drunk with fatigue, eye-contact wasn’t difficult and I stared back unabashed. The room, cosy and warm, made my eyelids droop.

The delicious silence brought memories of trips to America in the past and somewhere, beyond the corneas of those steely eyes, a dream began materialising.

“Why have you come to America?” He barked, rudely bringing me back to the present.

He probably expected me to say that we had three children and five grandchildren and that I wanted to meet them. Of course, I did. I was yearning to meet them … but that might well have been the wrong answer. Perhaps it was jetlagged indifference but neither the question nor his tone bothered me.

Insolently, turning my head away from those searching eyes, I looked through a window behind him. Content to gaze at a bleak wintery scene, with snowdrifts piled high on the ground, I saw forlorn trees: their skeletal branches dancing to the melody of breezes coming off the Great Lakes.

It was the Chicago I loved.

Lulled by the view, without any real desire to answer the stentorian question, I allowed my thoughts to get the better of me. Memories of my daughter’s home; the walk to nearby CVS on Plum Grove Road; the tiny lane to the left, beckoning a stroll down Emerson – with its meadows, ponds and majestic weeping willows.

Houses on the other side with their empty sidewalks and phantom occupants, promising a solitary walk and the end of the road, leading to a little-used path with tall heather leaning on either side … my private shortcut to Harper College!

Fleeting thoughts of my classmates and teacher, wondering what they might be doing?

In a flurry, the pages of the calendar raced fifty years into the past. Our halt in Connecticut, in the autumn of ’72, gave me my first taste of the United States. The colours of the fall and memories of the streets in New York; culminating with gasps at the wonders Fifth Avenue had on offer.

Driving up the Allegheny Mountains, before flying westward to Salt Lake City; taking two days off to listen to the Mormon Tabernacle choir in their unique amphitheatre – without a single nail in the woodwork, making for perfect acoustics. On Sunday morning they allowed us in, to listen to an organ rehearsal that transported us to heaven.

Then, ever westward, we reached Flagstaff and drove up to The Grand Canyon: the constant change of scenery from sunrise to sunset, which we took in from the balcony of our corner room at The El Tovar Hotel was nothing short of spectacular. With hardly a pause, we were westbound again.

San Francisco; the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge; Haight Ashbury, with a woman’s legs hanging out of a window: it’s the red shoes and fishnet stockings drawing all the attention before tackling iconic Lombard Street, with its quirky twists and turns. We were sad to leave Menlo Park but Nevada beckoned.

Spellbound, standing at the edge of Lake Tahoe till almost dark, we joined the crowds within the casinos of Nevada. Fascinating as that was, it was the wilderness of the Sierra Nevada that beckoned. Tall Jefferey and Lodgepole pines mixed with White Fir, bowed before the vast expanse of freshwater with gentle nods.

The drowsiness lifted gradually and I found myself staring out of the window again. The wind was stirring the snow and branches of trees, laid bare by winters icy-fingers, waved hypnotically. From the periphery of my vision, I became aware of the room. It was now filled with people.

They were standing, looking down at me. I saw Shehzarin standing there too and blanched.

Had I ruined our prospects of entering the country?

Sitting very still, I saw the officer with the steely eyes rise. I was glad we had the desk between us!

Standing straight, puffing his chest, which tugged at the Sam Browne straps, he looked at me.

“Your love and memory of our country is exceptional.”

I hadn’t even got down to telling him about Miami. The easy lifestyle, with a swimming pool in my son’s house; the daily tennis across the road at Douglas Park; our occasional forays to Key Biscayne, to play on the hallowed courts of Crandon Park and meeting the owner of Books & Books!

“Yes, you do have a beautiful country. From architecture to amazing vistas, with wonderful people endowed with civic sense any country would be proud of. Yet you don’t appreciate it. Shooting one another, dividing yourself with ugly politics, you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“We have decided to rescind both your visas!”

Shehzarin gasped and stared at me. Horrified might be putting it mildly.

“Instead, we will issue you Green Cards, which will include free medical expenses for one week each year. Welcome to the United States.”

Astonished, I really did open my eyes.

They caught the first rays of sun clawing at the curtains; bringing with them the strains of the Azan from Kodaikanal’s Munjikal mosque.

I was really awake now … the Azan, drifting through the hills, dissolving the dream like sugar in hot tea!

Minoo Avari is a retired planter who rides a bike and plays tennis. This journey to America in 1972 is a part of his forthcoming book with Speaking Tiger, to be published in July 2026