I moved to the USA in January 1990 – to Indianapolis.
I know. No one moves to Indianapolis – but, I did, and no one forced me to.
My move turned heads. It bent the ears of friends and strangers, attracted attention even among Hoosiers.
(“Hoosier” is the nick-name for those native to Indiana. It means “someone who tells endless weather-related stories whether you want to hear them or not and persists especially if you overtly indicate that you are bored.” It is pronounced WWHOOOSSSHHHEEEERRRE).
The immigration officer at JFK gave me the suspicious eye when I said I’d be settling in Indianapolis. It unsettled him. He checked my pulse and wanted to take my temperature. He held up three fingers six inches from my nose and asked how many I could see. Uniformed colleagues abandoned their posts to examine me while hoards entered the USA unchecked – they skipped and danced and embraced each other at baggage claim giving high-fives and chest bumps – because officials were too busy gawking at someone who’d leave the tropics for Indiana.
“So, you are leaving South Africa, Durban, South Africa,” he said slowly and loudly, “where it is warm all year round and you are CHOOSING Indianapolis, Indiana?” He reframed his question, even spelling I-N-D-I-A-N-A, as if I could not possibly have really understood the full implications of my decisions.
“Yes, SIR!” I said, meeting his stare. I believed looking him in the eye would underscore my premeditated, undying commitment to everything Midwest.
With a sly chuckle he stamped ACCEPTED across the US visa in my South African passport and stuffed everything back into the large “green card” envelope I’d received from the consulate’s office in Johannesburg.
“Welcome to the USA – and, to err, …. Indiana,” he said.
We both knew I’d never need another tourist visa for the land of the free but I knew he considered my travelling days over. Clearly Officer Surly had never heard of anyone choosing the Hoosier State and he’d definitely never heard of anyone leaving it.
