Recently I went to the US Embassy to purchase a state-certified document saying I have committed no crimes within the United States. In Slovakia, where I am currently living and working, this is one of several documents necessary to secure official permission to stay in the country beyond three months.

I have been living and working in this small "post-communist" country for several years, and I've been through all of this before. So, in broad outline, it is not surprising, but, in detail, it has been not only surprising, but also disturbing, and, even, annoying.

I have obtained a document from the Slovak police (with an official stamp that cost 100 Slovak Crowns, or, about 2.5 US Dollars) which says that they have no record of me in the registry of crimes. I seem to recall Americans telling me that in the United States we have no such thing, in a tone of voicing suggesting that we were, therefore, superior.

However, my US proof of innocence was much more costly than a mere 2.5 US Dollars. It cost me 30 dollars. When I express my outrage to the woman who is the head of the Language Center where I will be working, she has a quick response, "Slovakia has Free Markets now." As if I were naïve or uninformed.

Well, I would like to say, "Slovakia had a Free Market a few years ago when I visited the US Embassy and the g.d. piece of paper was free." But, I am, frankly, utterly amazed by her response, and say nothing. I do, however, resolve to remember her words. They could be useful in the future. (Why do we have to pay this bribe? Because now you have a Free market.) It strikes me as very Central European. Any question of legitimacy is swept under the carpet and one is expected to kow-tow before the latest catch-word. We used to have Socialism—and that justified everything. Now we have Free Markets and Democracy. And, those words, when spoken by the right person at the right time, will justify crimes. And those crimes will someday be called the "Crimes of Capitalism", just as today people speak of the "Crimes of Communism".

The last time I'd gone to the US Embassy to acquire this document, there had been a stack of photocopied papers, free for the taking. And the paper said something to the effect that in the United States we don't collect such information on our citizens. As I think of it now, I can imagine that any Slovak official reading that paper might be less than satisfied. I wonder if it is true that the US government doesn't collect such information. Even if it were once true, which I actually doubt, it might no longer be true, since the United States has recently been must less respectful of the whole idea of freedom and civil rights.

(I know very well that society itself requires some restrictions upon our personal freedoms; but the argument will always be about specific cases.)

In any case, I make a rule of trying to avoid the US Embassy. I don't trust the people there. The little first-hand contact I've had with them has left me with a bad impression, and the atmosphere there is unnerving. First, even before you enter the building, you must negotiate through a sort of concrete maze, under the watchful eyes of three, or four green-jacketed Slovak police. Second, the sheer abnormality and awkwardness of talking to people through bullet-proof glass. Third, the people waiting in line, who (I imagine) stare at me, wondering if I belong to the class of Divinely Chosen, a.k.a., born American.

Locally, embassy jobs must be considered desirable jobs. "Employed at the Embassy of the Greatest Economic and Military Power of our day"—that's something to put on one's CV.

I, on the other hand, recoil in disgust at that very thought. We used to have Feudalism. Now we have Americanism. Bow before the Foreign Aristocrat or else they'll chop off your head. Or deny your request to visit your Uncle George in Cincinnati. I try to gain some equilibrium by thinking about talented people in the past who had to curry favor with kings or queens in order to make a living. Have things really changed? Sorry, I forgot. Today we have democracy. The people on the other side of the bullet-proof glass are my equals.

I pay my thirty dollars to a pleasant Slovak woman. I eavesdrop on the conversation at the nearby window where an American official with a Yarmulke has spoken a few words of Slovak to a young woman. He seems to be mixing pleasantries with probing questions: Who is this family you will be visiting in Ohio? Answer: My cousin.

It's nothing like the Berlin Wall, I'm sure. We would never break up families. But, I do wonder how long she'll stay. Young, educated and unmarried people are a threat. They might decide to stay in the Land of Freedom. What I am actually purchasing is a piece of paper which says "I do solemnly swear that I have been a good boy." And, I am paying thirty dollars to have an official person observe that I am who I say I am. (She will inspect my passport and mispronounce my name.) Really, it's nothing more than a magic ceremony which will cost me as much as three days groceries, a four month subscription to the local daily newspaper, or a transit pass for three months.

All I'm doing is swearing, and being heard by a US Official.

I'm sure a Sociolinguist would have something to say about the nature of this institution. I'm not just swearing. That could be vulgar. I'm solemnly swearing. But didn't people solemnly and desperately swear on the streets of New York when they saw two of the world's tallest buildings tumble down? And wasn't this honest expression of emotion broadcast around the world? And, isn't it nice that today everyone in the world knows what a native New Yorker will say in the face of a disaster? Shit! Shit! Shit!

Shit! Shit! Shit! I do solemnly swear that I haven't done anything bad.

Anyway, after a while, an unsmiling woman appears behind the glass. The badge pinned to her civilian dress tells me that she is an American and a Notary Republic. She instructs me to raise my right hand and make a solemn oath. I am put off by her manner. She has been in Slovakia long enough to know that my family name is, linguistically-speaking, Hungarian. So, she proudly pronounces it according to the rules of Hungarian pronunciation. But, what she does not know is that the way we spell the name today—"Lovas", with an 's' at the end—is not the way my grandfather spelled the name when he lived in Europe a hundred years ago. He spelled it with a "z" at the end. The 'z' got dropped in America, but we kept the original pronunciation—'S', not 'SH'. And, that means that she is proudly mispronouncing my name.

Her arrogant mispronunciation is, in fact, her way of proclaiming her intelligence and culture. And, I despise her. I also correct her. "No, we don't pronounce it that way. Never have, in fact."

The basic rule is, "Always ask". Don't assume. That's something like Politeness 101. But, then, at the US Embassy, it would appear, we have a different set of rules. This arrogant US official has forgotten that, precisely because America is a mix of peoples in a culturally complex setting, you can't expect the old rules to apply. No, she has not forgotten. She doesn't care. She wants to parade (what she imagines to be) her learning. And, anyway, it's not just the United States that's a mix of peoples in a culturally complex setting. It's the world itself. And it's that complex world that is being flattened under the steamroller of American Imperialism.

But, what is all that to her? She is behind the bullet-proof glass. And she has my thirty dollars.

On the way out of the building, I notice a rather timid and nervous security guard at the front door. He smiles at me as I leave. Perhaps he has noticed my discomfort and awkwardness in this abnormal environment. I would not want his job. Neither would I want to live in the air-conditioned world on the other side of the bullet-proof glass. The security man is more nerd or bibliophile than body-builder. I guess they keep the muscle-bound marines out of sight behind the bullet-proof glass. These days, they have enough Slovak cannon fodder surrounding the building. But, I wonder whether the unemotional woman with her official badge really feels safe?

A Slovak friend once told me about trying to secure a permit to travel to Great Britain. The whole procedure was designed to stir a sense of awe within the breast of the applicant. Just as, in another time, unlettered peasants might have come to the city and stared in admiration at cathedrals and castles. However, today, our awe-inspiring devices seem to be more bureaucratic. To be sure, fortifications in the information age take a different form than they did in ages of low-tech warfare. But in the end, it's all about power and the threat of aggression, the need to pound one's chest and present a convincing posture to possible enemies. At the root of the most sophisticated security of the most powerful nations is nothing more than savagery.

As a U.S. citizen living in Slovakia, I am often asked why I live here. Perhaps, it's because something so mundane as a visit to the U.S. Embassy can produce a moment of insight, and force me to recognize that those who have power really don't care very much about the rest of us. You say this is apparent even without a trip to Slovakia? Perhaps so, but here it is much more in-your-face, and (dare I say it?) mundane.

Bratislava
Friday, 13 September

Mark Lovas is currently seeking a publisher for his recently completed novel, A Neurotic in an Exotic Land. Two previous Outbursts have appeared in JMB in August and October of 2001. His article "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism" appeared in JMB 2.3.