It Is Not a Democracy

America, of course, is not the democracy and “realm of freedom” that many imagine it to be. The government is quite totalitarian, and the penal system is extremely severe and can easily grind any person into dust.

One can sense this at the airport while passing through customs. The atmosphere there is so oppressive, bringing to mind scenes from the former Soviet Union: The police officers bark at people and generally behave like Gauleiters in a concentration camp. It should be noted that this treatment is given not only to immigrants or foreigners, but everybody, including native-born Americans, who the officers drive like flocks of sheep, ordering them around in an overbearing tone.

I have seen our police officers as well as officers from Austria, France, Japan, Korea and many other countries; the American ones are the most unpleasant. The local American cop is not an Uncle Styopa* who you want to ask for directions, but a bogeyman – a mobster with the law on his side who you would be better off never meeting. Whenever you see him, your only wish is to run as far away as you can.

The penal system is partly explained by America’s crime rate, which is extremely high and almost impossible to reduce. At first, I was very annoyed with an unusual characteristic of my car, a Chevy Impala: As soon as I get into the car, all doors lock, including the one on the driver’s side.

I realized the purpose of this function when I was driving through one of the less well-off areas of Los Angeles. I passed three intersections – Latinos who resembled gangsters twice tried to get into my car while it was in motion, and a drunk, suspicious-looking man poured a bottle of beer right onto the windshield.

I remember that even back when gangs were prevalent in Russia, the bandits would not get into citizens’ cars at the intersection because they might be seen by a passerby. Thus, for our crime rate to climb as high as that of America’s would be like us reaching the moon on foot.

Law-abiding American citizens present a stark contrast to the people I just discussed. The Americans who travel abroad are appalling, boorish and aggressive scum, but the local people are extremely welcoming and friendly for the most part. To be fair, it should be noted that in Los Angeles, the number of native-born Americans is close to zero: I met 20 people on my first day there, and 18 of them hailed from Asia, Russia, Armenia, Brazil and God knows where else. They were not white Americans. Most of them spoke English worse than I do, though my English is far from perfect.

Americans are happy to give friendly advice and engage in conversation. The ones I met reacted positively when they learned of my Russian descent; none of them had negative feelings toward Russia. Moreover, by the end of my trip, the entire staff at the hotel was on friendly footing with me and tried to please me, whether it was by giving me a free drink, charging my phone with their computer or introducing me to a beautiful girl.

Translator’s Note: “Uncle Styopa” is the title character of a series of poems. He is a policeman of great character.