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Homeland Bullies

By David Feela

Found in: | Inside | Politics |

I'd pulled up to the security checkpoint and rolled down my window. A uniformed guard looked into the cab of the truck.

"Both your identifications, please," she said. It wasn't a question.

I handed my ID over and when Pam found hers she reached across the cab toward my open window.

"Here you go, sweetie," Pam said.

The officer slouched so she could get a better look. "What did you call me?"

"I called you sweetie, because you look like a nice person," Pam said, rather sweetly I might add.

"I didn't spend years training for this job to be called sweetie by anyone," the guard barked into my open window. "Move your truck off to the parking lane in front of you."

"Yes sir," I said, pulling ahead before she could ask me to repeat anything.

I wish this was an atypical incident, the exception to the rule when it comes to encounters with homeland security, but it isn't. I'm told I should feel safer knowing that homeland security is in place, but honestly, I'm feeling more and more enraged.

And it's not the attempt to remain vigilant that ticks me off. It's the uniformed Gestapo mentality of the people we've hired to act as our guardians. Like archangels, they're supposed to inspire us to be strong and courageous, but I find them to represent only the lowest form of priggishness. Perhaps it's the only job qualification.

It all started with airports, and things haven't gotten any better. I'm not so much afraid of terrorists anymore as I am afraid of disgruntled passengers delaying flights by trying to strangle a TSA officer with the belts they are required to remove.

But officially rude behavior seems to be the norm, even outside of airports. My summons for jury duty required that I show up (along with 51 other potential jurors) at the county courthouse by 8 a.m. That was not the problem. The problem appeared when I finally got to the front of the line and noticed a security clearance checkpoint. While I joked with the police officer about not knowing a flight would be involved for this trial, I emptied my pockets and took off my belt. I should have remembered that joking - even smiling if it appears mischievous - is against the law.

The officer in charge looked into my basket and pointed at my itty bitty folding knife with scissors, toothpick, tweezers, fingernail file, and a blade no longer than an inch. Maybe an inch and a quarter. Maybe.

"You can't bring that in here," the police officer said. I looked at him incredulously. Remember, he had the gun, the mace, probably a tazer, and handcuffs. I had the knife.

"May I just leave it here until I get out?" I asked.

"No."

"How about I give it to you and you keep it?" I inquired.

"No, you'll have to put it in your car."

I glanced behind me where at least 15 other people stood in line, waiting to get through security.

"How about I throw it away?" I asked, and I moved to toss it into the trash can behind me, just inside the door.

"No, you can't throw it there. You'll have to go outside."

Apparently, the summons I received was for me. I was on trial, just like every county resident standing in line who'd showed up to serve on a jury. Finally I turned to the person behind me and asked her to pass the knife to the person behind her until it eventually reached the outside trash can.

"And be careful, it's a dangerous weapon!" I warned. The police officer did not smile.

And isn't that the problem?

David Feela, recently retired teacher and author of The Home Atlas, spends his time writing in the morning, rewriting in the afternoon, and by evening he throws most of it away so he'll have something to do in the morning.