Thursday, March 1, 2018
Wading into the frenzy, for a moment…
I received a text message from ICE yesterday. “Holy Crap!” I thought. “I know my surname sounds Hispanic (It’s not, it’s bastardized Danish) but is the sound of my name ‘probable cause?’ I was born a fair-skinned baby in Glendale in ’52, went to school, held a professional career, contributed, and own my own home…” My thoughts raced. “I’ve got grandkids… friends… a wife!”
I wasn’t sure I should open the message for fear they’d figure out where I was and come swooping in under the cover of darkness; and, you know, ask questions later.
After many moments of trepidation, I clicked the link open.
In my cell phone’s address book, I refer to my spouse in three different ways: by her formal first name, by a shortened version of that, and by an abbreviated version of “In Case of Emergency.” I.C.E.
The content of the text regarded a copy of a message about a friend’s successful journey in a motorhome.
Fear manifests itself when something absolutely normal startles the poop out of somebody. Terrorists know this. Fear is a terrorist’s greatest ally.
But fear should not be a tool in the hip pocket of a government charged, in part, with “ensuring domestic tranquility.”
I worry about the guys who do lawns in our neighborhood, the folks who work at the carwash I frequent, the crew members who installed appliances in my kitchen recently, the cook who prepared lunch for me yesterday at a local restaurant, the families who harvest our vegetables and tend our vineyards, the gentleman who served as my high school band director, the surgeon who completed a successful meniscectomy on my right knee last year…
I worry about a “domestic tranquility” that may no longer exist. Which is odd, given that as a late-middle-aged white guy, I really have very little to fear.
The Church of the Open Road Press