"When astronauts look down at Earth, they don't see any borders but the oceans. We draw our lines to mark our turf, just like the homeboys out in East L.A." So the song begins.
I suppose that in a perfect world, there would indeed be no borders, and Freedom of movement would be looked on as a basic human right. But there are borders. Like the one in Roma, Texas, where I was forced to delete two pictures by some agent of one of the tentacles of Homeland Security. They are supposed to protect us from the terrorists, but who is to protect us from them? Dear Congressman Cooper,
If I may answer my own question, it's you. Our representatives in congress who are supposed to have some sort of oversight about what government agencies are doing. Monday afternoon, I talked to your assistant who deals with immigration matters at length. I believe his name was Tom Hall, though I may be wrong. (After a 48-hour bus trip, one's mind gets foggy.) I'd like to commend your office staff here in Nashville. They represent the representative well.
One of the things that's so great about America is that the people really do have a chance to be heard, if we only take the opportunity. When I called your office. a real person answered, listened to a short outline of my complaint, and referred me to another real person who listened with interest to my story and was very knowledgeable and cordial. I appreciate his patience in listening to my rant. And a rant it was. A rant by an American who still gets goose bumps every time he hears the Star Spangled Banner, an American who doesn't want his grandchildren to live in a police state. Tom suggested that some provision of the "Patriot Act" was probably the cause. He's probably right. I would imagine it's one of those "Little known provisions" If it is, they should put signs up making it a little more widely known. (I wonder if anybody actually read the Patriot Act all the way through.)
But I'll have to confess I'd have probably have voted for it too, in those days after 911, when I was driving around with a big American Flag and "God Bless America" painted on my rear window for free by a local car agency. My Jehovah's Witness son was mortified when I visited them. Now please let me recount my story.
I'd just stepped off the bus from Mexico with my elderly traveling companion Emilio, a friend and my employer's father. Emilio is hard of hearing, with an ear condition that makes it impossible for him to fly, which is why we were returning by bus from his winter home North of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. When the bus stopped, a girl from Homeland Security came aboard and addressed the passengers. She was probably telling us what to do when we got off the bus, but I don't know for sure, because she spoke Spanish and I'm what you'd call "Hispanically challenged."
Emilio couldn't hear her so he couldn't translate. Retired now, he's a naturalized American citizen born in Spain who came to the land of opportunity in 1954 after medical school. "What do we do?" he asked. When the awaited English translation didn't come, we did like I do when I go to a Catholic church. What everybody else does. The girl might have said something about photographs being prohibited, but "mi Espanol es muy malo," and I didn't hear any "no fotografo" or whatever it is. Doesn't Homeland Security realize that there could just possibly be a U.S. citizen on an incoming bus who doesn't understand Spanish? "English First" is a hot-button issue these days. In this case, even "English Second" would have suited me.
They took our bags to be inspected and I was standing there with the rest of the passengers, ready to take what to me, would be one of the most caption-ridden pictures in the photo journal of my first trip out of this country I was so fortunate to be born in. The morning sky made a beautiful backdrop to the border crossing. It looked like a tollgate. Seen one, you've seen 'em all. I've seen them on CNN too many times to count. I got my picture. Just to be safe, I snapped another from a slightly different angle, when a voice with what seemed to me like a heavy Jamaican accent shouted, "Hey man, what are you doing?" "Taking a picture," I replied. "How many pictures did you take?" he demanded. "Two," I said. "Of what?" he asked gruffly. "The border crossing. This is my first time out of the USA and I'm doing a photo journal of my trip."
"They could confiscate your camera," he told me. "Delete them!" I showed him the two pictures of the crossing and deleted them one by one. "What else is on there?" I showed him how to scroll back and forth in view mode and told him, "pictures of Mexico I took out the bus window." We flipped through a few and he finally said, "I'll take your word for it."
I have some great shots of the whole security line at the Nashville airport on the way down. The "Orange Alert" sign, the tubs with my shoes in it. My bare feet. All the signs. I even used flash and nobody said a word or threatened to confiscate my camera. I returned to my fellow border crossers and went through the line with my carry-on bag. I'd traveled light so it didn't take long. The agent who inspected my bag was the same girl who'd come aboard the bus speaking Spanish. She was very nice, and seemed amused by my "Spanish for Dummies" book. She asked me if it was good, and I told it it was very helpful. I suppose I should have asked her why she didn't give her instructions on the bus in English while I had the chance, but I was still in shock from my encounter with the Jamaican gestapo.
To me, being forced to destroy my intellectual property by an agent of the federal government was tantamount to making me destroy a demo of a song because of the subject matter. I think this agent exceeded his authority, as did one of the staff at the Tennessean, who I figured would know about such things. "Really!?" was his seemingly amazed response when I told him I'd actually been forced to delete the pictures. "He made you delete them?" he asked.
I'm glad Emilio was along. My job was to get him to Brentwood. Otherwise, I might have stood up for my rights and asked to see the agent's superior. Then God only knows what would have happened to me or my cameras and computer. As it was, we arrived safely and I was able to call his son-in-law at the hospital and say, in the immortal words of our dear leader, "Mission Accomplished!" But unlike him, I waited until I could call from the house, when I knew the mission really was accomplished. (Couldn't resist that little jibe. Maybe I watch too much Keith Olbermann.)
I'm sorry this turned out to be so long, but it's easy for me to get carried away when the subject is the land I love. Countries are often called "Motherland," or "Fatherland." The United States of America is my mother, and my father. Although I loved him and still love his memory, I used to get a little frightened of my father when he got drunk. The direction our country is heading right now scares me in much the same way. But my fatherland isn't drunk on wine. The intoxicant is power. Power so far unrestrained by congress.
When I worked for the U.S. Census Bureau in 1998-2000, I took and many times, administered an oath to "preserve, protect and defend the constitution of the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic." It didn't say until any specific date, so I assume I'm still bound by it. That's why I'm writing you. Both the letter and spirit of our constitution are being threatened like never before, and not by the terrorists. It's domestic.
Myself and millions of other Americans voted for you and your Democratic colleagues to try and change that. While you're at it, could we please start by putting up some signs at border crossings explaining the rules, changing those rules if necessary, and most of all, please ask Homeland Security to give our mother tongue equal time when buses cross the border? Perhaps the United States should have a "Department of Common Sense?" Any sponsors? Thank you for your time.
Your Constituent,
Will Richardson
Nashville