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"In
addition to touching her swollen breasts – to protect the American
citizenry – the employee had asked that she lift up her shirt. Not
behind a screen, not off to the side – no, right there, directly in
front of the hundred or so passengers" |
What the Terrorist Hype Is All About
Introducing
Posted December 27, 2002
thepeoplesvoice.org
By Nick Monahan, http://www.LewRockwell.com
One of a million occurrences
since terrorism became the excuse for abuse.
This morning I’ll be
escorting my wife to the hospital, where the doctors will perform a
caesarean section to remove our first child. She didn’t want to do it
this way – neither of us did – but sometimes the Fates decide
otherwise. The Fates or, in our case, government employees.
On the morning of October 26th Mary and I entered Portland International
Airport, en route to the Las Vegas wedding of one of my best friends.
Although we live in Los Angeles, we’d been in Oregon working on a film,
and up to that point had had nothing but praise to shower on the city of
Portland, a refreshing change of pace from our own suffocating metropolis.
At the security checkpoint I was led aside for the "inspection"
that’s all the rage at airports these days. My shoes were removed. I was
told to take off my sweater, then to fold over the waistband of my pants.
My baseball hat, hastily jammed on my head at 5 AM, was removed and
assiduously examined ("Anything could be in here, sir," I was
told, after I asked what I could hide in a baseball hat. Yeah. Anything.)
Soon I was standing on one foot, my arms stretched out, the other leg
sticking out in front of me àla a DUI test. I began to get pissed off, as
most normal people would. My anger increased when I realized that the
newly knighted federal employees weren’t just examining me, but my 7½
months pregnant wife as well. I’d originally thought that I’d simply
been randomly selected for the more excessive than normal search. You
know, Number 50 or whatever. Apparently not though – it was both of us.
These are your new threats, America: pregnant accountants and their sleepy
husbands flying to weddings.
After some more grumbling on
my part they eventually finished with me and I went to retrieve our
luggage from the x-ray machine. Upon returning I found my wife sitting in
a chair, crying. Mary rarely cries, and certainly not in public. When I
asked her what was the matter, she tried to quell her tears and sobbed,
"I’m sorry...it’s...they touched my breasts...and..."
That’s all I heard. I marched up to the woman who’d been examining her
and shouted, "What did you do to her?" Later I found out that in
addition to touching her swollen breasts – to protect the American
citizenry – the employee had asked that she lift up her shirt. Not
behind a screen, not off to the side – no, right there, directly in
front of the hundred or so passengers standing in line. And for you women
who’ve been pregnant and worn maternity pants, you know how ridiculous
those things look. "I felt like a clown," my wife told me later.
"On display for all these people, with the cotton panel on my pants
and my stomach sticking out. When I sat down I just lost my composure and
began to cry. That’s when you walked up."
Of course when I say she
"told me later," it’s because she wasn’t able to tell me at
the time, because as soon as I demanded to know what the federal employee
had done to make her cry, I was swarmed by Portland police officers.
Instantly. Three of them, cinching my arms, locking me in handcuffs, and
telling me I was under arrest. Now my wife really began to cry. As they
led me away and she ran alongside, I implored her to calm down, to think
of the baby, promising her that everything would turn out all right. She
faded into the distance and I was shoved into an elevator, a cop holding
each arm. After making me face the corner, the head honcho told that I was
under arrest and that I wouldn’t be flying that day – that I was in
fact a "menace."
It took me a while to regain
my composure. I felt like I was one of those guys in The Gulag Archipelago
who, because the proceedings all seem so unreal, doesn’t fully realize
that he is in fact being arrested in a public place in front of crowds of
people for...for what? I didn’t know what the crime was. Didn’t
matter. Once upstairs, the officers made me remove my shoes and my hat and
tossed me into a cell. Yes, your airports have prison cells, just like
your amusement parks, train stations, universities, and national forests.
Let freedom reign.
After a short time I received
a visit from the arresting officer.
"Mr. Monahan," he
started, "Are you on drugs?"
Was this even real? "No, I’m not on drugs."
"Should you be?"
"What do you mean?"
"Should you be on any type of medication?"
"No."
"Then why’d you react that way back there?"
You see the thinking? You see
what passes for reasoning among your domestic shock troops these days? Only
"whackos" get angry over seeing the woman they’ve been with for
ten years in tears because someone has touched her breasts. That kind of
reaction – love, protection – it’s mind-boggling! "Mr. Monahan,
are you on drugs?" His snide words rang inside my head. This is my
wife, finally pregnant with our first child after months of failed attempts,
after the depressing shock of the miscarriage last year, my wife who’d
been walking on a cloud over having the opportunity to be a mother...and my
anger is simply unfathomable to the guy standing in front of me, the guy who
earns a living thanks to my taxes, the guy whose family I feed through my
labor. What I did wasn’t normal. No, I reacted like a drug addict
would’ve. I was so disgusted I felt like vomiting. But that was just the
beginning.
An hour later, after I’d
been gallantly assured by the officer that I wouldn’t be attending my
friend’s wedding that day, I heard Mary’s voice outside my cell. The
officer was speaking loudly, letting her know that he was planning on
doing me a favor... which everyone knows is never a real favor. He
wasn’t going to come over and help me work on my car or move some
furniture. No, his "favor" was this: He’d decided not to
charge me with a felony.
Think about that for a second.
Rapes, car-jackings, murders, arsons – those are felonies. So is yelling
in an airport now, apparently. I hadn’t realized, though I should
have. Luckily, I was getting a favor, though. I was merely going to be
slapped with a misdemeanor.
"Here’s your court
date," he said as I was released from my cell. In addition, I was
banned from Portland International for 90 days, and just in case I was
thinking of coming over and hanging out around its perimeter, the officer
gave me a map with the boundaries highlighted, sternly warning me against
trespassing. Then he and a second officer escorted us off the grounds.
Mary and I hurriedly drove two and a half hours in the rain to Seattle,
where we eventually caught a flight to Vegas. But the officer was true to
his word – we missed my friend’s wedding. The fact that he’d been in
my own wedding party, the fact that a once in a lifetime event was stolen
from us – well, who cares, right?
Upon our return to Portland
(I’d had to fly into Seattle and drive back down), we immediately began
contacting attorneys. We aren’t litigious people – we wanted no money.
I’m not even sure what we fully wanted. An apology? A reprimand? I
don’t know. It doesn’t matter though, because we couldn’t afford a
lawyer, it turned out. $4,000 was the average figure bandied about as a
retaining fee. Sorry, but I’ve got a new baby on the way. So we called
the ACLU, figuring they existed for just such incidents as these. And they
do apparently...but only if we were minorities. That’s what they told
us.
In the meantime, I’d
appealed my suspension from PDX. A week or so later I got a response
from the Director of Aviation. After telling me how, in the aftermath of
9/11, most passengers not only accept additional airport screening but
welcome it, he cut to the chase:
"After a review of the
police report and my discussions with police staff, as well as a review of
the TSA’s report on this incident, I concur with the officer’s
decision to take you into custody and to issue a citation to you for
disorderly conduct. That being said, because I also understand that you
were upset and acted on your emotions, I am willing to lift the Airport
Exclusion Order...."
Attached to this letter was
the report the officer had filled out. I’d like to say I couldn’t
believe it, but in a way, I could. It’s seemingly becoming the norm
in America – lies and deliberate distortions on the part of those in
power, no matter how much or how little power they actually wield.
The gist of his report was
this: From the get go I wasn’t following the screener’s directions. I
was "squinting my eyes" and talking to my wife in a "low,
forced voice" while "excitedly swinging my arms." Twice I
began to walk away from the screener, inhaling and exhaling forcefully.
When I’d completed the physical exam, I walked to the luggage screening
area, where a second screener took a pair of scissors from my suitcase. At
this point I yelled, "What the %*&$% is going on? This is
&*#&$%!" The officer, who’d already been called over by one
of the screeners, became afraid for the TSA staff and the many travelers.
He required the assistance of a second officer as he "struggled"
to get me into handcuffs, then for "cover" called over a third
as well. It was only at this point that my wife began to cry hysterically.
There was nothing poetic in my
reaction to the arrest report. I didn’t crumple it in my fist and swear
that justice would be served, promising to sacrifice my resources and time
to see that it would. I simply stared. Clearly the officer didn’t have
the guts to write down what had really happened. It might not look too
good to see that stuff about the pregnant woman in tears because she’d
been humiliated. Instead this was the official scenario being presented
for the permanent record. It doesn’t even matter that it’s the most
implausible sounding situation you can think of. "Hey, what the...godammit,
they’re taking our scissors, honey!" Why didn’t he write in
anything about a monkey wearing a fez?
True, the TSA staff had
expropriated a pair of scissors from our toiletries kit – the story
wasn’t entirely made up. Except that I’d been locked in airport jail
at the time. I didn’t know anything about any scissors until Mary told
me on our drive up to Seattle. They’d questioned her about them while I
was in the bowels of the airport sitting in my cell.
So I wrote back, indignation
and disgust flooding my brain.
"[W]hile I’m not sure,
I’d guess that the entire incident is captured on video. Memory is
imperfect on everyone’s part, but the footage won’t lie. I realize it
might be procedurally difficult for you to view this, but if you could,
I’d appreciate it. There’s no willful disregard of screening
directions. No explosion over the discovery of a pair of scissors in a
suitcase. No struggle to put handcuffs on. There’s a tired man, early in
the morning, unhappily going through a rigorous procedure and then
reacting to the tears of his pregnant wife."
Eventually we heard back from
a different person, the guy in charge of the TSA airport screeners. One of
his employees had made the damning statement about me exploding over her
scissor discovery, and the officer had deftly incorporated that statement
into his report. We asked the guy if he could find out why she’d said
this – couldn’t she possibly be mistaken? "Oh, can’t do that,
my hands are tied. It’s kind of like leading a witness – I could get
in trouble, heh heh." Then what about the videotape? Why not watch
that? That would exonerate me. "Oh, we destroy all video after three
days."
A few days later we heard from
him again. He just wanted to inform us that he’d received corroboration
of the officer’s report from the officer’s superior, a name we
didn’t recognize. "But...he wasn’t even there," my wife
said.
"Yeah, well, uh, he’s
corroborated it though."
That’s how it works.
"Oh, and we did look at the videotape. Inconclusive."
But I thought it was destroyed?
On and on it went. Due to the
tenacity of my wife in making phone calls and speaking with relevant
persons, the "crime" was eventually lowered to a mere citation.
Only she could have done that. I would’ve simply accepted what was being
thrown at me, trumped up charges and all, simply because I’m wholly
inadequate at performing the kowtow. There’s no way I could have
contacted all the people Mary did and somehow pretend to be contrite.
Besides, I speak in a low, forced voice, which doesn’t elicit sympathy.
Just police suspicion.
Weeks later at the courthouse
I listened to a young DA awkwardly read the charges against me –
"Mr. Monahan...umm...shouted obscenities at the airport
staff...umm... umm...oh, they took some scissors from his suitcase and he
became...umm...abusive at this point." If I was reading about it
in Kafka I might have found something vaguely amusing in all of it. But I
wasn’t. I was there. Living it.
I entered a plea of nolo
contendere, explaining to the judge that if I’d been a resident of
Oregon, I would have definitely pled "Not Guilty." However, when
that happens, your case automatically goes to a jury trial, and since I
lived a thousand miles away, and was slated to return home in seven days,
with a newborn due in a matter of weeks...you get the picture. "No
Contest" it was. Judgment: $250 fine.
Did I feel happy? Only $250,
right? No, I wasn’t happy. I don’t care if it’s twelve cents,
that’s money pulled right out of my baby’s mouth and fed to a
disgusting legal system that will use it to propagate more incidents like
this. But at the very least it was over, right? Wrong.
When we returned to Los
Angeles there was an envelope waiting for me from the court. Inside
wasn’t a receipt for the money we’d paid. No, it was a letter telling
me that what I actually owed was $309 – state assessed court costs, you
know. Wouldn’t you think your taxes pay for that – the state putting
you on trial? No, taxes are used to hire more cops like the officer,
because with our rising criminal population – people like me – hey,
your average citizen demands more and more "security."
Finally I reach the piece de
resistance. The week before we’d gone to the airport my wife had had her
regular pre-natal checkup. The child had settled into the proper head down
position for birth, continuing the remarkable pregnancy she’d been
having. We returned to Portland on Sunday. On Mary’s Monday appointment
she was suddenly told, "Looks like your baby’s gone breech."
When she later spoke with her midwives in Los Angeles, they wanted to know
if she’d experienced any type of trauma recently, as this often
makes a child flip. "As a matter of fact..." she began,
recounting the story, explaining how the child inside of her was going
absolutely crazy when she was crying as the police were leading me away
through the crowd.
My wife had been planning a
natural childbirth. She’d read dozens of books, meticulously researched
everything, and had finally decided that this was the way for her. No
drugs, no numbing of sensations – just that ultimate combination of
brute pain and sheer joy that belongs exclusively to mothers. But my wife
is also a first-time mother, so she has what is called an
"untested" pelvis. Essentially this means that a breech birth
is too dangerous to attempt, for both mother and child. Therefore,
she’s now relegated to a c-section – hospital stay, epidural,
catheter, fetal monitoring, stitches – everything she didn’t want. Her
natural birth has become a surgery.
We’ve tried everything to
turn that baby. Acupuncture, chiropractic techniques, underwater
handstands, elephant walking, moxibustion, bending backwards over pillows,
herbs, external manipulation – all to no avail.
When I walked into the living room the other night and saw her plaintively
cooing with a flashlight turned onto her stomach, yet another suggested
technique, my heart almost broke. It’s breaking now as I write these
words.
I can never prove that my
child went breech because of what happened to us at the airport. But
I’ll always believe it. Wrongly or rightly, I’ll forever think
of how this man, the personification of this system, has affected the
lives of my family and me. When my wife is sliced open, I’ll be
thinking of him. When they remove her uterus from her abdomen and lay it
on her stomach, I’ll be thinking of him. When I visit her and my child
in the hospital instead of having them with me here in our home, I’ll be
thinking of him. When I assist her to the bathroom while the incision
heals internally, I’ll be thinking of him.
There are plenty of stories
like this these days. I don’t know how many I’ve read where the writer
describes some breach of civil liberties by employees of the state, then
wraps it all up with a dire warning about what we as a nation are
becoming, and how if we don’t put an end to it now, then we’re in for
heaps of trouble. Well you know what? Nothing’s going to stop the
inevitable. There’s no policy change that’s going to save us.
There’s no election that’s going to put a halt to the onslaught of
tyranny. It’s here already – this country has changed for the worse
and will continue to change for the worse. There is now a division
between the citizenry and the state. When that state is used as a tool
against me, there is no longer any reason why I should owe any allegiance
to that state.
And that’s the first thing
that child of ours is going to learn.
Nick Monahan works in the film
industry. He writes out of Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and as
of December 18th, his beautiful new son.
© Copyright 2002 All rights reserved by LewRockwell.com
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