Go Stand In Line, America
I’m sure at some point in the near future Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary will alter definition #3 of the term “American” from “a citizen of the United States of America” to “a dangerously impatient citizen of the United States of America, not to be inconvenienced or denied immediate gratification whatsoever.” It only took six Harry Potter installations for the word “muggle” to be added to the dictionary, so I’m not really sure what is holding up the progress on a simple update. The government must be at fault. That’s right. I’ll blame it on George Bush. Obviously, he’s not listening to me. He’s not reacting to my immediate needs fast enough. Therefore it only serves to reason that, according to the mumbo jumbo I learned in Philosophy 101 all those years ago, George Bush does not CARE.
Cry me a fucking river, America. Shut up and go stand in line.
Americans are the most impatient and demanding people on the face of the Earth. Look at the evidence: pre-washed and pre-cut salad greens and vegetables, frozen diced onions, drive thru fast food, drive thru pharmacies, drive thru convenience stores, pay at the pump gasoline, and, my favorite, the 5 Items or Less Express Line – at Wal-Mart. We want it all, we want it only the way we think it should be done, and we want the job completed in half the time anyone else in the world would have done it. We want it – no, we demand it - NOW. Like the little children we are, if we don’t get our way, we stomp our little red, white and blue sneakers, get all puffed up and red in the face, call Michael Moore or the Rev. Jesse Jackson, and shout the unfairness and negligence of our government at the first news crew to shove a microphone under our noses. Because, as everyone knows, the government is always at fault. When in doubt, blame it on George Bush.
Everyone has their own personal response to the devastating events of 9/11. After the shock and awe receded, loved ones were located, and life, although altered in intangible ways, continued, my personal response quickly molded itself into irritation, anger and a lot of eye-rolling at the piss-poor attitude of the American public. Take a pill, America. We sometimes have to stand in lines now. Sometimes we have to WAIT to move forward. It takes a little LONGER. Sometimes for the sake of your own personal safety, people commanding the lines want to know what you’ve been up to. Big damn deal.
Airports. I’ve seen every major airport in the continental United States and an unknown number of secondary airports – all since 9/11. Airport security, naturally, was one of the first systems to change in the wake of 9/11. Here’s the deal: prior to 9/11, the metal detectors weren’t as sensitive, checked baggage wasn’t examined, checked baggage ran through a quick x-ray, nobody cared how you purchased your ticket or when, and – the kicker – pre-ticketed travelers were able to have somebody throw the bags out at the curb, sprint up the escalators towards their gate, throw the carry-on bag and laptop case on the x-ray belt, run through the metal detector, wait impatiently tapping your foot and looking at your watch at the end of the belt for your gear, grab it and GO. RUN, RUN, RUN towards the light. This took a total of 5 minutes. This is how we do business in America.
Or it was. By necessity, 9/11 changed all that. And America was pissed.
At first we bitched that the “system” we had in place didn’t protect us. Why didn’t we already have better x-ray machines, better security, and why wasn’t someone watching the hijackers? Who let them on the planes?
As soon as the airport security measures changed, and it became quickly evident that it would TAKE LONGER to make that commuting flight and that people, God forbid, would ask us where we’ve been and where we’re going and why, we switched our bitching mode to target that. Bitch at the government. George Bush doesn’t care anyway. A completely unprepared federal transportation and security system fumbled to quickly be able to insure American travelers they were SAFE. Or as safe as possible. They weren’t quick enough. The new security workers were poorly qualified and under-trained, which was, according to the 10 businessmen bouncing on their heels in the line ahead of me, unbelievable and unacceptable considering they were on the job within thirty days of incorporation of the new security measures. Then came the new technology. The dreaded x-ray machines. Do I really have to empty out my pockets? What do you mean, take the laptop out of the case? Do you really need to search my purse? WHAT? It’s only the zipper on my pants. This is humiliating.
Get that. Big bad assed Americans are humiliated by an airport security search. Searching your bags is an invasion of privacy. I look to be of Arabic descent and am carrying a guitar case. Why do you have to search it? That’s racial profiling. (No, that’s common sense.) The x-ray machines detect everything, including my under wire bra, IUD and joint replacements. That’s an invasion of privacy. And let’s not even talk about the dreaded wand search for those of us who set off the walk-through detector more than once.
The wand search. OK, let’s talk about it. Complaints about this give me headaches. I’m sick of hearing it. In July, 2002 I had both of my hip joints completely replaced. I have more titanium and cobalt in my body than Donald Trump has big buildings. Every single time I take a flight, which at one point in 2004 added up to 4 flights a week, I get the wand. The first time I walk through a metal detector and hear silence, I will not get on that plane. I am an experienced wand recipient. And, I do NOT understand why people continue to piss and moan about the “invasion” and “humiliation” of the search. What? Are we a country of impatient prudes, now? Apparently.
Here’s the drill: Right before I walk through the metal detector, I look the security agent in the eye and say, “I have hip replacements.” Walk. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. “Female attendant needed!” He knows the deal and there’s no walking back and forth through the detector, emptying pockets that are already empty, etc. So immediately, I step over to the side area. Point out my bags. Rarely do I have to wait for the attendant to wand me. “Stand facing the x-ray belt. Hands straight out at your side, palms facing up.” The attendant slowly runs the wand around the arms first – never touching my body – and then slowly down the torso. She stops when the wand beeps while moving over my chest. The agent explains that she will run the side of her hand only around the perimeter of my breasts just to check out the area in question. There’s no groping. No kneading your breasts. No reaching up under your dirty pillows or what have you. It’s professional and respectful. I’ve NEVER felt uncomfortable with any security attendant. Tits are cleared. Down the rest of the body. As expected, the wand goes insane as she runs it over each hip. The agent lightly runs her hand over the hip to make sure there’s nothing strapped under my clothes. No running your hand over your ass. No “OK, let’s see if there’s anything down here” while groping your crotch. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Honestly, I get felt up more in a crowded elevator. Buy a vibrator, America, and stop pretending that you’re so offended by safety.
Total extra time for all this? If I’m not traveling at an extremely busy time of the day or night and the line is mildly long, I average an extra 10 minutes - maybe. That’s it. 10 minutes. It takes me longer to work my way through a super-sized box of McDonald’s fries.
9/11 changed American society forever. I am amazed that after four years, a huge portion of our population refuses to acknowledge that our safe little fluffy cocoon way of life has been disturbed. There’s always the breathless Hugo Boss clad man nervously jittering back and forth on both feet and muttering obscenities under his breath in the line behind you. I’m sure he’s the same guy who rolls up behind you in the right lane on the interstate, slowing down two inches from your rear bumper, and flashing his headlights at you with impatience and irritation. I quickly look back and smile at him in the line, blazing amusement and pity simultaneously. On the interstate, I laugh out loud, turn the radio up louder and slow down. Just to really piss him off.
This is how we do business in America.
