Stolen Freedoms.
Terrorism Creeps
into the Sanctity
of Personal Moments
with the Ones We Love.
My Backyard and I
Are at Peace with One Another.
By Joseph Dempsey
DATELINE: Saturday, April 5, 2003
Pine Bluff, Arkansas, USA
Like many Americans, I am angry. I thought I was angry because of the terroristic actions that have taken the lives of Americans, not to mention hundreds of thousands of other non-combatants who happen not to agree with madmen. It makes my blood boil.
Today I discovered why I am really angry. Today terrorism affected me personally. I am angry for the freedom that terrorism has stolen from me. I am angry because terrorists are a non-elected, non-appointed oversight committee, who dictate policy to govern the lives of Americans.
I took my mother — who at 87 is as spry, witty, energetic, and as full of it as she ever was — to Little Rock National airport for a flight to California. She was going to say goodbye to her brother, a terminal patient expected to live for only a few more months, if not weeks.
By Way of Background.
Mom is a card-carrying member of the group Tom Brokaw calls "The Greatest Generation," a survivor of the Oklahoma Dustbowl of the Thirties. When her family went to California in those times, their name might as well have been "Joad." Despite this millstone of abject poverty, every member of that family rose far beyond their circumstances. Three of the seven-child family were valedictorians of their respective high school classes. Their children work and earn good livings for their families — some have graduate degrees, others are successful
professional and business people, and even though several divorces are sprinkled among their offspring (I led the charge on that one), all of the families are reasonably solid now. This background material lays the foundation for stating the rest of the prosecution's case.
This morning, I dropped my mother off at the curbside ticket counter of the airport. She did not yet have her ticket, doesn't have a credit card, and was told by the airline that they would gladly accept her personal check. The check-in counter was somewhat busy, so naturally I wanted to be certain she had made contact with the ticket folks before I drove to the parking lot. Apparently, this was taking longer by a minute or so than was permissible. I was told by a surly and rude policeman to tell her goodbye and leave.
Those of you who know me best, know that what was going on in my mind as a result of that announcement would have certainly resulted in my detainment had I elected to implement those thoughts. Fortunately for me and all concerned, I thought better of it — just muttered a thinly veiled SHIT under my breath and drove off.
The Scrutiny Continues.
Upon reaching the parking lot, I was stopped again, this time by a polite security guard, who asked me to pop the trunk. I hit the button, he did a cursory inspection, punched the gate button, handed me my gate ticket, and we exchanged pleasantries before I drove off to park.
Once inside the terminal, I found Mom, none the worse for wear. We proceeded to the cattle chute in the walkway. There I was told that I, a 65-year-old veteran, could not accompany my 87-year-old mother to her "enplanement area." I was livid. The disrespectful words, THAT SUCKS!, were reverberating around the walls before I could stop them.
As I drove back to Pine Bluff, it finally occurred to me that armed people I don't know can tell me to leave my mother's side, can tell me that I can't walk her to an airline waiting area, and can demand to search my vehicle without probable cause.
As far as I can tell, neither my mother nor I fit any profile of known terrorists. We were born in Oklahoma and Arkansas, respectively. One is a Baptist, the other an Episcopalian. Only one of us is male, and neither are of us are young. Neither of us exhibit any visible similarity to folks born as natives of Middle Eastern countries.
Too Much Randomness.
I had an inkling of what was to come a few years back when my wife and I flew to Dallas via Memphis (it was much cheaper that way). On the way down, we went through the normal increased security process with no problem. The trip back was a different story. We were personally searched, and our baggage was subject to a detailed search — not once, not twice, but three times between Dallas and Little Rock. On each occasion we were told it was a "random" search. Mathematics and the laws of probability are not my strong suit, but if those were randomly generated searches, then I am a transvestite cheerleader for the Texas A&M Gay Volleyball Team.
The bottom line. Those sorry excuses for human beings known as terrorists have robbed us of personal moments and the right to exercise what we believe to be family duties.
Those are basic rights of man, rights that were paid for in blood, sweat and tears.
Realistically, I can't argue with increased airline security, given the times in which we live. (I may be big and dumb, but not that dumb.) Given consideration of the mindset to which I have been exposed for the last twelve years, I decided to be thankful for what is left. This includes a Duke's mixture of tiny flowers in my back yard. I dutifully recorded them upon returning home from the airport today. To those of you who have struggled through this sermon, the reward begins where this text ends.
The war is somewhere else. My backyard and I are at peace with one another.
I was ready, trained, and in uniform for a number of years. In most of those years, I relished the thought of dispatching an enemy. Those days are gone, but the flowers keep coming back.
The author, some time ago....
"The photo of me was shot on an Ansco or Brownie or something of that ilk when I was in the neighborhood of four years of age," he wrote. "My father's inscription on the back of the photo is included. [EDITOR'S NOTE: See larger photo below.]
Joe
Dempsey
An Autobio Written
at CornDancer's Request.
My resume hasn't changed much since the last time I contributed to this collection of prose, but my cat is over diarrhea and he seems to be minding better. Thank God for the favors he grants us.
Much has changed, however, since that photo was shot.
I am a graduate of Ouachita Baptist College (now University) with a B.A. in art. I am a couple of hours short of a double major in art and journalism. Seems the journalism professor and I were at odds at the time and since it made him look good to have as many majors as possible in his department, I jumped ship and left him minus one major. I still don't regret it.
I have three sons. Two readily admit that I am their father. The third can't. He is profoundly mentally and physically retarded and is institutionalized. The two who claim me are gainfully employed by large corporations. I am gainfully employed by a teeny-tiny corporation. More on that later.
Wife, Dog, Cat, Car, and Waterbed.
I am now on my third wife, eighth dog, ninth cat, twelfth car, first waterbed (some twenty or so years of age) and my third job as a productive adult. I work for the meanest bastard in town: Me.
I am a partner in a small, but imaginative advertising agency in which I am responsible for most of the creative development, writing, and at least some of the production. We do political campaigns and have won more than we've lost. We also do banks and industrial accounts for the most part.
Having had more fun during my life than most, I will probably suffer more than others during retirement, should it become necessary for me to take that option. At one time, as they say in the south, " … the boy was bad to drank." The cure has descended on me and now I am dry as the Gobi desert in whatever its dry month is. And Lord willing, will probably stay that way.
At Least You Get to
Jump out of Airplanes.
I went through the U.S. Army Jump School as a reservist "off the block" at the ripe old age of 31. I'd be lying if I said it was anything less than a bitch. But then afterwards, you get to jump out of airplanes, which ain't bad. Subsequently, the U.S. Army Reserve saw fit to promote me to Major and saddle me with command of Company A, 1st Battalion, 12th Special Forces Group (USAR), which I must admit was a fun way to spend weekends.
Signed: Joe Dempsey
*This is the next step toward THE One World Language.
Step Five: *Your adjectives in the Ganges.
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