June 27, 2008--Profiling
I think he’s asleep. But still I should keep an eye on him because the other guy, a couple of rows back, is talking more loudly than is usual to his seatmate. A stranger.
The third one, with the Virginia Tech cap, a row ahead, looks like he’s about to nod off. When that happens then maybe I’ll be able to relax.
To admit this about myself doesn’t make me feel very good. I’m not supposed to be that kind of person. Someone so suspicious and anxious just because of the way people look. But then there are objective reasons for this that perhaps reflect something other than just latent prejudices--the three of them got on the plane separately; even though the plane was half empty they clearly had chosen to sit separately; and right before takeoff they linked up in the aisle by the seat of the one right across from me exchanging, what, last minute instructions?
This is supposed to be a carefree trip. A happy one. To Fort Lauderdale. To celebrate my mother’s 100th birthday. But here I am finally drying off from the cold sweat I instantly broke out into when the three of them gathered together, within arms reach of me, speaking animatedly, all at the same time, in a language that sounded to me to be very Middle Eastern.
Never mind the VT cap and the fact that one of the others was wearing an “A-Rod” shirt. From the grainy airport security videos I remember seeing of the 9/11 hijackers weren’t at least some of them wearing baseball gear? A perfect way to blend in in America.
And just last night Rona and I were talking furiously about John McCain’s chief strategist claiming that if there is another terrorist attack before the November election it would help McCain. How outrageous, we said, for them to so blatantly play the fear card. What else does McCain have going for him? Unless he can manage to scare voters half to death, who’s going to vote for him? People worried about the economy? Folks in danger of having their houses foreclosed? Or worrying about losing their jobs or heath benefits or paying for their kid’s college education? No way.
He’s a loser for sure unless he can make us shake in our boots every time we hear a siren or a car backfires. Or . . . every time we’re on an airplane and see someone who looks like one of those 9/11 terrorists.
In other words, voters like me.
So in spite of last night's conversation and my ideological inclinations, when the plane pushed back from the gate and began to make its way to the runway, out of the corner of my eye I strained to keep all three of them in sight. Looking for any evidence that they might be up to something cataclysmic. Were any of them unduly agitated? Were any of them, like me, sweating and squirming in their seats? They obviously for other reasons.
I tried to recall the warning signs passengers who thwarted other potential terrorists had noticed. Who was that guy on another flight, Richard Reid was it, also to Florida, Miami I think, who had a homemade bomb in one of his shoes? Why had other passengers been suspicious of him and taken the initiative to pounce on him? Agitation? Yes. Nervous tics? Right. Though wasn’t he also bending down to light a fuse in his sneaker with a cigarette lighter?
My three didn’t seem to be perspiring, but they were engaged in lots of energetic talking across and down the aisle. Should I say something to a flight attendant? How would I manage to do that without making myself seem like a fearful fool . . . and, worse, a bigot?
So I decided to sit tight, not alert anyone—yet, not expose myself for what I was distressingly discovering about myself, and keep a close watch on the situation. What would I do if . . . . That I hadn’t figured out.
I was sitting in an exit row, by the emergency door, and by doing so had tacitly agreed to take responsibility to help fellow passengers in case of . . . . But this? A terrorist plot? That seemed much more daunting than merely helping people get out of the plane if we had to ditch in the Atlantic.
Quickly we reached cruising altitude and the captain turned off the seatbelt sign. We were “free” he told us, “to walk about the cabin,” in the archaic language of airlines. And quite a few passengers did. A line formed at the forward lavatory. A line that included one of the three plotters. The one in the VT cap.
He showed clear signs of nervousness, shifting from foot to foot and gesturing back toward the rear of the plane where I and his two companions were seated. They signaled back to him, and with that the one nearest to me sprang out of his seat. I thought that if he raced forward I would have to take action. To do what I wasn’t yet sure. But something other than just sit here in fear. My heart was racing and I was now soaking wet.
I frantically looked around to locate the cabin crew. I was relieved to see a stewardess up near the toilet. She was tugging the beverage cart out of its storage cabinet. That at least was reassuring though I was not happy to notice that she was about five feet there and seemed to weigh not much more than 110 pounds. What could someone that size do to thwart a plot that was about to be carried out by three hulking guys in their vigorous twenties. I assumed she and her partners were well trained for all circumstances. And I assumed the plan involved alerting the captain. Who I hoped was armed. Weren’t they authorized to carry guns?
As I was about to push the call button, while thinking in a rare moment of personal courage that I might need to intervene more directly, the fellow who had jumped up I feared to join his partner, turned back to his third companion and roared with laughter. And, in heavily-accented English said for him and all of us to hear, “He had too many beers. I think he peed his pants!”
Relieved, I for the first time in half an hour exhaled and collapsed back into my seat. When I finally managed to stop shaking, I struggled to regather my shredded sense of self-respect and decided that there was no way, no matter the circumstanced, that I would ever even consider voting for John McCain.
It was so good to be able to paddle back to the safe ground of politics since I didn’t want to do too much thinking about what I had been feeling. This, after all, is supposed to be a happy occasion. And I, after all, am supposed to be a different kind of person.
As a coda—when we got up to retrieve our bags from the overhead compartment, Rona turned to the fellow with the fieriest of eyes who was wearing the A-Rod shirt and asked him where he and his companions are from. It turns out that they’re musicians from Brazil, Rio, and have been touring in the U.S. the last two weeks. In fact, they have a gig Friday night at a club in Pompano Beach. He gave Rona a couple of passes and after my mother’s birthday lunch, later tonight, maybe we’ll check them out.
The third one, with the Virginia Tech cap, a row ahead, looks like he’s about to nod off. When that happens then maybe I’ll be able to relax.
To admit this about myself doesn’t make me feel very good. I’m not supposed to be that kind of person. Someone so suspicious and anxious just because of the way people look. But then there are objective reasons for this that perhaps reflect something other than just latent prejudices--the three of them got on the plane separately; even though the plane was half empty they clearly had chosen to sit separately; and right before takeoff they linked up in the aisle by the seat of the one right across from me exchanging, what, last minute instructions?
This is supposed to be a carefree trip. A happy one. To Fort Lauderdale. To celebrate my mother’s 100th birthday. But here I am finally drying off from the cold sweat I instantly broke out into when the three of them gathered together, within arms reach of me, speaking animatedly, all at the same time, in a language that sounded to me to be very Middle Eastern.
Never mind the VT cap and the fact that one of the others was wearing an “A-Rod” shirt. From the grainy airport security videos I remember seeing of the 9/11 hijackers weren’t at least some of them wearing baseball gear? A perfect way to blend in in America.
And just last night Rona and I were talking furiously about John McCain’s chief strategist claiming that if there is another terrorist attack before the November election it would help McCain. How outrageous, we said, for them to so blatantly play the fear card. What else does McCain have going for him? Unless he can manage to scare voters half to death, who’s going to vote for him? People worried about the economy? Folks in danger of having their houses foreclosed? Or worrying about losing their jobs or heath benefits or paying for their kid’s college education? No way.
He’s a loser for sure unless he can make us shake in our boots every time we hear a siren or a car backfires. Or . . . every time we’re on an airplane and see someone who looks like one of those 9/11 terrorists.
In other words, voters like me.
So in spite of last night's conversation and my ideological inclinations, when the plane pushed back from the gate and began to make its way to the runway, out of the corner of my eye I strained to keep all three of them in sight. Looking for any evidence that they might be up to something cataclysmic. Were any of them unduly agitated? Were any of them, like me, sweating and squirming in their seats? They obviously for other reasons.
I tried to recall the warning signs passengers who thwarted other potential terrorists had noticed. Who was that guy on another flight, Richard Reid was it, also to Florida, Miami I think, who had a homemade bomb in one of his shoes? Why had other passengers been suspicious of him and taken the initiative to pounce on him? Agitation? Yes. Nervous tics? Right. Though wasn’t he also bending down to light a fuse in his sneaker with a cigarette lighter?
My three didn’t seem to be perspiring, but they were engaged in lots of energetic talking across and down the aisle. Should I say something to a flight attendant? How would I manage to do that without making myself seem like a fearful fool . . . and, worse, a bigot?
So I decided to sit tight, not alert anyone—yet, not expose myself for what I was distressingly discovering about myself, and keep a close watch on the situation. What would I do if . . . . That I hadn’t figured out.
I was sitting in an exit row, by the emergency door, and by doing so had tacitly agreed to take responsibility to help fellow passengers in case of . . . . But this? A terrorist plot? That seemed much more daunting than merely helping people get out of the plane if we had to ditch in the Atlantic.
Quickly we reached cruising altitude and the captain turned off the seatbelt sign. We were “free” he told us, “to walk about the cabin,” in the archaic language of airlines. And quite a few passengers did. A line formed at the forward lavatory. A line that included one of the three plotters. The one in the VT cap.
He showed clear signs of nervousness, shifting from foot to foot and gesturing back toward the rear of the plane where I and his two companions were seated. They signaled back to him, and with that the one nearest to me sprang out of his seat. I thought that if he raced forward I would have to take action. To do what I wasn’t yet sure. But something other than just sit here in fear. My heart was racing and I was now soaking wet.
I frantically looked around to locate the cabin crew. I was relieved to see a stewardess up near the toilet. She was tugging the beverage cart out of its storage cabinet. That at least was reassuring though I was not happy to notice that she was about five feet there and seemed to weigh not much more than 110 pounds. What could someone that size do to thwart a plot that was about to be carried out by three hulking guys in their vigorous twenties. I assumed she and her partners were well trained for all circumstances. And I assumed the plan involved alerting the captain. Who I hoped was armed. Weren’t they authorized to carry guns?
As I was about to push the call button, while thinking in a rare moment of personal courage that I might need to intervene more directly, the fellow who had jumped up I feared to join his partner, turned back to his third companion and roared with laughter. And, in heavily-accented English said for him and all of us to hear, “He had too many beers. I think he peed his pants!”
Relieved, I for the first time in half an hour exhaled and collapsed back into my seat. When I finally managed to stop shaking, I struggled to regather my shredded sense of self-respect and decided that there was no way, no matter the circumstanced, that I would ever even consider voting for John McCain.
It was so good to be able to paddle back to the safe ground of politics since I didn’t want to do too much thinking about what I had been feeling. This, after all, is supposed to be a happy occasion. And I, after all, am supposed to be a different kind of person.
As a coda—when we got up to retrieve our bags from the overhead compartment, Rona turned to the fellow with the fieriest of eyes who was wearing the A-Rod shirt and asked him where he and his companions are from. It turns out that they’re musicians from Brazil, Rio, and have been touring in the U.S. the last two weeks. In fact, they have a gig Friday night at a club in Pompano Beach. He gave Rona a couple of passes and after my mother’s birthday lunch, later tonight, maybe we’ll check them out.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
6:23 AM
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