Conifer
My brother Tom and I scowled at each other for a full minute, too angry to speak. Seething, I drummed my fingers on the kitchen table and he just shook his head in bewilderment. Once we had been supportive siblings; now we were hostile strangers.
During that July evening last year, lightning flashed behind the hills like a ship’s beacon warning of danger. We ignored it and each other’s body language as our anger escalated. The vein in his left temple pulsed, and I clenched my jaws until they ached.
Earlier, Tom, my sister-in-law, Rosemarie, and husband Pat had shared a pleasant dinner. We avoided discussions about politics and religion, subjects that had alienated us in the past. But disaster arrived with dessert.
I had asked Tom what time he needed to be at the airport for the flight home the next day. About three hours before his 8 a.m. departure, he answered, because of a minor mixup. His name was on a post-Sept. 11 governmental watch list – along with an estimated 80,000 other innocent Americans. He and a potential terrorist shared all or at least part of the same first, middle and last names.
Tom discovered that he was on the list six months earlier when an airport security guard had questioned him in front of other passengers. Uneasy with the situation, they had backed away from him as though suspicion were contagious. He was allowed to board the plane with a warning to have additional proof of his identify the next time he flew.
A series of phone calls to the Transportation Security Administration was just the start of a long and arduous process. He had to obtain certified copies of his birth certificate, his honorable-discharge papers from the Navy, and his passport. He then sent the documents to the TSA as part of a Personal Identity Verification package. Although he had fulfilled the requirements, his name was not removed from the “selectee” list.
As I listened to him, I wondered whatever happened to that cherished concept of innocent until proven guilty. Why didn’t he refuse to cooperate? Or write his congressman? Or get in touch with the American Civil Liberties Union for an opinion? My jackhammer questioning technique backed him into a corner. And still I pummeled him verbally, aware that I had crossed the line where good intentions had dissolved into anger.
So what, he fumed, if he were delayed or even missed his flight? It was his patriotic duty to endure inconvenience, hardship and embarrassment in order to make the skies safe for others. Why was I sabotaging the government’s war on terrorism by attacking him with these questions? I was unappreciative of his efforts and unpatriotic to boot, at least in his eyes.
Asking questions does not make me unpatriotic, I said. By capitulating to the TSA’s invasion of his privacy, he made it difficult for others like me to question the government’s right to force Americans to prove their identities. Although I wanted to be my brother’s keeper and pick up the phone to call the ACLU, I did not do this. Tom had willingly acquiesced to the TSA’s demand for additional proof of his identity. Now, he must carry three forms of government-issued ID and a letter from the TSA whenever he flies.
The next morning at the airport, we parted with perfunctory hugs and wishes for safe journeys. The previous night’s bitter words were not forgotten nor forgiven. During the following months, we made peace with each other. I understood that Tom sincerely believed he was performing an important duty for his country. I accepted the validity of his viewpoint even though I didn’t agree with it. He had demonstrated his patriotism by complying; I had shown mine by questioning.
The following April, the four of us spent a week at colonial Williamsburg, Va. We wandered into quaint shops, taverns and homes all restored to their pre-American Revolutionary glory. On the street, actors performed a passionate re-enactment of the events that led to the signing of the Declaration of Independence. As I listened to the speeches, I realized that acceptance and dissention occurred on both sides, and our forefathers had learned to live with these differences, just as Tom and I had done.
The drama culminated with a stirring fife and drum band, followed by a surge of people that flowed into the street. And we, brother and sister, linked our arms and for that one day marched to the same drummer.
Marilyn Flanigan (marilyn.flanigan@gmail.com) is a geologist and author of “Antarctica: Exploring the Extreme.”
