A postcard from the edge

Like many Americans, I’m on edge over Trump’s reign of retribution and world domination at any cost.

I feel anxious. Angry. And yes, paranoid, that being a long-time critic, I might now be considered a first-time enemy of the state.

Here’s just one example.

Recently, my husband and I drove to JFK Airport for our in-person interviews for a Global Entry pass—which is like an EZ Pass through Customs and Border Control for US citizens returning from international flights.

We quickly spotted the office where a long line of Global Entry hopefuls were clutching their passports and shuffling their proof-of-residence paperwork. Those closest to the front were working on looking nonchalant for their official examination.
My husband and I took our place in line and waited. Our appointment time came and went. Yet we remained cheerful, chatting up others in the line, asking after their travel plans and trying not to reveal our growing impatience.

Finally, my name was called and I was led through a narrow hallway and into a fluorescent room of uniformed men-in-black seated behind steel desks dating
from the 70s.

I wondered if I’d ever see my husband again.

Sitting across from me at Desk 2 was my interviewer who was leaning as far back as his chair would allow, as if I was putting off some noxious odor. I’ll call him “John,” because he never introduced himself.

Instead, after pressing me to admit that my “real” full name was Elizabeth Joy Craz not just Elizabeth Craz, John led with this opening salvo: “Were you ever arrested?”

He asked this as if he had interviewed many women in their mid-60s wearing a cross-body bag and Sketchers who were found out to be arms dealers. Because, you know, he’s seen it all.

After meeting his eyes and replying “No,” I panicked. Clearly he was not buying it. I repeated my answer, hoping not to sound offended—or worse—to offend his finely-honed criminal detection skills. Just doing his job, right? Right?

But he continued staring into the depth of my being, which of course made me question myself. HAD I ever been arrested? I mean, my college years weren’t my proudest. Does he know something I don’t know? Or don’t remember?

Fortunately John accepted my answer and turned to the business of getting my fingerprints. He pushed what looked like a credit card terminal across the desk, nodding at it as if to say,“You know how this goes.” (Um, no John, why would I?)

We shared a lighthearted moment as I flubbed his directions and he assured me that I’d “get it” eventually, “Unlike the idiot who came before you,” which reminded me of a Law & Order interrogation tactic.

‘Get a grip,’ I told myself. He continued. Squinting at his computer screen, John asked me what I did for a living. I froze.

Which occupation did I put on my application? College administrator or fundraising communications? I used them interchangeably on surveys and online forms and other applications. Was he was sniffing around for a gotcha moment?

Which one was the truth and which the “lie” to John? I began to sweat. I picked college administrator and he seemed satisfied.

John kept asking and I kept answering (correctly, I hoped). All the while I’m wondering, does he have a rap sheet on Elizabeth Joy Craz that I never knew existed?

Would it include my anti-Trump letters to editors and op-eds? My attendance at the Women’s March? My election donations? My voting record? Will my name and dossier pass muster for Global Entry or will it put me on a no-fly watch list?

These are the questions I sorely wanted to ask him, but I remained silent until spoken to. I felt I was on thin ice. Finally John said, “You’ll I’d hear back within 72 hours if approved.”

I rushed back to the waiting room and into the arms of my husband. Who, by the way, had yet to be called for his own interview. (Was his stint in the Peace Corps coming back to bite him in the ass?)

Forget Global Entry, I’ve decided. Whether my application is accepted or not is the least of my concerns.

Maybe I don’t want an express pass back into the U.S. after all.

Postscript:
When a senior, white, married woman with (still) a job, good healthcare, and the financial resources to travel internationally is frightened of her government…well, I can only imagine what it feels like for those that don’t share that very privileged demographic.

Trump et al has exacted enormous emotional damage on us. Let’s return the favor by showing up on April 5 for a Hands Off protest near you.

Onward!