Taking Liberties with my Liberty, III

I use this opening not as a literary device (e.g. 'You know, people often ask me...', when in fact no one as ever asked them), but as literal fact: people have asked me whether I actually did open the trunk.

This shows that people have been reading.

I am humbled.

So, to answer the question I have been asked, of course I opened the trunk. I was tired, goofy from the flight, sweltering in a gray suit in the hot Las Vegas sun and I just wanted to get into my hotel room. Even though I felt I had every right to deny them access, that my civil rights were being violated (you know, that one about 'unlawful search and seziure'), and that here was a grand moment for me to stand up and claim those rights that more and more Americans seem to be abdicating nowadays, it would have been terribly inconvenient. It would have delayed my cool shower and hotel room pumping out air conditioning full blast.

And if there is one thing I cannot tolerate more than being illegally searched, it is being
inconvenienced.

Attribution to Benjamin Franklin for the following quote is quite normally given, but by no means certain. In a letter to David Hume, he denies ever having said it all; merely publishing it. There is a faction of scholars that believes it should actually be accorded to a Mr. Richard Jackson, a fellow diplomat. Nevertheless, you've probably seen it on a bumper sticker at some point:

'Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.' -1759, author uncertain

In our house, there is a cat door, that leads into the laundry room. Were you to travel from the cat door in a direct line, cross through the hallway, you would pass through a door on the other side, into our guest bedroom.

For the past two months, we have had a guest.

Her name is Cleo, and she is one of the dearest animals I have ever met. She belonged to an invalid neighbor who passed away during the last year. Sort of a 'palliative pet' for the terminally ill. When he passed, his will went into lengthy probate and the house sat empty. From time to time we would see this cat wandering around, but she always looked well fed, and had a collar on. We assumed that some kind-hearted soul took the animal in and was caring for it.

It wasn't until one night, when we heard a horrible howling outside of the cat door, that we learned the truth. Cleo was shivering outside, terrified to put her head through the door, despite the pounding Seattle rain. As my wife and I are die-hard animal lovers, we did the only thing we could do: rush to grab a bowl of food and entice the cat in far enough to at least give it a meal. It worked, and Cleo ate her full, before disappearing again into the night.

A little over two months ago, we saw her again: she sat, perched on the steps of our back deck. Her fur no longer shiny, her collar missing, on closer examination a portion of her ear had been split and torn. She shied away, but I came again with a bowl of food and set it down on the step, letting her cautiously approach it. What I witnessed broke my heart: she would look into the bowl, take one bite, maybe two, before quickly lifting her head to see what enemies may have snuck up behind her during that briefest of moments when she let her guard down to eat. She was/is tiny- being perhaps 2 years old now, she'll never quite grow out of her kitten size, and yet she has mnaged to survive this long.

I made it a point, then, to help her in any way I could.

At 7 every night, she and I would rendez-vous on the back porch. She would eat, and I would coo at her, until she grew used to my presence and let me sit beside her as she ate. And, eventually, she let me pet her. And then she sat on my lap. And I was smitten.

I introduced her into our home, but there was a curious reaction on her part: whenever another cat came anywhere into her vicinity (mind you, we have two cats, both entering their geriatric years), she would hunker down and let out an ear-splitting yowl. She would never back down (and I silently cheered her for this), but she made it impossible for any other cat to get near her, sniff her, let her know that no harm was intended. Because of her tiny size, and her time on the street, she had come to not trust any cats at all (odd that she trusted humans).

Introducing her into the ways has not been easy. She enters the house and makes a beeline for the guest bedroom: a straight shot that requires no turns, no twists, no corners for other cats to jump and attack her from. And there, faithfully, we place her toys, fill her food and water, and hope that she finds comfort enough to move beyond these surroundings.

She has not. This is her room. There are terrors outside, and even terrors inside (our other two cats) and the only... place... that she feels she can call her own is this tiny bedroom with the lumpy mattress. The world is large, and scary, and I know she is grateful for this little resting spot: this one spot in the universe where she can feel safe, and she can accept love from us without fear. Everywhere else, there the monsters dwell.

As I was waiting to board my flight home from Vegas, I saw someone sitting in the gate chairs who, let's be frank, gave me the creeps. He was one of those guys who, if he has to be on the same flight as you, you pray that at least you don't have to sit next to him (for those of you who may be thinking 'RACIAL PROFILING!!!! You will BURN!', let me say this: he was caucasian. Sorry. He was white- well, really tan- wearing a black leather vest (maybe HE had just come through security nude, too), tattoos trailing up and down his arms. You just knew that he somehow had managed to slip a knife or gun through security). And I remember thinking that I was grateful that he had just come through the same security procedures I had just been excoriating in my mind.

I listen to talk radio a lot: my wife hates it, and we can never have it on in the car. But my secret vice, particularly as a Libertarian (YES, I KNOW we will never win an election. But at least I can forever wear bumper stickers on my car that say 'Don't blame me. I voted for so-and-so'), is that I listen to conservative talk radio. It's grown increasingly amusing, listening to them trying to defend the actions of George Bush. Most have given up altogether.

Yet whenever talks turns to the war in Iraq, terrorism, threats to the homeland et al, I hear a common theme: our fellow Americans are in favor of the provisions laid down by the Patriot Act (if ever there was a mis-nomer). They do not mind the abrogation of their rights citizenry, if it protects them further. Indeed if, when asked to open their trunk when they pull into a gaudy Vegas hotel, they will do so with pride, as if the very act of compliance shows just how patriotic they are.

And there is always the refrain: 'I don't care: I have nothing to hide,' which has never, ever been the point. It's that we should never have to prove we have nothing to hide, unless there is sufficient evidence that mandates such a motion of discovery.

I worry that we have become a country of beaten kitties, making a beeline for the comfort of the guest bedroom where none can touch us, while outside the nations rage.