Friday, July 29, 2005

"Have a cookie!"

I swear that, when I started this blog, I didn't expect it to revolve around airports. But here I am, sitting at the arrival gate at Fort Wayne International, waiting for Grandma's flight to arrive.

("What game you gonna play?" asks the guy next to me as I pull out my laptop. "No game," I reply, "just doing some writing." "Oh, an aspiring author?" "You might say I'm aspiring to be an aspiring author." "That's fucked up.")

So. Sitting in an airport, laptop perched delicately upon lap. I'll avoid the obvious ranting about security, as the staff has been nothing but friendly. In fact, at my side is a half-eaten sugar cookie given to me by one of the sweet old ladies hired by FWA to greet arriving travelers.

"You look hungry, hon. Want a cookie?"

Who can say no to a cookie?

I think FWA has the right idea in doing this. Yes, they have the requisite, looming security presence, but they offset it with somebody's grandma handing you a cookie and welcoming you to Fort Wayne. It's not much, I know, but after a long flight, the supicious stares of security, maybe running through O'Hare or finding you luggage has ended up in Fort Worth, there's something comforting about a carbohydrate-laden little goodie.

"How many are you waiting for? Just one? Here's a cookie for each of you."

Nice.

(I wonder if this place has wi-fi?)

(sweeeeet!)

We humans are programmed to equate fat and carbs with well-being. To our starving forebears, this little confection could have spelled the difference between life and death. More than that - most of us associate cookies and sweet old ladies with memories of Grandma's house. And while this is, in our well-fed society, one of the root causes of our current health crisis, it can also be used for good.

(Aw, jeez, Grandma's flight hasn't even departed yet? This is not how I want to spend my Friday night!)

I'm actually a bit surprised that the idea of giving out cookies hasn't caught on elsewhere. A cookie is a ludicrously cheap thing to make - a few cents' flour an sugar, maybe a tenth of an egg, and enough heat to denature it all. For a simple little sugar cookie like the ones they gave me, we're talking about maybe a five-cent expense.

This could become the first line of defense in customer relations. An angry customer, offered a cookie, is much more likely to slow down . . . if only to eat the cookie.

"I'm sorry the waitress was rude, sir - would you like a cookie?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but the part won't be in until next week - would you like a cookie?"

"You're evicted. Have a cookie."

Obviously, this wouldn't be effective in every situation ("You've been diagnosed with type-b diabetes - would you like a . . . hmmm, probably not"), but I think that, by and large, it could be a major step forward in interpersonal communications.

(Screw it. I'm eating Grandma's cookie.)

("Ladies and gentlemen, flight 4700 service from Detroit has arrived. Passengers can be met at the arrival gte momentarily.")

(Bugger.)

Randomness

There's a couple sitting across from me at the coffee house. Boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, possibly father/daughter - their ages are indistinct enough that it's hard to tell. She's reading a magazine, though I can't read the title (I really need to get a new prescription) while he sits, hands in lap, looking at nothing in particular.

Simon and Garfunkel, on their album "Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," sang a song called "The Dangling Conversation." As I look at these two, I can't help but hear:

And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we mark our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.

What's their story? Why are they here tonight? Why aren't they speaking? Are they angry? Sad? Bored?

Which is worse?

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Soapbox: 9-11 vs. Columbine

Back in September, I flew from Indiana to New Jersey to attend my grandfather's funeral. It wasn't the first time I had ever been in a plane, and not the first time since 9-11. This time, though, I encountered the airline industry's still-rampant paranoia for the first time.

Passing through security, I was told that my airline had singled me out as a potential security risk. Apparently I fit some sort of profile somewhere; "Male, age fourteen to dead, facial hair, not smiling" is the best I can figure. The fact that I also look about as harmless as a puppy was probably interpreted as a clever attempt at misdirection.

A polite - almost apologetic, in fact - security guard took me to a small enclosure and ran me through the procedure. Other travelers passed by (no doubt thanking their lucky stars they weren't me) as I handed over my boarding pass, driver's license, overnight bag, boots and belt. A metal detector was produced and run over my body, beeping only at the rivets on my jeans. I was obviously not a threat.

As I sat in the terminal, an older gentleman sat down near me. "Horrible, isn't it," he said.

"What?"

"Horrible," he repeated, "this paranoia, I mean. I saw them checking you out. I know they're doing their job, but it's going too far."

We chatted for a bit, and as we spoke an idea began to form in my head. For me, the search had been inconvenient, yes, but also not totally unexpected. But for this man of twice my years, it was an outrage, a sign of civilization's downward spiral.

Why the discrepancy? Why was my inconvenience his outrage?

Let me take you back a few years.

Before 9-11, before Al-Qaeda and the Taliban were household names, my generation had its own terrorists. It seemed to us that scarcely a month went by without reports of some kid bringing a gun to school and opening fire on his fellow students. Sometimes it was for revenge, sometimes it was to speak out, sometimes it was because he wanted the notoriety.

Parents blamed angry music, violent video games, and anything else they didn't approve of. Maybe they were right, and maybe not - I'm certainly not qualified to pass any judgment on id Software or Marilyn Manson. It didn't make much difference, though, because the shootings kept happening despite (or maybe because of) all the noise being made about Protecting the Children.

People ask: where were you when Kennedy was shot? Where were you when the Berlin Wall fell? Where were you on 9-11?

Where were you on April 20th, 1999?

I was a Junior at Columbia City (Indiana) High School that spring. It had been a quiet year for us, though we heard the occasional echo of a gunshot fired at some other school. The idea seemed so foreign. Yes, there was the occasional fight. Yes, there was the occasional angry comment about wanting to blow the place up. But these were normal - students had been doing these things for years.

At CCHS, 4-20 was best known for its notoriety as a skip day. It was the day when all the stoners (and, I have no doubt, the stoner-wannabes) stayed home to smoke pot ("Dude! 4-20!")

That's changed, now, as so many other things have changed since that day. Because April 20th, 1999 was the day Columbine happened.

Now, I don't know why Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold did what they did. I'm not qualified to speculate on a matter that's been analyzed and over-analyzed and beaten to death by so many "experts." All I know is the facts: that two students took guns and bombs to school and killed 12 classmates, a teacher, and themselves.

And, in doing so, they changed our schools - maybe forever.

Within weeks, security cameras were keeping an unblinking eye on all the main halls at CCHS. Doors that had once remained open were closed and locked during school hours. Police officers were seen in and around the school. Rumors circulated that metal detectors were going to be installed at the main entrances (they never were).

Other, more Orwellian changes took place. Any outburst of anger (which was only natural under the circumstances) was seen as a "warning sign" to be noted and watched. So-called "outsider" groups were labeled "potential threats." There was even talk of banning trenchcoats - a garment that was worn by such a minority of students that such a ban could only have made them more prevalent.

I'm told by others of my age that these changes, this shift toward fear and paranoia, were not atypical.

I don't blame the administration for this. They did the best they could in a bad situation. Faced with the terrified screams of parents and politicians (and, yes, some of the students), they took just about the only course of action they could.

Nevertheless, many of my generation felt more like prisoners than students.

Is it any wonder that young people are not as concerned about the increased fear and paranoia caused by the attacks of the last four years? Is it surprising that we are more likely to shrug off a violation of our privacy as mere caution? We're used to this now - and it's only getting worse.

Right now, children who weren't even alive when students were dying in Littleton are learning to accept paranoia and fear of the other as normal, healthy, even desirable. They've never attended schools that don't treat them like prisoners, a potential threat to be dealt with. They don't know that society doesn't have to be afraid of its own shadow.

Harris and Klebold had more of an effect than they ever dreamed of, because even though they didn't kill as many people as they wanted to, even though they themselves perished, they opened the door. They made it possible to teach our children to be afraid in their own schools. And when those children grow up, those lessons will remain. We're already on a slippery slope, folks, and the state of our schools just makes it that much harder to keep our footing.

Benjamin Franklin said that "those who are willing to sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither."

That's one quote you won't find in a high school history book.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Lefty Writes

"Lefty Writes."

A pun, of course. But let's take a closer look.

There's the obvious interpretation. A lefty (or "person of handedness") expressing himself through use of the written word. Lefty Writes.

Let's play with the spelling. "Lefty Rights." Rights for leftists? A new October Revolution? Long live the glorious workers' struggle! Lefty Rights.

How about "Lefties' Rights?" Equal rights for persons of handedness! We may be the minority, but dammit, we're going to be heard! We're tired of being left down, left back, left behind! Kill Righty! Lefties' Rights.

Which will it be? A glorious struggle for a utopian society populated entirely by people with a dominant hand sinister? A workers' paradise wherein the lefties control the means of production?

Perhaps. Time will tell.