And driving at night has become really dicey. Especially if it's raining. Or foggy. Now I know why all the gomers lean over their steering wheels. It's because they can't SEE! Isn't that comforting? And now I am one. I have met the enemy, and she is me. Sorry, Pogo, give my regards to Walt, the line just begged to be used.
Twenty-oh nine. Two thousand nine. Two Oh Oh Nine. Wasn't it just 1963?
1963. Two years out of high school. College dropout. Working for Nationwide Insurance as a file clerk. They hadn't put in central air, yet. I made $48 a week before taxes. Wowie. I had long before made application with the federal government for a Clerk-Typist GS-3 position at the then-Olmsted Air Force Base. Every girl who could type tried to get a job there. So I got called for an interview. And I was accepted for the job, pending a security clearance at Secret level. The clearance was expected to take no more than two or three weeks. Twelve weeks into the investigation, I was contacted by the Office of Special Investigation of the U.S. Air Force. They said they needed to talk to me, and that they would send a car for me. I refused the car. They insisted. I balked. I won. I drove myself to the "interview" which consisted of a Major and a Captain from OSI, as well as a court stenographer, and some suit who did not identify himself. (Note that I was not offered an attorney, nor was I accompanied by a parent or legal guardian, because even though I was 19, in Pennsylvania then, you had to be 21 to be an adult. Period.) I reported at 0800, and was held in a wooden barracks building with only a fan, seated in a straight back wooden chair seated at an ugly military-issue conference table across from the men, with the steno at my left. I was, what, 19 years old? Born in 1943. And they ask me questions such as,
"Do you have any knowledge of your grandfather, Spero Evanoff, having attended a rally of the Communist party at the Farm Show arena in 1935?"
"I wasn't born until 1943," I answered.
"Just answer the question!" the Major barked.
"I thought I did," I said mildly. "But no, I have no such knowledge."
And they continued in this vein, asking me all sorts of questions about all sorts of things, most of which I had no knowledge of in any manner. But. They tied my grandfather to me, in all manner of innocent things, and made their case. J. Edgar hated the pinkos, yes he did. And I guess someone told the Feds that my grandfather, Spero Evanoff, barber, kept issues of "The Daily Worker" in his barbershop. And for that reason he was investigated. I don't know the outcome of that investigation, but I know he was not deported, so ... they found someone else to pick on. But. When the opportunity arose, and although I was totally ignorant of any of this information about my grandfather (who was, unfortunately, deceased and could not come to my aid), they had absolutely no qualms about trying to hang some sort of anti-american issue on my blood relation to a known socialist who had left-wing literature in his shop, and who spent Sundays in Steelton with the Macedonians. Certainly no good could have come from that, eh? They did manage to deport a northern italian friend of his, Vincente, on unknown grounds.
So it appeared that the "interview" bore no evil fruit, for some weeks afterwards, I was notified that I was accepted for employment in another position, that did not require a Secret clearance. That my clearance had been "suspended." There is no bigger albatross to hang around your neck than a "suspended clearance." It just doesn't look good.
So to the folks who don't believe this country has been on the fringes of becoming a police state with shades of military autocracy, wake up. Wake up to all the cameras, and the technology that tells police where shots are being fired at the moment they are. Bill Gates is the Patron Saint of Po-leece. He has given them the ability to find, label, release, recapture, or just fuck around with just about anyone they want to. My next project is to take advantage of the existing law that gives me the right to know what is in my 4 inch thick dossier. What the HELL could they have found to write about someone who had only been on this earth for 19 years, and most of that, she was a little kid.
Sure you can trust the government. Just ask any indian or whale. Or the Katrina survivors. Or the Ivan survivors.
But you know what? It's going to change, it's already changing, and I am so glad I lived to see it, at least this much of it. For the first time in my life, I believe this country is headed up and in the right direction. The day of the Used Car Salesmen Boehner types is pretty much over, except for that 20% that keep hanging on to Dubbya. They've all attached themselves to Boehner, so now at least we can know who to watch. Sneaky bastards. All of them. And usually in the name of their god. Like their god approves of their behavior. Well. Glad he's THEIR god. No god of mine. Fer sure.
Blessed be.
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