Shame on the U.S. Border Patrol for seizing car keys and passports without explanation and deliberately making citizens and tourists feel like criminals. I was inspected yet again, this time while crossing from Sarnia into Port Huron. These officers always go the extra mile, crafting every statement into an accusation or threat.
Officer #1: “Turn off the engine and step out of the vehicle.”
Officer #2: “Who said you can open the door?”
It’s shocking how quickly you can go from the safe interior of your car to standing in a stainless steel room surrounded by men with guns, not knowing what will happen to you next. If any interaction with the government demands courtesy and professionalism, it ought to be when an armed public servant is holding your passport while his colleagues comb through your personal belongings without pretext. Instead, our nation’s borders are patrolled by steroids with sidearms, men who snap gum in your face and flex their power out of sheer boredom, demanding fear and gratitude rather than earning our trust.
After forty-five minutes, Officer #1 threw my passport on the stainless steel counter and walked away. “You can go.” Since 2001, this has quietly become the new normal, this culture of suspicion and paranoia. We deserve better. America should be ashamed of the way it greets its visitors and welcomes its citizens.
As Friday night began to roll, he recalled Heraclitus’s warning about ‘night walkers, magicians, priests of Bacchus, and mystery-mongers.’
New Orleans is home to jazz and government neglect and other American traditions.
“A tantalizing 21st Century cross between Let Us Now Praise Famous Men and On the Road, this remarkable and utterly original memoir heralds the arrival of a new and important American voice. The Road to Somewhere will take you places you will not easily forget.”
A man believed his only chance at justice was to take a hostage and march him downtown. An idealistic dancer packed the theater yet the city cast her out. A search for their ghosts continues beneath the city.
You’ve seen her before. She’s the old woman with her eyes closed on the bus, the one who sits alone on a bench for hours. At night she listens to the exhausted air conditioners that sound like the sea, tuning in to the city’s static like an old radio show.
The Former Desk of the First Office of the Bureau of Manufactured History was unveiled at a ceremony on the third of May and continues to appear in unexpected locations throughout Indianapolis.