-Caveat Lector-
http://www.lewrockwell.com/orig3/monahan1.html
Coffee, Tea, or Should We Feel Your Pregnant Wife�s Breasts Before Throwing You in a
Cell
at the Airport and Then Lying About Why We Put You There?
by Nicholas Monahan
This morning I�ll be escorting my wife to the hospital, where the doctors will perform
a
caesarean section to remove our first child. She didn�t want to do it this way �
neither of us
did � but sometimes the Fates decide otherwise. The Fates or, in our case, government
employees.
On the morning of October 26th Mary and I entered Portland International Airport, en
route
to the Las Vegas wedding of one of my best friends. Although we live in Los Angeles,
we�d
been in Oregon working on a film, and up to that point had had nothing but praise to
shower on the city of Portland, a refreshing change of pace from our own suffocating
metropolis.
At the security checkpoint I was led aside for the "inspection" that�s all the rage at
airports
these days. My shoes were removed. I was told to take off my sweater, then to fold over
the waistband of my pants. My baseball hat, hastily jammed on my head at 5 AM, was
removed and assiduously examined ("Anything could be in here, sir," I was told, after I
asked what I could hide in a baseball hat. Yeah. Anything.) Soon I was standing on one
foot, my arms stretched out, the other leg sticking out in front of me �la a DUI test.
I began
to get pissed off, as most normal people would. My anger increased when I realized that
the newly knighted federal employees weren�t just examining me, but my 7� months
pregnant wife as well. I�d originally thought that I�d simply been randomly selected
for the
more excessive than normal search. You know, Number 50 or whatever. Apparently not
though � it was both of us. These are your new threats, America: pregnant accountants
and their sleepy husbands flying to weddings.
After some more grumbling on my part they eventually finished with me and I went to
retrieve our luggage from the x-ray machine. Upon returning I found my wife sitting in
a
chair, crying. Mary rarely cries, and certainly not in public. When I asked her what
was the
matter, she tried to quell her tears and sobbed, "I�m sorry...it�s...they touched my
breasts...and..." That�s all I heard. I marched up to the woman who�d been examining
her
and shouted, "What did you do to her?" Later I found out that in addition to touching
her
swollen breasts � to protect the American citizenry � the employee had asked that she
lift
up her shirt. Not behind a screen, not off to the side � no, right there, directly in
front of the
hundred or so passengers standing in line. And for you women who�ve been pregnant and
worn maternity pants, you know how ridiculous those things look. "I felt like a
clown," my
wife told me later. "On display for all these people, with the cotton panel on my
pants and
my stomach sticking out. When I sat down I just lost my composure and began to cry.
That�s when you walked up."
Of course when I say she "told me later," it�s because she wasn�t able to tell me at
the
time, because as soon as I demanded to know what the federal employee had done to
make her cry, I was swarmed by Portland police officers. Instantly. Three of them,
cinching
my arms, locking me in handcuffs, and telling me I was under arrest. Now my wife really
began to cry. As they led me away and she ran alongside, I implored her to calm down,
to
think of the baby, promising her that everything would turn out all right. She faded
into the
distance and I was shoved into an elevator, a cop holding each arm. After making me
face
the corner, the head honcho told that I was under arrest and that I wouldn�t be flying
that
day � that I was in fact a "menace."
It took me a while to regain my composure. I felt like I was one of those guys in The
Gulag
Archipelago who, because the proceedings all seem so unreal, doesn�t fully realize
that he
is in fact being arrested in a public place in front of crowds of people for...for
what? I didn�t
know what the crime was. Didn�t matter. Once upstairs, the officers made me remove my
shoes and my hat and tossed me into a cell. Yes, your airports have prison cells, just
like
your amusement parks, train stations, universities, and national forests. Let freedom
reign.
After a short time I received a visit from the arresting officer. "Mr. Monahan," he
started,
"Are you on drugs?"
Was this even real? "No, I�m not on drugs."
"Should you be?"
"What do you mean?"
"Should you be on any type of medication?"
"No."
"Then why�d you react that way back there?"
You see the thinking? You see what passes for reasoning among your domestic shock
troops these days? Only "whackos" get angry over seeing the woman they�ve been with for
ten years in tears because someone has touched her breasts. That kind of reaction �
love,
protection � it�s mind- boggling! "Mr. Monahan, are you on drugs?" His snide words rang
inside my head. This is my wife, finally pregnant with our first child after months of
failed
attempts, after the depressing shock of the miscarriage last year, my wife who�d been
walking on a cloud over having the opportunity to be a mother...and my anger is simply
unfathomable to the guy standing in front of me, the guy who earns a living thanks to
my
taxes, the guy whose family I feed through my labor. What I did wasn�t normal. No, I
reacted like a drug addict would�ve. I was so disgusted I felt like vomiting. But that
was just
the beginning.
An hour later, after I�d been gallantly assured by the officer that I wouldn�t be
attending my
friend�s wedding that day, I heard Mary�s voice outside my cell. The officer was
speaking
loudly, letting her know that he was planning on doing me a favor... which everyone
knows
is never a real favor. He wasn�t going to come over and help me work on my car or move
some furniture. No, his "favor" was this: He�d decided not to charge me with a felony.
Think about that for a second. Rapes, car-jackings, murders, arsons � those are
felonies.
So is yelling in an airport now, apparently. I hadn�t realized, though I should have.
Luckily, I
was getting a favor, though. I was merely going to be slapped with a misdemeanor.
"Here�s your court date," he said as I was released from my cell. In addition, I was
banned
from Portland International for 90 days, and just in case I was thinking of coming
over and
hanging out around its perimeter, the officer gave me a map with the boundaries
highlighted, sternly warning me against trespassing. Then he and a second officer
escorted
us off the grounds. Mary and I hurriedly drove two and a half hours in the rain to
Seattle,
where we eventually caught a flight to Vegas. But the officer was true to his word � we
missed my friend�s wedding. The fact that he�d been in my own wedding party, the fact
that
a once in a lifetime event was stolen from us � well, who cares, right?
Upon our return to Portland (I�d had to fly into Seattle and drive back down), we
immediately began contacting attorneys. We aren�t litigious people � we wanted no
money.
I�m not even sure what we fully wanted. An apology? A reprimand? I don�t know. It
doesn�t
matter though, because we couldn�t afford a lawyer, it turned out. $4,000 was the
average
figure bandied about as a retaining fee. Sorry, but I�ve got a new baby on the way. So
we
called the ACLU, figuring they existed for just such incidents as these. And they do
apparently...but only if we were minorities. That�s what they told us.
In the meantime, I�d appealed my suspension from PDX. A week or so later I got a
response from the Director of Aviation. After telling me how, in the aftermath of
9/11, most
passengers not only accept additional airport screening but welcome it, he cut to the
chase:
"After a review of the police report and my discussions with police staff, as well as
a review
of the TSA�s report on this incident, I concur with the officer�s decision to take you
into
custody and to issue a citation to you for disorderly conduct. That being said,
because I also
understand that you were upset and acted on your emotions, I am willing to lift the
Airport
Exclusion Order...."
Attached to this letter was the report the officer had filled out. I�d like to say I
couldn�t
believe it, but in a way, I could. It�s seemingly becoming the norm in America � lies
and
deliberate distortions on the part of those in power, no matter how much or how little
power they actually wield.
The gist of his report was this: From the get go I wasn�t following the screener�s
directions.
I was "squinting my eyes" and talking to my wife in a "low, forced voice" while
"excitedly
swinging my arms." Twice I began to walk away from the screener, inhaling and exhaling
forcefully. When I�d completed the physical exam, I walked to the luggage screening
area,
where a second screener took a pair of scissors from my suitcase. At this point I
yelled,
"What the %*&$% is going on? This is &*#&$%!" The officer, who�d already been called
over by one of the screeners, became afraid for the TSA staff and the many travelers.
He
required the assistance of a second officer as he "struggled" to get me into
handcuffs, then
for "cover" called over a third as well. It was only at this point that my wife began
to cry
hysterically.
There was nothing poetic in my reaction to the arrest report. I didn�t crumple it in
my fist
and swear that justice would be served, promising to sacrifice my resources and time to
see that it would. I simply stared. Clearly the officer didn�t have the guts to write
down
what had really happened. It might not look too good to see that stuff about the
pregnant
woman in tears because she�d been humiliated. Instead this was the official scenario
being
presented for the permanent record. It doesn�t even matter that it�s the most
implausible
sounding situation you can think of. "Hey, what the...godammit, they�re taking our
scissors,
honey!" Why didn�t he write in anything about a monkey wearing a fez?
True, the TSA staff had expropriated a pair of scissors from our toiletries kit � the
story
wasn�t entirely made up. Except that I�d been locked in airport jail at the time. I
didn�t know
anything about any scissors until Mary told me on our drive up to Seattle. They�d
questioned
her about them while I was in the bowels of the airport sitting in my cell.
So I wrote back, indignation and disgust flooding my brain.
"[W]hile I�m not sure, I�d guess that the entire incident is captured on video. Memory
is
imperfect on everyone�s part, but the footage won�t lie. I realize it might be
procedurally
difficult for you to view this, but if you could, I�d appreciate it. There�s no
willful disregard of
screening directions. No explosion over the discovery of a pair of scissors in a
suitcase. No
struggle to put handcuffs on. There�s a tired man, early in the morning, unhappily
going
through a rigorous procedure and then reacting to the tears of his pregnant wife."
Eventually we heard back from a different person, the guy in charge of the TSA airport
screeners. One of his employees had made the damning statement about me exploding
over her scissor discovery, and the officer had deftly incorporated that statement
into his
report. We asked the guy if he could find out why she�d said this � couldn�t she
possibly be
mistaken? "Oh, can�t do that, my hands are tied. It�s kind of like leading a witness �
I could
get in trouble, heh heh." Then what about the videotape? Why not watch that? That would
exonerate me. "Oh, we destroy all video after three days."
Sure you do.
A few days later we heard from him again. He just wanted to inform us that he�d
received
corroboration of the officer�s report from the officer�s superior, a name we didn�t
recognize.
"But...he wasn�t even there," my wife said.
"Yeah, well, uh, he�s corroborated it though."
That�s how it works.
"Oh, and we did look at the videotape. Inconclusive."
But I thought it was destroyed?
On and on it went. Due to the tenacity of my wife in making phone calls and speaking
with
relevant persons, the "crime" was eventually lowered to a mere citation. Only she could
have done that. I would�ve simply accepted what was being thrown at me, trumped up
charges and all, simply because I�m wholly inadequate at performing the kowtow. There�s
no way I could have contacted all the people Mary did and somehow pretend to be
contrite.
Besides, I speak in a low, forced voice, which doesn�t elicit sympathy. Just police
suspicion.
Weeks later at the courthouse I listened to a young DA awkwardly read the charges
against
me � "Mr. Monahan...umm...shouted obscenities at the airport staff...umm... umm...oh,
they took some scissors from his suitcase and he became...umm...abusive at this
point." If I
was reading about it in Kafka I might have found something vaguely amusing in all of
it. But
I wasn�t. I was there. Living it.
I entered a plea of nolo contendere, explaining to the judge that if I�d been a
resident of
Oregon, I would have definitely pled "Not Guilty." However, when that happens, your
case
automatically goes to a jury trial, and since I lived a thousand miles away, and was
slated
to return home in seven days, with a newborn due in a matter of weeks...you get the
picture. "No Contest" it was. Judgment: $250 fine.
Did I feel happy? Only $250, right? No, I wasn�t happy. I don�t care if it�s twelve
cents, that�s
money pulled right out of my baby�s mouth and fed to a disgusting legal system that
will use
it to propagate more incidents like this. But at the very least it was over, right?
Wrong.
When we returned to Los Angeles there was an envelope waiting for me from the court.
Inside wasn�t a receipt for the money we�d paid. No, it was a letter telling me that
what I
actually owed was $309 � state assessed court costs, you know. Wouldn�t you think your
taxes pay for that � the state putting you on trial? No, taxes are used to hire more
cops like
the officer, because with our rising criminal population � people like me � hey, your
average citizen demands more and more "security."
Finally I reach the piece de resistance. The week before we�d gone to the airport my
wife
had had her regular pre-natal checkup. The child had settled into the proper head down
position for birth, continuing the remarkable pregnancy she�d been having. We returned
to
Portland on Sunday. On Mary�s Monday appointment she was suddenly told, "Looks like
your
baby�s gone breech." When she later spoke with her midwives in Los Angeles, they wanted
to know if she�d experienced any type of trauma recently, as this often makes a child
flip.
"As a matter of fact..." she began, recounting the story, explaining how the child
inside of
her was going absolutely crazy when she was crying as the police were leading me away
through the crowd.
My wife had been planning a natural childbirth. She�d read dozens of books,
meticulously
researched everything, and had finally decided that this was the way for her. No
drugs, no
numbing of sensations � just that ultimate combination of brute pain and sheer joy that
belongs exclusively to mothers. But my wife is also a first-time mother, so she has
what is
called an "untested" pelvis. Essentially this means that a breech birth is too
dangerous to
attempt, for both mother and child. Therefore, she�s now relegated to a c-section �
hospital
stay, epidural, catheter, fetal monitoring, stitches � everything she didn�t want. Her
natural
birth has become a surgery.
We�ve tried everything to turn that baby. Acupuncture, chiropractic techniques,
underwater
handstands, elephant walking, moxibustion, bending backwards over pillows, herbs,
external manipulation � all to no avail. When I walked into the living room the other
night
and saw her plaintively cooing with a flashlight turned onto her stomach, yet another
suggested technique, my heart almost broke. It�s breaking now as I write these words.
I can never prove that my child went breech because of what happened to us at the
airport.
But I�ll always believe it. Wrongly or rightly, I�ll forever think of how this man, the
personification of this system, has affected the lives of my family and me. When my
wife is
sliced open, I�ll be thinking of him. When they remove her uterus from her abdomen and
lay
it on her stomach, I�ll be thinking of him. When I visit her and my child in the
hospital
instead of having them with me here in our home, I�ll be thinking of him. When I
assist her
to the bathroom while the incision heals internally, I�ll be thinking of him.
There are plenty of stories like this these days. I don�t know how many I�ve read
where the
writer describes some breach of civil liberties by employees of the state, then wraps
it all
up with a dire warning about what we as a nation are becoming, and how if we don�t put
an end to it now, then we�re in for heaps of trouble. Well you know what? Nothing�s
going
to stop the inevitable. There�s no policy change that�s going to save us. There�s no
election
that�s going to put a halt to the onslaught of tyranny. It�s here already � this
country has
changed for the worse and will continue to change for the worse. There is now a
division
between the citizenry and the state. When that state is used as a tool against me,
there is
no longer any reason why I should owe any allegiance to that state.
And that�s the first thing that child of ours is going to learn.
December 21, 2002
Nick Monahan works in the film industry. He writes out of Los Angeles where he lives
with
his wife and as of December 18th, his beautiful new son.
Copyright � 2002 LewRockwell.com
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