When Security Isn't Invisible

When I was a junior in college, I spent a year in the United Kingdom. While “studying abroad” was one of the better decisions I have ever made, it was also scary and eye-opening. I believe I would not be the person I am today (for better or for worse, your choice) if I hadn’t spent time in a completely unfamiliar, obviously foreign, environment.

One of the more remarkable aspects of that year was the trip my friend “Kay” and I took during what was the University’s three-week Spring Break. In Britain, when they say “school vacation,” what they really mean is, You must leave campus until classes start again because we subsidize your very reasonably-priced education by renting out your dormitory room to corporations. And, by the way, make sure all of your stuff fits into that locked closet over there. Bye.

So, Kay and I bought InterRail passes, which allow students to ride in coach class for free on essentially all of Europe’s rail lines (think: Amtrak). At the time, it cost approximately $100. We decided to take the overnight train to London, stay for few days to see some sights and take in a play, and then fly to Rome (also dirt cheap to do). Kay, a devout Catholic, really, really wanted to see the Vatican. From Rome, we’d wing it, choosing our itinerary as we went.

When we arrived in Rome, and got off of the plane, we were astonished and yes, a little scared, to discover armed guards at the airport. We thought there had been some sort of incident, an attempted assassination, maybe, or a bomb threat. The (very cute) Italian teenager we’d chatted up on the flight assured us – and he really did mean for it to make us feel better – that these guards, called carabiniere, were always posted there. They carried your basic Uzis strapped across their shoulders, and they looked menacing.

How do people live like this? I wondered to myself. Just the act of passing through the checkpoint made me feel guilty. When I mentioned to our Italian teenager how odd that felt, he literally just said, “Eh.”

That was twenty three years ago, and I still can recall the shock of walking out into the bright Mediterranean sunlight and coming face to face with a weapon I had only seen in the movies.

You know what? This morning, like countless mornings before, I got off of the commuter train and passed American transit police armed with automatic rifles and sidearms. Their adorable black Labradors rested in patches of shade at their feet. And I realized that this doesn’t faze me anymore. It doesn’t bother me when they flick their eyes head-to-toe, assessing my potential threat level in about half a second. I smile at them casually, giving their canines the wide berth they deserve, and hurry along to my office. When I go to the courthouse where I work, I am almost amused that the service dog used by the blind guy who runs the concession stand on the first floor and the bomb-and-ordnance sniffing canine “officer” idly patrolling the courtrooms look enough alike that they could be from the same litter.

And I’m not shocked. Or guilty.

We are all hyper-alert. I won’t squawk that we’ve given up our freedoms for the illusion of safety or anything like that. I don’t feel oppressed (and I say that as a member of a minority group that would be among the first “profiled.”) It’s not that I feel particularly safe, either, because I’m old enough and cynical enough to know that all we can do, usually, is react to an attack, not prevent one. If a person is crazy enough, or evil enough, to leave a bag with a bomb, he or she is going to do it, regardless of any show of force. But having those trained officers with their dogs visible tells me that while we don’t know what exactly to do to keep ourselves safe, we are doing what we can. And maybe it’s working; there’s no way to quantify all of the incidents that don’t happen.

A few days ago, I was walking behind a United States Coast Guard officer, who was dressed, deliciously, in his whites. An older man approached from the other direction, and as he passed, I heard him say, “Thank you for your service.” I got the impression that this was something he did often, acknowledging the service and sacrifice of any branch member he encountered. I knew how he felt; I do it myself sometimes. And so this morning, as I came off of the train, I wondered whether the transit policeman and his dog ever get thanked like that, and if not, why not?

Is it because it’s not politically correct, because they’re only there by order of an unpopular ex-president?

Have we become complacent enough ten years out from the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil to actually mind the slight inconveniences of heightened security? Are we more irritated than grateful for the reminder that security isn’t free or invisible?

Or do we resent that we’re no longer like the twenty-year-old me, stepping off a plane under a blue sky and bright sun, still able to be shocked and dismayed at the need for a blatant show of authority and force? We won’t ever enjoy that level of naïveté again.

Because now I look at those armed police patrolling my path, shrug my shoulders in a creditably Mediterranean way and say, “Eh.”

I think, starting tomorrow, I will say instead, “Good morning, and thank you for your service.”