I read a remark on DU today that scared me a bit

truedelphi

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Sat May-01-10 01:57 AM
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I read a remark on DU today that scared me a bit

Edited on Sat May-01-10 02:01 AM by truedelphi

I am not going to call that person out, but they basically said that they can "tell if someone is a Republican" by looking at them. It was an offhand remark, and maybe they felt it when they said it, but I hope it isn't something that they live by.

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Many many years ago, I was spending part of my summer hitchhiking with my first husband between Chicago and Toronto, Canada.

J. was a long haired, tall, well built man. Six feet two and sturdily built. He looked a bit older than his twenty three years.

I looked a bit younger than my twenty years. We often left Toronto in order to make it to family affairs or to various dentist appointments that I had made before we moved to Canada. Bus fares were cheap enough that we could have gone that route, but they were laboriously slow, hitting every town and hamlet between the two urban centers.

They were such slow affairs that often we simply hitchhiked. This was the summer of 1972. Rides were easy to come by and it was quite a bit of fun to travel that way.

Anyway, at the end of the line, we were at a truck stop not far from my parent's home in Southwestern Suburbs of Chicago. A truck stop near I 80. We had decided we'd spend some change and have lunch. Then the plan was, we would call my home and have my mother drive over and get us.

Well, just as we were about to finish the meal, a policeman lumbered over to our table. He stood over us, and the long scary shadow of the law fell across J. And I.

"Just what do you think you are doing here, Young Man?" the police man fairly sneered. "Your companion seems to be on the rather young side, and you are aware of the Mann act, I hope."

My stomach dropped out from under me. I knew full well about the Mann Act (a law that has to do with the illegality of transporting under age women and girls across state lines for the purpose of having sex with them) With great urgency, I flipped through my purse and pulled out my driver's license, and a wrinkled copy of our marriage license.

J. had already gotten out his driver's license, to comply with the request - actually the order -to offer some I.D.

The police man was not at all convinced of these documents being legal. He barked at us that we better have some other method of proving that I was over the age of 18, and that we were indeed married.

I stifled the resentment I had, and a feeling to just go for it -- rise up and throttle the man. Through countless student protests of the War in Vietnam I had decided that there were two types of police - those who were bullies, and those who were decent people attempting to do a hard job. This officer clearly fell into the Bully category. However, it dawned on me that as my maiden name was on my marriage license, I could insist that he make the local phone call to ask my mother who I was, what my age was, whom she thought I may be with, if we were married, and what our plans were.

"I'm not making any such phone call," sneered the cop. "But if you have a dime, I will be willing to ask your mother some questions.

Through all of this, J. remained stoic. As a long haired man living in the MidWest, he knew when it was best to be extremely compliant and quiet. I resented the fact that both of us were being forced to "assume the position." He had done one tour of duty in Vietnam. The reason for us being in Toronto was that before our move there, he received far too many notices from the Army that he had done so well during this tour that perhaps they might ask him to go back. Now I intensely disliked the fact that despite his having seen as much danger in Vietnam as this southside suburban cop had seen, he was being treated like an inferior human being.

But we did get up from our table, asking the waitress to save our Cokes, and went off to the phone booths. My hand trembled as I dropped the dime into the phone and heard the familar ring.

My mother answered and when I explained what was happening, I could hear alarm in her voice.
I handed the phone to the police officer, and he snarled out some questions for her. The angry red color drained from his face when he realized that he was not going to be able to further disrupt our lives. The two of us had checked out, and without apology, he told us we were free to go.

Quietly, as though we were not out of danger, we returned to the table. The Cokes still sitting there looked refreshing. As I was about to suck up every drop and push away the embarrassment, the fear and also the heat of the event, I saw another man approaching. He was not a policeman but someone I immediately identified as a redneck. My fear level rose back up.

The guy carried an extra thirty pounds or more, all of it in his gut. His attire was your basic flannel shirt, blue jeans and white socks and scuffed shoes. I shut my eyes for a quick second: envisioning the fact that he was here to make a scene.

Perhaps he was on a mission to tell my husband that lily-bellied Commie peaceniks like him were the reason why we were losing the war in Vietnam? Maybe he would spit at us? Maybe he would decide to "be a man" and so he would push at J. who might push back. And that would offer that police man just what he wanted - a real reason to arrest the long haired "hippy" freak.

He got closer to the table. In a fairly nasal and whiny voice, coupled with a Southern accent, he called out as he approached, "Good day to you." He kicked back the other chair at our table and leaned against it.

"I just wanted to tell you how bad I feel on your behalf. I think how ashamed I am of our country that you two fine people were basically assaulted by that man in a uniform. I have no idea who he thinks he is, but you two were sitting here eating your dinner, and minding your own business, quiet like, and since he wouldn't apologize to you, I sure would like to." He extended his hand, and J. and I found ourselves both shaking it.

"Jes' so you know, I am Daniel. I do a regular run between Chicago and Mobile, Alabama, and I want you to know if we never meet again, it was a pleasure seeing the grace and dignity with which you handled that SOB."

Then as quickly as he entered our lives, Daniel left.

J. And I sat there stunned, a host of emotions rising up in our bodies.

J. then relaxed into his sweetest, sunniest smile, and I started laughing till the tears came.

We both were laughing when my mother showed up. We knew there was no way to convey to her what we had assumed the actions of our new friend were going to be, nor our relief at how we had misjudged him. She had never lived through a time when the generations had been so divided, and she wouldn't understand how or why we had misjudged Daniel. Nor could she understand our relief and delight at finding out that truly, it is often a mistake to judge a book by its cover.