Maybe because my father was in the military while I was growing up, I'm presuming that everyone should feel the same as I do. My father did go to war; however, I was a little infant at the time, so the trauma wasn't so profoundly felt -- unless you count hearing stories about how adorable I was walking around in the dry heat of the desert southwest in only a diaper as my mother took care of the laundry at the local laundromat.
Silly aside, I could not imagine how a child must feel knowing mom or dad is halfway around the world for the next 12 months or longer with no guarantee of quick visits around the holidays. And, with my father having to take frequent, sometimes weeks at a stretch, temporary duty assignments, at Uncle Sam's behest, phone calls and postcards (this was the 70's and early 80's, mind you) just don't fill the gap completely. Nor, I'm sure, would a video or audio call or any frequency of e-mails from the front.
But even the opinion piece would not have fired me hot enough to write. Not until the start of the last leg of my commute home tonight. My apologies again for the poor photography:
For the first time since I began riding the Metro light rails earlier this year, there was a table set up at the bottom right of the stairs which connect one rail line with the other. While I carry a satchel containing sunglasses, the iPhone . . oh, to hell with it -- it's a small purse, I narrowly escaped the random bag searches being conducted this evening. I was not aware of any specific threat toward public transportation, unless you consider how many folks are using public transportation while being sick with something (yes, hand sanitizer is in my purse, but it only works when it's used and too much use just looks pretentious. Besides, I got my flu shots on Friday, so I can look reasonably cool on the train and use the sanitizer sparingly.
Keeping in mind that my (ugh) purse would have been tossed about at any major airport should I have chosen to fly to work today, I suppose I should not have been so jarred by the mere presence of the Sheriff's department's presence tonight.
Perhaps I should save my indignant attitude for another night where the Deputies bring in the dogs to sniff around? Or maybe practice a little deep breathing and relax until they start patting random passengers down?
The only question to ask is: did I feel safer tonight because of the random bag search? If the random pieces of contraband (I haven't a clue for what exactly the Deputies were searching) taken and the odd passenger was whisked away in cuffs this evening because of this, I'd say this was a colossal waste of time. If, however, there was another motive to the random searches . . .
Nah, still a waste of time. And, the deep breathing ain't working.