Fortress America

Stepping off the plane, we were ushered to the gates of Fortress America.

Amazingly, as we gathered into two immense, concentration-camp-esque ques down a seemingly endless airport hallway, an airport staff woman with a Chinese accent so thick you could fry dumplings in it, continuously shouted into the crowd, “Don’t worry! Be happy! You’re in America now!” During this time, The Princess and I exchanged significant-other glances of the most dubious variety.

However, the situation quickly spiraled from quixotic to Orwellian, as we reached Act One of Security Theatre 9/11.

Our huge lines funneled into still longer ques which snaked back and forth through black nylon-belted separators across an immense room. One line was for citizens such as myself, as well as Green Card holders like The Princess, while the other contained folks regarded with even greater suspicion beneath Big Brother’s watchful eye.

I was only able to snap these two photos before a security officer walked quickly toward me declaring, “Photos are not permitted!” My guess is that they’re worried about negative PR more than any threat my photos might actually pose to Fortress America.

But who knows—perpetual paranoia can work strange effects on people.

Winding slowly through the ques, televisions overhead repeatedly looped through a propaganda video depicting a noble security chief sending his squadron of threat-sniffing dogs out into the airport to protect the people.

“Alright Men,” I recall him uttering to the gathered dogs, prior to giving them some kind of heroic instructions. The dogs barked a chipper confirmation of their understanding, and diligently dispersed into the airport to carry out their warm and fuzzy security mission.

The inherent pro-military, pro-police underpinnings of the video would have been appalling enough under normal circumstances, however encountered upon returning from a peaceful country which doesn’t even have a military (the SDF notwithstanding), the effect was downright nauseating.

As we neared the inspection kiosk, signs aglow with large, red, wholly unwelcoming letters declared, “Welcome to the United States of America.” By this time, my general feeling of “welcomeness” ranked far into the negative, and the barometer was still dropping fast.

At the counter, a large, blubberous, and notably un-genki minion of Big Brother reviewed my papers, and with minimal eye contact grunted, “Thanks. Next.”

This sort of barbaric service quality persisted throughout our experience in the airport. Unlike in Japan, where our luggage would have been carefully transferred to our next flight, we were instead tersely instructed to, “Collect our bags and reconnect.”

Of course, despite having landed early, our booking left us with only half an hour to get to our next plane, security theatrics included.

We quickly rummaged through rows of luggage which had been piled up in various heaps around the carousel.

Of course, my guitar and umbrella were placed some ninety feet or so down the other end of the room, as I eventually found out while desperately searching for them—but just as promised by the airport agent in Japan, both items were perfectly intact. Though he hadn’t said anything about it directly at the time, I knew that he had personally assured their safe conduct on our flight—it’s just what people do in Japan.

“That’s normal,” observed The Princess.

I remember that I could actually feel his thoughtfulness there with me in that moment, like a subtle, barely perceptible nod—devoid of words yet full of understanding.

“Yes,” I replied, “in Japan that is normal.”

But we were now five thousand miles from Japan, and normal was changing fast.