In Which I Rant at the Sheriff. And He’s Someone I Actually Like.

I know I promised you Tales from the Road, but they’re going to have to wait. Because, my darlin’s, I’m convinced this little saga of mine is going to last until the day I die. Really.
For the backstory of My Sordid Past As It Impinges Upon Jury Service, go here. Then come back. I’ll wait.
Last week I got yet another jury summons, as I told y’all. And I circled the part where it says I’m ineligible to serve because I was once a Teenage Thief, and I scribble out the part that says “felon,” hoping that will help keep them from getting confused about the exact nature of My Grave Misdeeds. And I send it to the address on the summons.
And it comes back. It says it’s undeliverable. See?

I double and triple check the address and then heave the great sigh and bundle it up with the mail and the overdue books and the estimate for the roof that needs to be faxed, and I get my super-groovy rainbow umbrella to Thwart the Sun and hike downtown.
I go to the library and pay my fine and once again explain the whole Deal with The Umbrella to the Library Ladies, who think I’m carrying it in case it rains.
There is not a cloud in the whole entire sky.
Not one. They apparently think I am just the tiniest bit odd, kind of like those people who come into the library in a poncho and a bicycle helmet and shoes that do not match and then spend the day talking to themselves in the Oil & Gas section. Or the actual guy they told me about who would show up, day after day, and sit at a table and put Vaseline on himself. Don’t ask. No one knows.
I leave the library and go across the street to the bank to ask Lupe to fax the estimate for me. Since the bank is the lien-holder on the mortgage, this makes perfect sense. Lupe takes it to the fax machine and then comes back and asks, “What number does it go to?” And I take it and look at it and realize I did not type the phone number anywhere on the cover page I so carefully prepared with the “TO:” and the “FROM:”  and the “RE:” and the claim number, all printed so legibly in the big, bold font.
And I just put my elbows on her desk and put my head in my hands, because it’s 3:30, and I walked downtown, and I don’t have time to walk back home and find the phone number and get back to the bank before 4, even if I drive. And the guy at State Farm said he wanted it right away so they can re-figure the roof estimate at the same time they re-do the siding estimate.  Both of these estimates from the contractors were high. Hmmmm. Do you think there might be a little Price Adjusting going on here in good old Midland, Texas, where almost every roof is being replaced and the roofing companies are backed up for months and you see pick-ups with ladders in the back driving up and down the streets, trolling for business, doing estimates for “roofing companies” that, until last month, had been only about storm window installation or, say, garage door openers? You think?
These days? If you’ve got a ladder and a truck and someone who can go down to the border and round you up a crew of workers, you’re in business. Don’t know from roofs? Doesn’t matter:  who’s actually going to climb up on their roof to see if you did a good job? You’re safe until the first good rain, and hell:  that might be another 18 months. You’ll be in New Jersey by then. I actually had one of my neighbors come over and offer to do our roof, saying he had a crew with experience, blah, blah, blah. Never mind that he was The EGE’s student a couple years ago and, technically, works at another job that has nothing to do with roofing. Guess he took some Roofing Correspondence Course from The DeVry Institute or something in his spare time.
So I walk to the post office and mail stuff, and then I walk over to the courthouse.
Once upon a time, I was at the courthouse a lot for murder trials, some for Survivors of Homicide, some for The EGE’s brother’s murder. I liked going there because you always had hope. It was cool and quiet and orderly and everything seemed to be under control, and as long as you were there, things still might turn out OK. And sometimes they did, more or less. As much as something can be “OK” when someone’s still dead.
Then there was 9/11, and Homeland Security and all the big fear, and now there’s a metal detector at the door, manned by a deputy from the sheriff’s department, and going to the courthouse is a royal pain in the ass every single time.
I remember back in the days when there was no metal detector at all unless it was the kind of trial where the families knew each other and had publicly vowed retaliation and A Feud Unto Death, and then they’d set up a little arch detector outside the courtroom. Otherwise? They’d just ask you if you had a gun, and if you said you did, they’d cheerfully  lock it in their little safe until you left for the day.
Not any more. Now they have a permanent set up manned by some guy who’s stuck there all day long, checking briefcases and wishing he’d done well enough to go to Quantico.
Is there anyone more officious and more a snotty little pain in the ass than a sheriff’s deputy? Especially a very short, male, Hispanic sheriff’s deputy in a Republican town on a hot May afternoon? I’ll bet not.
I walk in, and the deputy looks at me like I’m wearing a jail jumpsuit and have “Old Skank” tattooed on my forehead.
Now, this is the point in social intercourse when we West Texans howdy each other, exchanging pleasantries and asking solicitously after each other’s current state of well-being. It is the point in many such encounters when the other person will look at me and ask, “Aren’t you Coach Zachery’s wife?” and we will go from there, often for many, many pleasant moments. So I’m always expecting friendliness.
Call me naive.
“Hi!” I say brightly, laying the umbrella on the conveyor belt.
“Empty your pockets.” No smile, no “Fine, thanks, and how’re you?” Just, “Empty your pockets.”
I’m thinking, “Ooooh, aren’t we testy today?”
I lie. I’m thinking, “My, my. You’re an officious little fuck, aren’t you?”
I empty my pockets.
“Take off those bracelets and your rings.”
Now I’m starting to feel prickly, but I’m staying nice, seeing as how I’m bigger than he is, and I don’t want to frighten him. Because I sometimes do frighten people. The tattoos say things to them that I cannot imagine. I lower my eyes, something that works well with nervous dogs.
“They don’t come off. You’ll have to wand me.” Usually at this point, at airport security or with nicer people at the courthouse, I’ll apologize for inconveniencing them. Not today.
“Cover up the bracelets with your hands and walk through.” This is absurd, as it’s impossible to cover up bracelets on both wrists at the same time.
Go ahead. Try it.
See? [You’ll have read, above, how the last deputy handled this.]
But I go through the motion of trying to cover them up and walk through, telling him that this never works, trying to be helpful and skip the useless parts. He snaps, “I’ll have to wand you.”
I’m thinking, “Wow. What a great idea. You’re brilliant.” I do not roll my eyes. Nor do I snort.
He barks, “Back up! Stand on the ‘X’! Cross your wrists and hold your hands in front of you!”
Now, this is moving into dangerous territory. I, The Jewelry Queen, have been wanded many times, by many people in many circumstances of Security Enforcement, and this whole cross-your-wrists-in-front-0f-you-so-you-feel-like-you’re-in-handcuffs thing is new. And unnecessary. Oh, sure:  I get it. It’s about power and intimidation. Only here’s the thing:  I don’t play that.
At an earlier point in my life, back when I was young and meek and quiet and, well, White, I could be intimidated, often quite easily. Then, over the years, things happened, mostly things having to do with my being with The EGE—you know, being held at gunpoint and having to take people to court and just, at some point, saying, “Screw this.” Because at some point you either cave and give in and keep to yourself and are careful where you go and what you do and try to be as invisible as possible, or you say, “Hey. Wait a minute. I don’t have to put up with this.”
I went with option #2.
Today I’m trying to accomplish a whole list of stuff on my to-do list. I’ve walked downtown juggling books and packages and papers and the umbrella, and it’s hot and I’ve begun to sweat, and some stoned-looking kid has made an illegal turn into the parking lot at the post office and would have run me over if I hadn’t stopped dead in the middle of a step and leaned back out of his way. And I can feel myself bristling, and everything is in slow motion:  I can feel myself becoming hyper-aware and watching to see exactly what this guy is going to do next. It’s like a movie where I’m watching the characters.
I cross my wrists and stand there, not saying anything at all. Normally I would be joking with the guy, but I’m waiting. He comes around behind me and asks, “Why don’t you ever take them off?” Not in a curious, conversational way. Not at all. He’s near my ear, and he says it in a way I don’t like at all.
I pause. I say, “Hmmm. Because I don’t want to. Also because I formed them to my wrist.”
He says, flatly, “They’ll come off.”  He says it as if he’d like to prove it to me. He says it in a way I take as a threat. Or a challenge. He tosses the little tray of my stuff down the conveyor belt toward me and says, “Go take care of your business.”
I lean over and look at his name tag. He sees me do this and snaps, “Gonzales. Ralph Gonzales.”
I look at him and say, “You really need to work on your people skills, sir.”
I go upstairs, deal with the women there, pretty much just like last time (you read about that, above, so we’ll skip that part).
I walk back downstairs, and as I come around the corner, the deputy says to another deputy who’s just joined him at his post, “Never mind. There she is.”
They look at me. The New Deputy says, “How’re you doing?”
“Just fine!” I’m as chipper as Mary Poppins. I get my umbrella and open the door and turn back to look at them. They’re both staring at me, and I give them a big smile and then shake my head, sadly. I already know what’s going to happen next, but I’m guessing they have no idea.
I walk home, get in the car, and within moments am at the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Painter comes out and says, “Hey, girl! Where’ve you been?”  Much Big Hugging—well, duh:  if you look up “West Texas Sheriff” in the Dictionary of Clichés, you’re going to find our 6’ 6” model as the Epitome. You can’t do much better than Gary Painter. Sure, he’s Republican and probably as conservative as they come; but he’s a good man. Survivors of Homicide long ago learned the most human side of law enforcement, and my liberal ass has voted in many, many a Republican primary just to make sure he stays in office. In other words:  my voter’s registration card is stamped “Republican” because of this one guy. That’s what I think of him.
I apologize for bothering him, as I’m well aware he has a lot of Really Important Stuff to do. Like catching The Bad Guys. But sometimes? Sometimes things have to be taken care of, and when I leave, 20 minutes later, Deputy Gonzales has made his way onto the Sheriff’s to-do list.
Let’s just say that it’s not a place I’d want to be.
Because here’s the deal:  I don’t have to put up with this. No one does. It’s like I told Sheriff Painter:  if the guy was rude to me, he’s being rude to other people, too. And nobody has to put up with being treated like this by anyone, especially not a government employee, a Law Enforcement Official, with a gun.
Now, you might argue that I was giving him a hard time by not removing all my jewelry, all the rings and bracelets and earrings and rings on my toes. I would argue that this is not necessary. They have a wand, and they use it on people who have metal that cannot be removed, which includes not just people like The EGE , with pins in his knee, but also people with piercings in places that don’t allow for quick public removal. Think Prince Albert, if you will. People who do this metal-detecting a lot are not fazed by this—when I tell them there’s too much jewelry to remove, they wand me. It’s quick, it’s easy—a lot easier than waiting while I remove several dozen pieces of jewelry. Some sigh and act put out, but they don’t make a big deal about it.
Here’s what I hear in my head, from those Voices We’ve Internalized:  you get what you ask for. If you want people to treat you well, you have to look like you deserve their respect. If you want to be treated like a normal person, you should have thought of that when you got the tattoos and did the hair and decided to walk downtown to the courthouse wearing jeans and a tank top.
This is crap. What I look like is nobody’s business but my own. You can like it, or you can hate it; but it makes no difference in your life:  how I look doesn’t change the amount you pay on your taxes or whether or not your roses have aphids. It won’t raise your health care costs or interfere with your ability to receive HDTV signals. I’m clean, I’m don’t reek, there are no vermin leaping off my body onto yours.
In my rant to The EGE, who listened avidly, as usual, as if curious to see how much I’ve learned, I said that I used to try to blend. Even after I got the tattoos, there were times I’d cover them up:  when I was subbing, for instance:  too disruptive. And when I went to court to settle my mother’s estate. In fact, that was the last time: I walked out of the judge’s office and took off my linen jacket and said, “That’s it. I’m never doing this again.” I’m not ashamed of how I look. My mother hated my tattoos, and she’s dead. My husband thinks they’re fabulous, but he also thinks it’s none of his business how I want to look.
Just one more reason he’s a saint.
On that day when I took off the nice jacket and said “never again,” I meant it. I meant that I’ll be myself, no matter what. It doesn’t matter what other people think about it; it’s not their business. What this means, though, is that I have to be firm in my insistence that people not be allowed to treat me any differently because of the way I look. They can think whatever they want, but how they treat me is another thing entirely. And if I’m going to live my life this way, it’s my responsibility to stand up for myself and—and you saw this coming, didn’t you?—everyone else who doesn’t look like, well, Everyone Else.
Sure, the roots of this lie in all the years of people thinking they knew everything about me, a White Woman with a Black Man, in thinking that that told them all they could possibly need to know about my morals and my intelligence and my values and my purpose on the planet.
It told them nothing, of course.
People suggested, sometimes openly, sometimes sideways, that I could get along if I were careful about where I went and what I did. That there were Certain Places off limits to us, Certain Places we shouldn’t really try to go. Certain jobs we could never have, certain neighborhoods where we could never live. You’ve read that story, about buying this house and one of the many times I refused to go along.
We chose not to live our lives that way then, and it’s still valid:  your life is what you make it by the way you act and the things you do and the way you treat the people around you. It’s not about how you look or whom you love. Society would like to keep us in line by dictating Appropriate Attire and Appropriate Relationships and Appropriate Lives, and it will, if we allow it. But there’s no need for that. “Society” is a skitzy thing, frightened of change, frightened of difference. It needs us all to go along and not rock the boat, to follow the rules so it can more easily find and weed out those who do rock the boat. People argue that all these things are necessary to keep us safe and prosperous and able to live freely.
They are wrong. What is necessary for all of these things is to get over our fear of difference, our fear of change, our fear of Other. What we need is not rules about lives and appearance and choices, but, instead, expectations about how we should  relate to each other. Instead of holding other people to rules about fitting in, we should hold everyone to kindness. To compassion. To doing our best, every day, to smooth the rough edges off our interactions with each other so that we leave each encounter feeling a little better about the space we share.
Am I there yet? No way. But today I took another step. It felt good.

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