It’s Hollywood Baby; Assume the Position
There’s something about travelling in the United States that makes you realise how much this country survives on rules and regulations. And how much they love it. The need for everyone to feel important is paramount, and one step out of line can result in lengthy delays and questioning.
Case in point is the wonderful arrival card that you must fill in on entering the US. Firstly you are asked what visa you are entering on, as that determines which card you have to fill in. Any other country would simply have a question requesting you to place a tick in the box of the visa you have and save the paper. And then comes the debriefing. You must make sure that every question is answered by writing in the exact box provided, otherwise, you are warned, you could be made to return to the back of the line and redo it when you reach the customs hall. Seriously? For colouring outside the lines?
What’s insane, and wonderfully ironic, is that the actual arrival card asks for the least amount of information about you than any country I’ve visited. There is none of that “have you ever visited a farm and had your hand up a cow’s bum in the last 30 days” type of Q&A (for the record I would have answered yes, only once – long story). It just asks your name, where you are staying and are you a terrorist. Oh and “have you ever been arrested or convicted for a crime involving moral turpitude…” Moral turpitude? Now I must admit I had to go to the source of all knowledge to understand this one – Wikipedia. Moral turpitude is a legal concept in the United States that refers to “conduct that is considered contrary to community standards of justice, honesty, or good morals”. That seems rather vague if you ask me. I once ended a 3 year relationship via text which I consider bad morals. Oh wait, I was never convicted. Forget I said anything. Still it seems a rule for the sake of a rule. But man, you put your date of birth in the wrong box and it’s ‘no soup for you’! It’s called justifying your job. Let’s make the simplest task seem as difficult as possible for the average person so we can hire someone, give them a gun and tell them to enforce the rules.
The thing that always amuses me, though not at the time, is the efficiency and seriousness with which these jobs are carried out. I think it’s all to further confuse you, make you anxious and therefore feel in awe of the might and power of the USA. Please, I mean, I’ve just sat in e-comedy class for the last 12 hours with my knees around my ears in such a position that, if I could replicate it at home I would never have the urge to have a girlfriend, I haven’t slept since yesterday… or is that tomorrow? …and you are going to make me sit in the corner facing the wall for writing in the wrong square? I’m lucky I can even remember my name after half a day stuck in one seat next to a child alternating between crying and vomiting and sometimes doing both simultaneously.
Last weekend I had the joy of flying domestically in the US. Remove your shoes, your belt, take off your jacket and scarf, show us your boarding pass and your ID, do not pass go, do not collect $200. I received a pat down even though I didn’t set the metal detector off. Almost like they were surprised that anyone could beat the detector and therefore I must have come up with a new technology for concealing weapons. For me, having spent the last 6 years in NZ, I’m used to the Aoteora style of domestic security – a large Polynesian man who asks “What plane you on bro? Sweet. Have a good flight eh”.
The height of my security absurdness came during the week when I had the opportunity of attending a special Media Screening of Gran Torino. Now, granted, I understand the need to check that no one is secretly filming the movie to prematurely post on YouTube … but it felt a little intrusive to have to clear my pockets in front of two massive guys dressed like Special Agents, complete with ear pieces and portable metal detectors, receive yet another pat down and give up my cell phone. I was fully expecting him to sink his hand deep into my popcorn (and no that’s not a euphemism) and check for camera equipment. All just so I could hear Clint Eastwood sing. Badly. If you’ve seen the movie you’ll know what I mean. What ever happened to the days of pimply faced pre-teen cinema attendants who you would duly ignore when they would shine that torch in your face and tell you to take your feet off the seats in that squeaky voice that wavers between comical and a tone that only dogs can hear?
Obviously those days are long gone. And therefore it seems if I want to travel anywhere these days in the USA or even see a movie, I may as well prepare myself to ‘assume the position’.
Merry Christmas everyone! Hope none of you go outside the lines and find yourself sent to the back of the queue.
