The Story Of My Knife
My knife is red with a cross-and-shield logo that serves as a switch for a tiny red light. It has the usual complement of blades, plus a pen which, combined with the light, makes it so you can write in the dark. It's an urban version of your usual Swiss Army knife. Sometimes I use it to cut fruit. It comes in very handy. My father gave it to me for Christmas some years back.
My knife was hiding. It was in the lower corner of my shoulder bag, buried under all the things I was taking home for the holidays. I felt for it before I checked my bags; didn't feel it; presumed it wasn't there. Sneaky little thing.
At the metal detector, they asked to search my bag. The day before, a passenger had tried to ignite explosives in his shoes, so their vigilance was unsurprising. But the woman said, I don't need to search your whole bag. We see you have a knife in there; could you take it out?
We're going to have to confiscate that, she said. Can't it go in my other bag? I asked. No, she said; it's already been checked. Can I mail it home? No, she said; there are no mailboxes left in this airport.
It was the end of a long, frustrating day. There was some rational argument that would get my knife home with me, but the only thing that occurred to me was It's my knife; it belongs to me.
Rationality doesn't enter the picture. Later that week at the Norton Simon, a small museum in Pasadena, a teenage girl in a uniform asked to check my bags. She found the knife. You'll have to put this in your car, she said. Can't I leave it with you? I asked. No.
I put the knife in the car, and asked her, What are you worried about? The museum is a low-slung building at some remove from the crotch of two freeways, and probably not a major terrorist target.
We're worried that you would damage the art, she said, and then, We don't want anything bad to happen.
When they process you into jail, they take all sorts of things from you so you can't hurt anyone. Hair ornaments. Shoelaces. It takes some creativity to come up with a way you could hurt yourself with some of the things they take.
My knife was with me when I was jailed for "parading without a permit" a few years ago at a protest. The woman processing me in asked if I had any weapons. I gave up the knife so as not to get in trouble. Other than that, I said, no weapons.
She found two shards of lavender-colored glass in my pocket as she patted me down. What's this? she asked, as if I was trying to trick her. Art, I said. Their color had caught my eye. I was going to use them to make a necklace.
* * *
A soldier carring an automatic weapon as long as his torso came over when I started crying at the metal detector. Look, he said, go back to the ticketing counter. They'll put it in an envelope and check it with the luggage.
They did. The next time through the detector everything went fine. They send it? asked the soldier. You should tell people they have that option before you confiscate something, I said. It's my knife, I have a right to carry it. Don't you care about your constitutional rights?
We don't have to tell you anything, said the soldier, leaning back into his rifle.
Paul Simon cannot have known what he meant when he wrote,
Anger and no one can feel it
Slides though the metal detector...
Tolkien Wasn't Kidding
I went back to Aftaschoo the other day to talk to a few former students. I got there around the time parents were arriving to pick their kids up, with the result that most of my interactions with the kids were like being in a receiving line:
Shaliek: Hi Miss Gillian.
Me: Hi Shaliek!
Shaliek: Are you coming back?
Me: Just to visit. You still dancing?
Shaliek: Whaaat?
Me: Weren't you doing some thing where you were dancing?
Shaliek: Noooo. I was -- what was I doing? Oh yeah, I was cooking.
Me: Hey Zayd!
Zayd (with his usual, almost-autistic reserve): Hey.
Me: Still drawing whales?
Zayd: Yeah. Are you coming back?
Me: No, I have another job now.
Ashley: Hi Miss Andrews!
Me: Hey Ashley!
Ashley: Are you coming back to be our teacher?
Me: Just to visit. Hi Jonathan!
Jonathan: Miss Andrews! Are you coming back?
Jonathan and Ashley were with a woman I remembered well, who might have been his mother, or just their babysitter; I was never sure. She was short, heavyset, brown-skinned, and had a benevolent, uneven smile. She was prompting Jonathan in Spanish to ask me whether I was coming back again. I have a present for you, he said. I told him I'd let the director know when I was coming back. They all seemed a little flustered by this response, and asked a few more times when I would return. Then the woman took my hand, and slipped a ring onto my finger.
I tried to protest, but she wouldn't hear of it. The kids tried to explain what was going on. It's gold, said Jonathan. No, said Ashley, it's -- she searched for a word -- white.
Plata, I said. The ring looked silver, with a simple, slightly uneven row of clear stones. No, said Ashley. White gold.
The woman smiled her breathtaking, devastated smile at me again. I noticed she had two handfuls of gold rings herself. I remembered a friend had told me recently about an academic article they'd read recently which outlined how people in impoverished communities, bereft of banks in their neighborhoods, bought jewelry instead of opening savings accounts. Need cash? Pawn a ring.
I felt like I was stealing. Still she wouldn't take it back. This is not the first time the reward for teaching has felt dizzily unsuited to the task. The first time I gave up tutoring was in seventh grade, when a child I was helping in an afterschool program pushed me to give him the answers, claiming his father was waiting outside and he had to leave. He waffled and complained until I gave in, then grabbed my hand, curled a palmful of sunflower seeds into it, and ran out the door. It was so unlike the private school environment I was used to that I figured I was useless, and gave the tutoring program up.
This time I had the small comfort of knowing I had done a good job with her children. Ashley and especially Jonathan made it easy; both of them were smart, did their homework willingly and with great concentration.
I continue to wear the ring on the finger where she put it. At work the other day Dania noticed. You didn't get married over the weekend, did you?, she asked. No, I said. I was wearing it because I figured guys on the subway would stop harassing me. Aha, she said, and flashed a ring she was wearing for the same purpose.
one ring to bind her. one ring to scare them off.
Posted by Gus at February 20, 2002 11:32 PM