Identity Politics

I haven’t driven a car in the almost seven years that I have lived in my apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Given the nuisance of alternate side of the street parking and the excellent public transit system steps from my door, I was happy to gift my SUV to my California daughter. I still carry a driver’s license in my wallet just in case I need to show identification, but I can’t remember the last time that actually happened. When flying, I use either my passport or my passport card as ID. Yesterday that changed. 

Since my bout with oral cancer, I’ve switched from having a nightly glass of wine or an IPA to drinking a non-alcoholic version. It turns out that the taste and the ritual of having a cocktail while making dinner is what I enjoy, not so much the effects of the alcohol itself. Replenishing my “beer” supply at my local Trader Joe’s yesterday, I handed my six-pack of Athletic Hazy IPA to the cashier. She scanned the bar code and then, when attempting to scan the next item, found her screen frozen. 

“I’m new,” she said. “I’m not sure what the issue is.” 

Her manager arrived, and with a chuckle informed us that even non-alcoholic beer sometimes triggered a random ID check. Apologizing for the inconvenience, she asked if had any identification on me.

“I haven’t been carded in at least four decades,” I said as I fished out my driver’s license. “You’ve made my day!” 

The need to verify my identity became an anecdote, something I might share at a dinner party or on social media in a cute photo showing me vogueing like a teenager while holding a beer. 

This morning I read the story of a Vermont school superintendent, Wilmer Chavarria, a naturalized American citizen detained by CBP officials upon his return from visiting family in Venezuela. Held incommunicado, he was subjected to harassment and debasement for five hours as his frantic husband paced the terminal trying to find out what happened to him, afraid that his spouse was being “disappeared.” 

The reasons for Chavarria’s detention and his ultimate release were never made clear to him. The legality of his same-sex marriage was repeatedly questioned; multiple interrogators insisted that he surrender his electronic devices and passwords, even after Chavarria cited federal law protecting the confidential student information on his district laptop. 

“I told them I was an American citizen. I questioned why they were using those tactics on me. I asked about my constitutional rights. An officer outright said out loud that I have no constitutional rights at a point of entry,” said Chavarria in an MSNBC interview.

The story brought back my June interaction with CBP following a ten-day trip to Scotland. The contrast in our treatment could not be greater; the only question I had to answer upon return was whether I had brought anything back with me. 

“Only scones,” I answered, “can’t leave Scotland without ’em!”

Silence, as the agent stared intently at his computer screen.

“Do they have any cheese in them?” he asked.

When I confirmed that they did not, he said sheepishly, “I’m not very cultured, so I wouldn’t know,” and waved me on. 

I’m a white 75-year-old widow, not a brown-skinned middle-aged gay man. I was protected from harassment by my travel itinerary, my skin color, my accent (a bit boarding school WASPY, I fear) and my stature as a five-foot-two one hundred-and five-pound lady sporting not just a backpack but a sense of humor that also subtly communicated, “don’t mess with me, young man.”

But Wilmer Chavarria and I have more in common than a superficial comparison might indicate. Both of us are dedicated educators, he in the prime of his career, me in retirement. We both value service over personal gain or we would not have chosen our respective career paths. At personal risk, Chavarria tried to protect the students and families under his supervision; I would have done the same. Each of us clearly believe in a rule-based society, one governed by constitutional protections of privacy and equality under the law.

I have no idea what Chavarria’s political leanings are, but it is quite possible that mine are more threatening to the Trump regime than his. Nonetheless, I am protected in ways he is not. I don’t revel in, or expect my privilege to continue. I’m trying to find ways to use it to challenge what is happening to the country I have spent a lifetime writing and teaching about. Aside from demonstrating, making phone calls and writing letters, I am at a loss as to how else to leverage the advantages conveyed to me through the lottery of birth, modest generational wealth and, yes, a lifetime of hard work. 

What I am certain of is that the next time I am asked for my ID, it could be a far less amusing encounter than my brush with bureaucracy at Trader Joe’s or my perfunctory trip through customs and immigration. Chavarria’s interrogator praised him for his “resilience” in handling his ordeal. I hope I will be able to live up to his example.