Pam Linn
Holiday dreams are supposed to be about sugarplums (whatever they are), White Christmases and Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men (er, humankind). Last week, I did dream of a snow-white Christmas and woke to find our canyon transformed into a winter wonderland. Dreams can come true, it could happen to you. No matter that rain came and washed it all away a few days later.
Last night I was struggling through a column on guarding one’s privacy in the Internet age when I took a break to drink a cup of tea and relax my sore shoulder. I rested my head on the back of the couch and reflected on all that had changed since my first white Christmas in 1961. We had no central heating, no washer/dryer, no all-wheel-drive SUV and no cable TV, much less a computer. Life was simple, life was sweet.
There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a process server who said, “Are you Pamela Powell Linn?” At that point, I wasn’t sure, but I said, yes, anyway. He handed me a summons and fled before the border collie could herd him out. I opened it with trepidation-actually, with a penknife. It was a subpoena to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee.
Was it 1951 again? I was terrified. My father had been terrified when his best friends in the movie industry were blacklisted, some for youthful idealism in supporting Communists against Fascists. Father was afraid he knew too much, that he might be called to rat on his friends or be judged guilty by association. Mother followed the hearings and saw her friends’ careers crushed by men who wielded power in the name of patriotism. I was little, I didn’t understand. In the same way I didn’t understand when our Japanese gardener and German cook were taken away 10 years before. That’s terrifying to a 6-year-old just learning the Pledge of Allegiance. Patriotism to me was planting a victory garden, not buying meat and butter on the black market, Father putting the Cadillac in the garage and driving a tiny Bantam to stay within his gas ration.
My hands shook as I held the summons. It didn’t say if I’d been charged with being unpatriotic or if I would have to testify against my friends. How could they have found me? Surely, John Ashcroft doesn’t read The Malibu Times. Then I remembered about the other John, recently resurrected from Republican obscurity to head his version of routing out dreaded subversives. It was John Poindexter (don’t I remember him as a convicted felon for perjury, obstruction of justice and destroying evidence during the Iran-Contra scandal?). He leads the office overseeing the new “Total Information Awareness System,” the world’s largest computer system and database. This Orwellian obscenity actually could track every credit card purchase, medical record and bank transaction, to say nothing of e-mails to my sister. This project has been developed by the folks at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) and someway slipped into the Homeland Security Bill so taxpayers can fund $200 million worth of spying on terrorists, like themselves.
Now I get it. They’ve gotten a record of my book purchases and magazine subscriptions. They know I read The Progressive. They know I support the National Resources Defense Council, the Sierra Club, that I oppose drilling in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, that I plan to buy a Prius. They even know I read Molly Ivins’ column online. Ohmigod! I’ll be branded a subversive. Can they send me to Guantanamo Bay?
I wake in a sweat. My computer is still on, the draft of my column on privacy protection is still on the screen. What can they retrieve from my computer without physically confiscating it? I bank the old fashioned way, still get back my paper checks. I never make travel reservations online. I don’t even buy books from Amazon. I shred every offer that comes to me from a credit card company. Maybe the Republican National Committee turned over my smart-alecky response to its questionnaire.
Ooh boy! How subversive can you get?
Now I’m scared. Terrorized, actually. But I write on. Cleanse your hard drives (though I learned on “Law & Order” that traces of everything deleted remain forever). Pretend your telephone is tapped, it soon could be. Or better, get a disposable cell phone (I learned about that on “Law & Order,” too). Pay cash for everything. Don’t subscribe, read for free at the library or bookstore. Make donations by cash only to environmental, conservation or other “unpatriotic” organizations.
And be careful what you dream.