I got through check-in at Athens airport with no problem whatsoever. The ticket agent told me to use the business and first class line next time I checked in because I have a silver frequent flyer card, (the airlines have such a caste system going), then she put a priority tag on my over-weight suitcase and wished me a pleasant trip. Getting through security took all of five minutes.
When I passed through passport check at Munich airport, the agent asked me how I’d enjoyed Greece and handed my passport back to me with a smile.
When the plane landed at Dulles, things changed.
There were three agents working passport control for flights with hundreds of passengers. The line was long, very long. When my turn came, the agent took my (American) passport and asked me if I was an American.
Me: ”Yes.”
Agent: “You were born in XXX”
Me: ”Yes.”
The agent spent a few minutes entering data into his computer… scrolling… looking it over…
Agent: “Have you ever been a citizen of Russia?”
Me, laughing: “No.”
The interrogation went on — where had I been?…for how long?…question after question.
He never once looked at me.
Agent, accusingly: “You went to Greece alone?”
Me, tired: “You betcha.”
I grabbed my passport from him, a bit too briskly maybe, but I don’t like being harangued for no reason by a passport agent in my own country.
I’m over-reacting, but I’ve been through similar scenarios almost every time I’ve returned through Dulles Airport the past few years. And for what? — for having a Russian-sounding first name.
Think twice before naming your daughters Natasha, Tatiana, or Anastasia (all beautiful names, by the way).
I’ll end with the poem “The New Colossus” written in 1883 by Emma Lazarus, a Portuguese Sephardic Jew by lineage. The first couple of lines refer to ancient Greece and the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The poem is inscribed at the base of a statue gifted to the U.S. by France — a country that declared war on England in 1778 in support of the American Revolution.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
© 2009 – 2011, Ithaka Bound. All rights reserved.
