A longtime resident of Uxbridge, Ted Barris has written professionally for 40 years - for radio, television, magazines and newspapers. The "Barris Beat" column began in the 1950s when his father Alex wrote for the Globe and Mail. Ted continues the tradition of offering a positive view of his community. He has written 16 non-fiction books of Canadian history and teaches journalism at Centennial College in Toronto.
Unwelcome States of America
I do a lot of travelling, but it seems over the past few years, most of my destinations have been cities in other Canadian provinces or overseas in Europe. Then, about a week ago, my freelance work took me south of the 49th parallel. My son-in-law volunteered to take me to the Toronto airport. However, one of us suggested altering my usual travel routine.
“Since it's the States,” we both agreed, “maybe earlier is better.”
He dropped me off at Pearson's Terminal 1, along the stretch with the stars and stripes emblem on the pillars. He wished me good luck with my research and a safe trip. It was 11:30 a.m. My flight to Denver, Colorado, wouldn't take off until 2:30 p.m. I had three full hours to kill. I figured I could make my way leisurely from the airline check-in desk, through U.S. Customs and Immigration (a.k.a. U.S. Homeland Security), past airport security to my boarding gate.
“I'd get on line now, if I were you,” the Air Canada ticket agent warned me. When I suggested I thought I had plenty of time, she kind of rolled her eyes. I should have recognized I was headed for trouble right away. The first line I joined took me into a large hall. In front of me I saw a massive line-up - you know, one of those queues that winds back and forth - looking more like a slaughterhouse chute than a human passageway. I realized this wasn't going to be a cakewalk.
Looks of panic and frustration surrounded me. Parents - apparently en route to vacations in the U.S. - tried to distract impatient children with talk of beaches and amusement parks. Businesspeople assumed postures of self-importance - eyeing their watches, fussing through papers and sighing out loud. A bunch of 20- and 30-somethings immediately pulled out smart phones and began calling to tell anyone who'd listen where they were. That didn't last long. A flak-jacketed, U.S. security type - with sunglasses, ear buds and several days' beard growth - marched in front of everyone and read us the riot act.
“No cell phone use in this area,” he bellowed like a drill sergeant at a Marine Corps boot camp. “Turn all smart phones off.”
I checked my wristwatch (like the business folks) and began my own calculations. It was now approaching 12:30 - I'd been in line an hour - and I wasn't even halfway through the cattle line. The kids weren't buying the parents' distractions anymore. The din of their crying reached pain threshold. The smart-phone clutchers were going into withdrawal. And the business types fidgeted visibly. One of them craned his neck looking for somebody to hear his sad story.
“I've got a flight at 1 o'clock,” he told us. “I'm not going to make it.”
Another security guard, resplendent in U.S. emblems, lanyards, a holstered gun and a bunch of intercom devices, listened unsympathetically. There's nothing he could do, he told the man. Several of us offered to let the man go ahead of us. It was first come first serve in the security line-up, the guard said.
“Besides,” he finished, “the airlines are to blame. They should've told you to get here three hours ahead of your flight.”
Three hours! Often that would be longer than the flying time to the U.S. destination. And since when is it the airlines' fault? Why blame them for delays caused by Homeland Security rigour? At 1:30 - it had taken me two hours to make it this far - I got my passport stamped by U.S. Customs and Immigration, but there was still the security check, where passengers have to empty pockets and remove shoes and belts, etc. Then, as usual, I informed them I had a pacemaker and needed a full pat down. That was fine. But then the security woman at the end of the conveyor belt pointed at my backpack. I nodded and moved forward to open it for her.
“No!” she said suddenly. “Don't touch anything, until I say.”
Fine, I thought. I have to get used to being confined, herded and probably delayed for my expensive business or pleasure flight, and then made to feel like a criminal, just to ensure safer air space. Was all this about catching terrorists or boosting egos of American officials revelling in their authority? Ultimately, as I arrived at my gate more than two and a half hours after arriving at Pearson, I couldn't help thinking of the waste. What Americans have always done better than almost anybody in the world, is deliver excellent customer service. However, with full-blown paranoia since 911 and the Bush mentality of Homeland Security, all that goodwill has crashed and burned. And just how many terrorists has Homeland Security actually snared anyway?
As my flight took off (not surprisingly also late) I thought I could hear Osama bin Laden laughing in his grave.
