Belltown Messenger

Now that spring has settled in and thoughts of summer will be upon us any day now, naturally my thoughts turn to renewal. As always, there is much to consider.

There is nothing new for me to write about the sunlight's resurgence or, for that matter, the garden's. So I won't, other than to say I've already confronted every conceivable metaphorical image of seed within earth in previous writings, and the only thing I've come up with is that weather is too wearying to write about after all.

Intrinsically speaking, I feel as though there is another season upon us. And should it not draw in soon, I'll be utterly disappointed in the way you are when you prep and prep for something and then realize it's not going to happen, ever. In the mean time, I fill in the gap with certitude, a.k.a. what it takes to move me from one day to the next, with meaningful work, with a marriage and friendships that weigh me solidly to the world. Still, at what point do I face the fact, and I need to, that our country may not be up to receiving the season I am trying to describe?

In the last months, three separate (though connected) things occurred that pushed this very question forward for me. And though the word "illuminating" would be one way of describing the trio of events, "bruising" would be better because, one by one, each knocked me down to size. Which is a good place to be if there's any real change to be had, personally or politically.

One was that, on my commute from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, a Coast Guard vessel sped along side our ferry, semi-automatics pointed at our bow. This is hardly a new phenomena since Homeland Security set out to heed the pains of the past by implementing fear of the future. But this gun vessel seemed to typify such arrogance, such expensive arrogance, as it zig-zagged our starboard as if vying for an invisible score. Why in the wake of such need as affordable housing, education, and health care do we refuse to acknowledge that terrorism is not something we can target, but something that spreads crosswise across our planet by those with little else to believe in? No weapon readied on the bow of a tag-along ship is going to change that fact.

And in this feeble attempt to reassure the passengers, the show of force, instead, drove home the feeling that our ferry was under siege. It doesn't take brilliance to grasp that if terrorists can't get on board airplanes, they are going to find their way onto buses, subways (think London, Spain), and, yes, ferries. So what does the Coast Guard hope to accomplish with weapons aimed at our ferry if not one of our bags was screened?

The second came about at airport security, where, of course, everything is screened. Ahead of me sat a man in a wheelchair. That is, before two officers picked his torso up to run a baton underneath his legs, or, rather, where his legs would be if he, indeed, had legs. The incident humiliated the man, horrified his wife, and terrified the onlookers. But the worst part, the part that made me cringe to where my husband had to hold on to me so I wouldn't go after the security crew, was how the same strong-armed men laughed as soon as the paraplegic rolled out of hearing range.

More recently, the third incident presented itself, making it possible, finally, for me to define this "season" I find difficult to name. At the time, I was riding a Metro bus from downtown to Capitol Hill, when I looked up to read a banner sign that said, "We're all in this together. If you see something or someone suspicious on this bus, call this number." I'm embarrassed to say that, at first, I thought it was a joke, a prank, and it took me awhile to take the words seriously. But when I did, they felt like a punch in my gut and it took me awhile to breath easily again. For what, exactly, when it comes to the exotic mix of cultures, styles, and preferences that embody our city, our country, is "suspicious?" And who decides?

These are the questions I discuss at length with my new friend, Geta, who drives a taxi (he was a teacher in Ethiopia). I befriended him because he is genuinely warm and interested in everything about everything we converse about, and when he invited my husband and me to his family home, he was sincere.

It's not difficult to imagine his "suspicious" story: How his dark skin, shabby clothes by American standards, and dirty briefcase sent someone in the underground bus terminal into tattling mode, dialing 911 on a cell phone, without awareness of the many who escape civil war in Africa every day, who, if fortunate enough to have their name come up in a lottery which allows them to emigrate as did Geta, choose Seattle because of its rumored tolerance. So what does all this have to do with a "season," you wonder? Well, only that it will take the kind of reclamation that can force bulbs to spring warm from the earth to turn this suspicion-schism around. We can either choose to recognize this "season" like noble people, or deny it with an ignorance fear and false pride encourages. The season I speak of is nearly tangible and can be described in one word: Forgiveness.

We have to find it within to forgive those few extremists who terrorized our nation by destroying two monuments in our greatest city. Forgive that they snatched from us our sense of security so that now we steal from ourselves every day by holding close our fear and implementing more and more surveillance tactics. And we need to remember that the same fanatics stole from every moderate Muslim, which is the vast majority, a religion seeded in inquiry and tolerance. Forgive in the same way the Japanese people and the Vietnamese (and all the others) have forgiven us our terror-isms that once shook their nations.

Because it's our turn now. It's our season.

Sanelli's latestÊbook, Falling Awake: A Collection of Essays, is forthcoming this fall. Ê