Profiling 101

Unless you are a hermit having lived your whole life in a cave, each and every one of us has earned a label. Normally one is tagged with the label based upon exhibited behavior. I have the distinction of being branded as sarcastic and cynical. I have earned the mark based upon my uncanny ability to open my mouth and speak the language of thoughtlessness. Profiling is a different story. No overt behavior need be exhibited. Looks alone are sufficient to be classified as a member of a particular group. Saturday night I was categorized as a rock concert terrorist. More about this later.

My son and I are separated by a 43 year difference in age. When he graduates from college, I’ll be there to congratulate him in the morning and then he can come to cheer me on in the wheelchair races at the home in the afternoon. We both like rock groups and so we attended the Foreigner/Styx concert. In the words of the great Dick Vitale, “Awesome, Baby”.

We arrived early and entered the short line at the security entrance checkpoint. When the gates opened, I wondered if we had mistakenly placed ourselves at Concourse B at the airport. Security was frisking the concert goers.

The first 10 or so passed scrutiny with no problem. It was now my turn and I presented the half filled box of Twinkies and Ding Dongs to ascertain if the items were indeed contraband. No, they were ok. I was then subjected to a cursory pat down of my pockets, lower back and ankles. Imagine my surprise when the security matron, not much older than my son, stepped back and demanded that I enlighten her on the contents of my pockets.
Well, this pocket contains a small pocket spiral notebook so I can write down things I don’t want to forget except that I never remember to bring one of those writing instruments with me. And this is my comb that permits me to place my hair over my receding hairline. “What’s in the other pocket”, the she demon demanded as she abruptly thrust her hand into her pocket which I assumed contained a canister of Mace. I reached into my pocket as the wannabe cop assumed a defensive posture intent on the thought of the necessity of a peremptory strike. In my sweaty palms and shaking hand, I produced the contents. “Is that a hanky”, the venom dripping from her mouth. “No, actually it a drool towel”, I meekly replied. I advised her that the other object was in fact a wallet which contained all my insurance cards and no money. She waved me on and then searched my son and let him pass. I watched the next 20 or so come through the checkpoint without having to pull anything from their pockets.

So I have been profiled. Do I dare entertain the thought of attending another concert and being humiliated and degraded? Sure, why not? The next time I’ll just place a hard cylindrical object down the front of my pants and see what the reaction is then.