Since 9/11, if I had a nickel for every time I've heard the phrase "since 9/11," I'd have enough money to put up my own million-dollar reward for bin Laden's ratty hide.
Yes, in the last four years we've grown increasingly accustomed—if not completely desensitized—to the use of those heinous terrorist attacks to justify everything from supporting the GOP party line (we haven't been attacked again, have we?) to spending on consumer goods until our eyeballs bleed (buying that second Hummer will be good for the economy!), from conducting sketchy invasions of sovereign nations (that whole fight-'em-over-there-so-we-don't-have-to-fight-'em-over-here thing) and blaring faux-patriotic anthems at sporting events (if you don't blast Lee Greenwood from the PA system, you're letting the terrorists win!).
But this summer, for the first time since 9/11 (here we go again), the effects of this ongoing war against terrorism finally landed at my doorstep, or more accurately, my laptop. Thanks to al-Qaeda's minions of doom, I could no longer check in for a flight online.
This story begins about six months ago, when I was preparing to fly from Minneapolis to Las Vegas to explore the possibility of a cross-country move (which, careful readers will note, did indeed take place). It was a trip not unlike any that you might have taken or are planning to take. Nothing freaky involved, no weapons or drugs in my luggage, no plans to transport mutant species of tree frogs or e. coli or underage prostitutes across state lines.
Yet, when I tried to print my boarding pass from the comfort of my home office—well within the ironclad 24-hour window, of course—I was told that my flight was not available for online check-in. I would have assumed it was just a glitch in the system and it would all sort itself out in the wash, except that my wife and daughter had no trouble selecting their seats and printing their travel documents for the same flight. Clearly, something was amiss.
When I arrived at the airport the next day, I strolled confidently to the kiosk just inside the terminal doors, the place where savvy travelers conduct their business to avoid the crush of humanity waiting in various lines snaking toward the joyless ticket agents. But instead of spitting out my boarding pass, the kiosk flashed a message that burst my bubble of superiority and sent a chill down my spine: I was required to check in with one of the aforementioned joyless ticket agents.
I slunk to the back of the line and waited, chin on my chest, like a kid who'd been summoned to the principal's office. My mind raced through the possible transgressions I might have committed. Had my credit card expired? Did I need to pass a physical to sit in an exit row? Did I leave my baggage unattended?
Finally, I reached the counter and explained my situation to the agent. She punched my name into her computer, waited a beat, then eyed me up and down while comparing me to my ID photo. I was then instructed to wait (did I have another choice?) while she ducked through a door to some hidden anteroom.
Five minutes later, she emerged and gave me the green light to proceed to my gate, forking over my precious boarding pass and pointing me toward the security line. When I asked what was up, she half sneered, half snorted, and said, "Apparently, you're on the Terrorism Watch List."
I wasn't sure whether to be more insulted that my government could consider me a possible terrorist threat or that the agent obviously didn't think I looked tough enough to warrant their concern. I also wasn't sure how this could have happened, considering my meager international travel experience and pasty Irish complexion.
That's when it hit me. I vaguely recalled hearing reports of recent IRA activity that caught the attention of the authorities in my fatherland. Was it possible that I shared a name with a notorious Belfast pipe-bomber or Londonderry sniper?
Now, family legend has it that my great-grandfather was somehow affiliated with an organization that was a precursor to the Irish Republican Army, and that he hopped a ship to Scotland, and then to Canada, just hours ahead of the posse, never to set foot again on his native soil. I suppose it's possible that news of his past activities had finally reached the Bush administration intelligence community, and I was merely paying for my great-grandfather's transgressions. But the current IRA link seemed much more likely.
Thus, each time I booked a flight for the remainder of the summer and into the fall, I had to go through the same song and dance—try in vain to print a boarding pass at home, arrive early at the airport, zigzag through the line at the ticket counter, tell my sob story to the agent, and wait for the official blessing to continue my journey. Each time, the agent had to phone the Super Duper Top Secret Terrorist Evildoer Hotline to receive security clearance for this mild-mannered Midwestern writer and father of two.
And each time, I asked for and received advice on how to go about getting my name off the Terrorism Watch List. Call the airline. Call the Federal Aviation Administration. Call the Transportation Security Administration. Change your name (my personal favorite). Or at least change the name you use when you travel—go by your middle name, for example.
Meanwhile, as I grew more accustomed to jumping through these hoops, I decided to embrace my newfound status as Public Enemy No. 1 million. When I reached the front of the line, I'd puff out my chest and loudly declare, "Yeah, I'm on the Terrorism Watch List. Whatcha gonna do about it?" I may have been a rebel without a clue, but it was fun to see the reactions of mothers ducking their children behind their skirts and tattooed biker guys desperately trying to avoid eye contact with me.
Eventually, however, I grew weary of the inconvenience—after all, it's our God-given right as Americans to show up at the airport 40 minutes before a flight and expect smooth sailing to the gate. So I decided I'd try to clear my name once and for all.
I began with a call to my hometown airline's customer service line. I told the representative of my trouble checking in online, and she went through myriad possibilities—the name on my credit card didn't match the name on my ticket, the computers were down every time I tried to check in, I had violated the sacrosanct 24-hour rule, etc. Finally, I asked, "Could this have anything to do with the terrorism watch list I've heard so much about?"
"No," she replied. Then, "Oh. Well, it could be, I guess." She put me on hold for five minutes, then came back with what she said was the number for the FAA communications office, wished me luck and hung up as quickly as possible.
I tried the number she gave me, but it turned out to be the number for her airline's corporate communications office. Because it was after hours, I had to leave a message, and because I've worked in corporate communications for a number of large companies, I knew any effort to receive helpful information from them would be futile, so I called up the FAA website and found their consumer information hotline.
As one might expect, I never did talk to an actual human being at the FAA, but after a number of voice prompts, I was instructed to leave a detailed message and they would get back to me within one business day. Sure enough, the next morning I had a voice mail waiting, telling me to call the TSA with my concerns, thankyouverymuchCLICK.
The TSA was actually helpful, probably because I spoke to a real live person who knew what she was talking about. Sharnell at the TSA Contact Center explained to me that I was not actually on the Federal Watch List, but that somebody with a similar name was on their no-fly list. She also explained that even though I'm not on the list, I can't get my name off the list, but I can get my name put on a clearance list that will allow airline personnel to streamline the process of verifying my identity vis-à-vis the IRA bad guy whose name I happen to share. (I was never able to verify whether the IRA had anything to do with this, it's just my chosen conclusion.)
Sharnell pointed me to the Passenger Identity Verification Form at www.tsa.gov, available in handy PDF format for my downloading pleasure. The form requires you to submit both personal information—name, address, birth date and place, physical description—as well as what's chillingly described as "documentation," by which they mean three forms of notarized ID such as passport, birth certificate, driver's license, voter registration card, naturalization certificate, etc.
Just bundle that together in a neat little package, mail it off to the TSA office in Arlington, Virginia, and in 45 to 60 days, you'll be notified in writing whether you're free to resume thumbing your nose at the early-arrival recommendation or you're back in line at the ticket counter.
However, by the time I actually got around to figuring out how to clear my name, I discovered I was off the list. The last time I booked a flight, as a lark I decided to try to check in online, and I'll be damned if my boarding pass didn't pop right up on my laptop screen. Apparently, The Troubles back home have died down enough that the IRA is no longer deemed a threat worthy of the TSA's attention.
Of course, if this article finds its way into the hands of the government goons, I'm sure I'll be back on the list. Not that I could blame them for being overly cautious. After all, since 9/11 ...