Facing Our Real Fears
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Raleigh, having returned a week earlier than planned for our annual North Carolina visit.
Facing Our Real Fears
A fact about me: I am terrified of immigration officers. They wear uniforms, they have the power to really, really ruin a person’s day, and sometimes they say things that hurt my feelings. Once an immigration officer at Heathrow made me cry.
Lee is considerably less bothered by scary people in uniforms; he has much less fear of authority than I do. While we were maneuvering through the complicated borders of Covid, he repeatedly got into arguments with immigration officers, while I tried to shrink myself into the floor.
Nothing freaks me out more than getting into an argument with a passport control person; looking back, I realize my discomfort is the lingering residue of a mild childhood trauma.
When I was about thirteen, we were on a family roadtrip in Europe, driving through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. This was the 1980s, before the break-up of the Soviet Union, before the end of border controls within the EU. My dad was in the US Air Force then, and traveled on his military ID, instead of his American passport.
We got to the Austrian border, and the officer examined all of our papers. My siblings and mother and I were all free to proceed, because we had normal American passports, but the officer said my dad couldn’t enter. His military orders indicated that he was permitted to travel anywhere in Europe that wasn’t behind the Iron Curtain, but the officer insisted that if the orders didn’t specifically mention Austria, my dad couldn’t enter.
So we got back on the autobahn, and drove to the next border crossing. This time, the officer on duty gave all the documents a mere glance, and waved us through.
My dad fumed all the way to Innsbruck. I have half a mind to drive back by that fellow from this side and wave at him, he said. I sat in the backseat, wedged between my younger brother and sister to keep them from bickering, terrified that he might actually do it.
He didn’t, thank goodness, and we checked into a Holiday Inn and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep; my 13-year-old imagination was in overdrive. We were in Austria—had we broken a rule to get here? Were we going to be arrested or deported? I thought I heard gunshots outside, and had visions of the Nazis coming for the Von Trapp family in The Sound of Music. I had an anxiety problem even back then, apparently.
Dementia finally took my dad from us this week, and I suddenly have one less role model in my life. It seems fitting to carry forward his confidence and fearlessness.
Perhaps it’s time for me to reframe my fears.
Take care,
Lisa
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