In the name of freedom

So it has come to this. “Freedom fries” is what it’s come to. The smart folks who engineered our fine country would weep to see us this way. When they authored the idea of freedom into the very fabric of our society, I can assure you they didn’t intend it to be embodied in deep-fried, heavily salted potato snacks that were never really French to begin with.

I had the pleasure of spending some quality time with a little document entitled the USA PATRIOT Act recently. By “little,” I mean 342 pages long, and by “pleasure” I mean garment-rending agony. The thing reads like a Greek tragedy recounting the demise of the poor heroine we called civil liberties. She was dismembered limb from limb, organ by organ, so slowly and neatly that you almost couldn’t see it happening. One day she was just gone.

You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel safer?

Well do you?

Personally, I have a very hard time believing that the government’s unsupervised, unregulated, indiscriminate ability to tap my phone whenever it pleases in any way reduces my risk of becoming a victim of terrorism. In fact, the very suggestion makes me kind of nauseous.

But the choices of public officials are inducing that sort of visceral reaction a lot these days. Maybe I should just work on fortifying a stronger stomach. Considering the climate of tacit tyranny that seems to be brewing on the horizon, I’m probably going to need it if I want to keep my freedom toast down.

Remember after September 11th, how we all assured ourselves that the terrorists hadn’t won? We wanted so badly to believe that our union behind a just cause would only make us stronger. We promised each other that the things that make America great would persevere in the face of adversity.

But our troublesome instincts for self-preservation seem to have gotten the best of us. And you can bet your Condi Rice action figure that the Osamas (remember that guy?) of the world dance a jig every time we spy on each other for the sake of “freedom.”

It seems we’ve been saved from the dastardly clutches of random violence for a life of being held oblivious hostage by institutionalized fear. We are all POWs in the war against terrorism. But our captors look like patriotic neighbors, and our cells are equipped with digital cable.

And then there’s Operation Iraqi Freedom. The sheer genius of an otherwise obtuse administration has been vividly apparent in its immaculate ability to dress up oppression to make it look like freedom. If you’re paying attention, the disguise works about as well as dressing Dick Cheney up as Shakira. If you’re not paying attention, you might fall prey to Dick’s deceivingly girlish figure.

If we call it freedom, who can say no to it? Watch carefully, or the subterfuge will fool you. It’s brilliant political sleight of hand. Pretty soon Colin Powell will have pigeons flying out of his pants while tanks roll into Iran and the domestic economy turns to sludge.

But golly, where did those pigeons come from?

Not that it matters. We’ll find a reason to shoot them regardless. The pigeons will be a threat to international security. We’ll have to ensure peace by declaring war on them.

They say that the truth will set you free. Well the truth is, our implements of greatness aren’t plastic American flags in every window, and the biggest threat to our freedom isn’t hiding in a cave in Pakistan or holed up in a bunker in Iraq. He’s probably practicing tying his shoes near Crawford, Texas.

We’re in serious danger of forgetting that freedom means something other than absolute, unqualified safety, and something other than snack food. Freedom doesn’t mean war, and it doesn’t mean spying, and it doesn’t mean money, and it doesn’t mean blind support of your president, and it doesn’t mean everybody thinking the same way all the time.

Our historic parents, like all good parents, wanted the best for us. They did everything they could to try to ensure that we, their ideological offspring, wouldn’t have to fight for our freedoms the way they fought for theirs. But, like the peculiar cultural teenager that we are, we’ve gotten ourselves into some trouble.

For those of us who are proficient in the arts of creative resistance, the fight to reclaim freedom has begun. For the rest of you, go back to sleep, and hope that when you wake up you’ll be safe in the cradle of liberty where you belong.