Friday evening late in September or early October. I finished up at school, stopped at Turner’s farm market, drove ten miles further west before turning south in the late sun, then the last miles in the shadows of the low western hill. The smells filled the old blue Volvo: late season vegetables filled with sunshine and water and the pleasure of juicy eating.
All these Wisconsin acres had been farmed for generations, now fewer working farms and more professionals who worked elsewhere but came home through the cornfields. I was one of those with ten acres from what had been a large farm: my acres had some fields and the farm buildings—barn, silo, machine sheds, garage, milk house, and a modern house. I loved living there, loved these Friday evenings rejoining the countryside and the people of the township.
This particular Friday evening, I slowed my speed, opened all windows, and felt the week’s end. Just before turning into my driveway, I noticed a car down the road in front of me. It wasn’t a local car, not Wisconsin plates. I knew my neighbors and their cars.
I parked, greeted my dog, went into the house, put my briefcase on the desk, and headed toward the kitchen with the bag of produce. The window above the sink opened to the driveway where that unknown car had parked. As I would do with anyone, I went out to talk to the people—I was sure they were lost and needed directions.
A youngish man and woman got out of the car and met me at the sidewalk. They said hello, showed FBI identification cards, said they had flown out from San Francisco to talk with me, and asked if they could come in. I had absolutely no idea what they wanted or how I could be related to anything outside of my quiet hard-working life.
I invited them in. They sat at the kitchen table, opened folders, started with questions about a friend who until a month before I hadn’t seen or heard from for fifteen years. She had just reconnected, visited, told me the life stories of those years.
She was politically active, an investigative television journalist, travelled the world, joined causes at home and abroad, protested loudly and often. I listened, amazed by how different our lives were— we sat talking into many late nights, glad to once again be connected. She returned to Austin.
They asked questions about her, about people I’d never met, organizations I’d only read about, political actions foreign to me. They were looking for people, spread the table with grainy black and white photos of people I’d never seen or heard about. I was scared, confused, embarrassed, nervous, insulted, angry, irritated, invaded, guilty – I held to my own good senses only by the smell of Lulu Turner’s cantaloupes.
Finally, I found the nerve to tell them to leave my house, something I’d never told anyone. They did. They put their packets together, shoved the chairs back in place, and left without trying to shake hands, for which I was glad because I wouldn’t have been able to.
I took a shower, put on a pot of coffee… and called my friend in Austin to warn her or to get some comfort or something—but she was angry. No more angry with them than usual, because “that’s what they always do,” but angry with me because I had let them in my house. That was the first time I knew I had an option.
In the mail weeks later, I received a booklet titled What to Do When the FBI Knocks. I had done everything wrong other than telling them to leave.
Document: read their IDs carefully. If they have a warrant, read both sides, signatures and dates. Do not let them in your home, don’t talk to them beyond telling them that you are not going to talk to them. Don’t lie or offer information. Be polite. You are guaranteed the right to remain silent. Stay silent.
Caution: All that is difficult because we’ve been taught to be polite. They have the full power of the government. They knew that I would be intimidated, that I might slip and tell them whatever they were looking for. They are trained in leading questions, innuendo, false statements, assumptions, role playing. Don’t try to outsmart them. Ask them to leave.
That happened years ago, long before Trump introduced fascistic tactics into our everyday lives. We now have quivering senses of what is happening on our streets, that hasn’t happened here – yet. Mid-term elections are soon, and militaristic takeovers are not impossible. Having dark skin, practicing gender equality, protesting, taking pictures of seashells arranged in the sand, having a loud mouth, touching water in a long green pool… there is no end of normal activities for which we can be criminalized, investigated, jailed.
For the first time in 91 years, I recognize there is an “us” and a “them.” I am glad for that old FBI experience as an understanding for today. I am glad for the smell of cantaloupe, and for the advice given me long ago – when you face The Boss in any form remind yourself that he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just as you do.