You wouldn’t think, to look at me, I could pose much of a threat to anyone. A couple inches shy of 6-foot tall, the muscle definition of a bowl full of Jell-O and nearsighted to the point of being legally blind in 17 states, I don’t exactly make people quake with fear when they see me coming.

So it was more than a bit surprising when a couple of months ago the United States customs and immigration folks at the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron took an interest in me as I was returning from vacation in Canada. After the guy in the booth took an inordinate amount of time scrutinizing my passport and made a couple of phone calls I was asked to park next to a nondescript brick building, “To sort out an identity problem so it won’t happen again.” Won’t happen again? What do they mean by that?

A uniformed man approached my car, took my passport and then my car keys once I had parked next to the severe and now ominous-looking government building. I came to understand there were a lot of bad folks with the same name as mine on the “list” compiled by the Department of Homeland Scrutiny, I mean Security.

The “sort out an identity problem” became a bit more alarming as I was ushered to the front of a line ahead about 50 other folks. I had, for whatever reason, become a “priority” case.

“I want you to go to the front of the line,” said the unsmiling uniformed man with a severe haircut as he escorted me from my car past the line of hot, tired and irritated-looking folks who had been invited inside for any of a number of reasons but none apparently as much of a priority as mine. Once inside I was handed off to another unsmiling guy with a severe haircut at one of the counters.

I was asked a number of questions designed either to trip me up and expose me as a possible terrorist or to eliminate my Michael Jones status from the Michael Jones’ wanted for supposed misdeeds against our country. I wasn’t really sure what their intent was.

 “How tall are you? How much do you weigh? Date of birth? Where were you born? Mother’s maiden name? What color are your eyes?”

We quickly determined I was not M.D. Jones, born on Dec. 17 (my birth date), who was a 5-foot-2-inch black female wanted by the government for any number of misdeeds. As the elimination process wore on, I became more nervous each time my “interrogator” left the counter to confer with  a superior in a nearby office. Each time he returned I expected to be handcuffed once it was decided I was indeed a 5-foot-2-inch black woman wanted for who knows what.

After sorting through and eliminating all of the folks on the “list” named Michael David Jones and any variants or combinations of my unique identity, they let me go on my merry way.

Passport and keys in hand I started my car, slowly backed out of the parking space not wanting to arouse any suspicions with a hasty exit. I smoothly put the vehicle in drive and slowly drove past a couple of handlers and their German shepherd who was sniffing away at the pickup truck parked in the space next to mine.

Obeying all posted and non-posted speed and traffic laws, I kept my eyes straight ahead as I left the customs area and drove straight back to Gaylord where I considered changing my name to something not quite so obvious, not likely to be on the “list.” John Doe maybe?

— Michael Jones is a staff writer for the Gaylord Herald Times. Contact him at 748-4513 or  michael@gaylordheraldtimes.com.

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