Saturday, September 8, 2007

I spent six hours being detained, against my will, at Heathrow Airport in London, an experience that, until now, I'd only read about; something that I thought only happened to people who fit the "terrorist" profile.

My journey to the UK got off to a routine enough start. My friend ADD drove me to the airport two hours before my flight was due to depart. An uneventful six hours after boarding the plane, we landed in Heathrow. (Well, it wasn't entirely uneventful. I got to watch Mr. Bean's Holiday as my movie choice and, although the movie itself was a bit disappointing, I never tire of watching Rowan Atkinson's hilarious facial expressions and body contortions.)

Anyway, I got off of the 747 jumbo jet along with all the other passengers and dutifully marched to the long line that snaked its way beneath the "other" banner, "other" meaning anyone who wasn't a British national. A little voice in my head told me to go to the line on the right but of course I didn't listen to it. The line to my left was moving much faster and I was in a hurry to start my month long European adventure. I had no reason to be worried about going through the checkpoint; or so I naively thought. My passport was in order and I'd filled out the little customs form that had been passed out to everyone as we filed off of the airplane. Plus, I'd just done this trip back in June and had no problem at all going through customs.

An alarm should have sounded in my head when the checkpoint person took my passport and form and gave me a frosty, forced smile, ignoring the daughter of the sun warmth of my smile. "So, why are you here?" she asked in a clipped British accent. "I'm visiting friends," I answered.

"And is this the person you'll be visiting?" she asked, indicating the name and address I'd put on the customs form. I said that was correct. "Do you have a phone number for this person?" I said I did and gave her the number. She then asked a series of questions: What did I do for a living? Did I rent or own my home? Did I have family in the UK? How much money did I have on my person and in the bank? Could she see my credit card? Was I here to work? I assured her I was not. "You passport is stamped that your last trip here was for work." "That's a mistake," I assured her. I could tell she didn't believe me.

"Do you have your return ticket?" she asked. "No," I answered. "I used an e-ticket to come here. I printed it out right before leaving for the airport. I was planning to do the same thing for my return."

"Oh," she said, "as if she'd finally found the reason she'd been looking for, "so you forgot to print out a return ticket?"

"No, I didn't forget. I didn't print out a return ticket because I won't be leaving for another four weeks, so I figured I'd print out the return ticket when it was time to return, rather than having another piece of paper that I have to worry about keeping track of."

"Oh, so you neglected to print out your return ticket," she said, as if that had special significance, and made some notations on the back of my customs form.

Up until this point, I thought that all of this was pretty routine. Then she asked more questions about my friend. "How do you know this person?" "We actually met online," I said, realizing how that might have sounded. "How long ago?" "Some time in December I believe." "What does this person do for a living?" she asked. "I believe they're a musician," I answered, "like myself." "Did your friend pay for your ticket?" "Goodness, no!" I answered. "I'll just go ring them up then," she said, asking that I have a seat on the side until she returned. So I sat, and sat, and sat.

When she returned half an hour later, I thought for certain she'd return my passport to me and wish me a pleasant stay in the UK. Unfortunately that's not how the story went. "Your friend couldn't tell us what you do for a living," she said, "and, while musician may be one of the things your friend does, that's not how their living is made. I'm afraid we're going to have to have someone go with you and collect your baggage," she informed me, "and then we'll have a look through it."

"Is there anything you're looking for in particular?" I asked, a bit perplexed by this turn of events. "We're just going to have a look and see if everything checks out," she said, not giving me much to go on. "Just have a seat over there," she said, directing me back to the bench where I'd been sitting and continued to sit for another fifteen minutes or so.

Finally, a very small, thin, sad-eyed man wearing a large turban approached me and indicated that I follow him. He walked me through the security checkpoint and down to the baggage claim area, where he waited while I collected my suitcases. He directed me to where I could get a cart for my baggage and, once I'd secured it in the cart, with no help from him, he led me to an area with long metal tables and instructed me to place the first bag onto one of the tables. I stood by and watched, in amazement and disbelief, as he removed every single thing that I had in my suitcases, including my undergarments, as if I might have some secret weapon stashed in my lace panties.

"Careful," I said, trying to make light of the situation, "if you put those back too hard, they might explode." No reaction at all from him. He just continued to methodically pull out everything and squeeze it to make sure there was nothing that he'd overlooked. Then of course he gave me the fun task of fitting everything back into the suitcases, while he stood by impatiently tapping his foot.

When he was done examining everything, and I was done stuffing everything back into the suitcases and loading the suitcases back onto the luggage cart, he had me follow him back up to the immigration area, where he reported his findings to the iceberg woman. Apparently she still was not satisfied, because I was then taken by the little man with the big turban down a long windy corridor to a "secured" interrogation area.

My luggage was confiscated, indexed and red-tagged. I was then asked to sign a paper acknowledging how many pieces of luggage I had. Even my purse was taken from me, including my mobile phone.

I was led to a windowless room that had wooden chairs and benches and a television in the corner. There were four other people in the room; two women and two men. One of the men was lying on a bench sleeping, with a dirty foam pillow beneath his head and a foil blanket over his head and shoulders. He looked like he'd been there for quite a while. The two women were sitting huddled together in the corner. One of the women looked like she'd been crying. She had some used tissues in her hands and kept wiping her nose. There was a small Nelson Mandella looking man sitting across from me who kept furtively stealing glances at me. Every time I'd look at him, he'd turn away quickly and pretend he wasn't looking at me. The room stank of stale body odor. I wondered how long they'd been held there.

"Would you like some coffee? A sandwich? A soft drink?" the Indian man asked.

"No," I said. "I don't want to be here long enough to take advantage of that generous offer. I have a bus to to catch at 10:30. How long do you think I'll be here? Do these people have to be seen first? Because they look like they've already been here for a very long time." I was really starting to get worried now.

"I'll let them know about your bus," the Indian man said, exiting the room and locking the door behind him.
I sat there for about half an hour until finally I couldn't take it any more. I went over to where the Indian man had exited and knocked on the door. I could see through the glass panel in the door that there were two men sitting in the room next to ours. One of them sighed, got up and slowly dragged his massive body over to the door. He opened it just a bit and peered down at me over his glasses.

"What is it?" he asked, although it was evident in his voice that he really didn't want to hear anything that I had to say.

"I'd just like to know how long I'm going to have to wait for somebody to see me," I said. "I have a bus to catch and I'd like to get out of here in time for it because it's a non-refundable, non-exhangeable ticket."

"We really don't care about your bus ticket," the man sneered at me. "We're concerned about our national security. That's our first priority." And with that, he pulled the door shut and returned to his post at his desk.

Okay, try to remain calm, I told myself. Nothing's to be gained by getting upset. That'll only make matters worse. I told myself that if nothing happened within the next 15 minutes, I'd get up and perhaps then start to make a scene. Where were my rights as an American citizen? I guess I'd watched too many American movies. I was under the impression that having an American passport actually meant something. I thought we were on good terms with the British. Apparently, those good terms only applied to people who don't look like me, since everybody in the room with me did look like me.

After about ten minutes, the little Indian man returned. He was carrying a large set of keys. He used one of the keys to unlock the door of a room off to the side. "Please come with me," he said. At last, I thought. This is finally going to be over. Wrong!

"I need to photograph you and take your fingerprints," he informed me.

"Am I being charged with a crime?" I asked.

"No, of course not," he said.

"Then why am I being treated like a criminal? Why am I being photographed and fingerprinted?"

"It's just standard procedure," he said, as if he'd answered this question many times before.

"Standard procedure? If it's 'just standard procedure,' then why isn't everybody who was on the plane with me being photographed and fingerprinted right along with me?"

"You were just randomly chosen."

"Oh? And is it just a coincidence that everybody who was 'randomly chosen' looks just like me?"

"How you look has nothing to do with the fact that you're in this room."

"I find that hard to believe," I said.

"Look," he said, "I'm just trying to help you. The sooner you let me take your photograph and fingerprints, the sooner we can finish everything and you can go."

"No," I said, not willing to give up my rights so easily, "I've been more than patient throughout this whole thing. My plane landed over three hours ago, I'm being held here against my will, and nobody's given me any reason that makes any kind of sense as to why I'm being detained. And now I'm being asked to allow myself to be photographed and fingerprinted? No, I think not. I think I'd like to call the American Embassy now. I'm not agreeing to another thing without speaking to the American Embassy." That's right, I thought, Americans always ask to do that in the movies.

My interrogator sighed and left the room. I was tempted to go onto the computer and see what kind of information they had on there but I thought that would only make my case more difficult if they caught me at it. So instead I just helplessly stood there until he returned with an Asian woman dressed in European business attire, looking very official.

"Hello," she said, sounding friendly enough, but I wasn't fooled. She was the enemy. "I understand that you don't want to be fingerprinted?"

"That's correct," I said. "Perhaps you can explain to me why I'm being treated this way? What have I done? What am I being charged with?"

"This is just standard procedure," she said, giving me the same jargon that the man had recited. They're apparently trained on exactly what to say for every possible circumstance, because she said exactly what he'd said. Or maybe they're all robots.

"Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I'm not agreeing to anything else until I'm allowed to call the American Embassy. I want to make sure that my rights are not being violated and that what you're doing is within your rights."
"So you're not going to allow us to fingerprint you?"
"That's correct," I said.

"Well, then, we'll have to bring in the police," she said menacingly. "And then you'll be arrested for refusing to cooperate with the interrogation. And then you'll be forced to be fingerprinted and then you'll be put on a plane and returned to the United States. Is that what you want?"

"If that's my only option other than being fingerprinted, then yes, that's what I want. Put me on a plane and return me to the United States. Because if this is how you treat Americans like me who come to visit your country, then I don't want to be here a second longer than I have to be." By now I'd gotten good and upset and I guess, without my realizing it, the volume of my voice had gone up. I don't think I was shouting, but I'm sure I was talking loudly enough for the other detainees to hear me and my captors certainly couldn't have that. If the others realized that they could protest and start demanding their rights, soon they'd have total anarchy on their hands. The woman turned and marched from the room, returning shortly after with a little Hitler looking man. I was good and upset by now, and I'm sure it showed on my face.

Little Hitler walked up to me and stood directly in front me, looking me squarely in the eyes. He took a deep breath and then shouted at me at the top of his lungs.
"Sit down and shut up now!"

"I will not sit down, and I will not shut up," I shouted back. "I've had just about enough of the lot of you!"
"If you don't sit down and shut up, the police will come and make you sit down," he shouted back at me, taking a threatening step closer to me.

"Are you going to put your hands on me?" I shouted, refusing to stand down. "Is that what's going to happen now?!!! Bring the police in here! Do whatever you need to do! I'm not agreeing to another thing until I get to make a phone call!"

"I'm going to get them right now," the little bully said, marching out of the room, slamming the door behind himself.

I stood there trembling, imagining all sorts of horrible things happening to me once the police came. Maybe they'd beat me up and claim I'd tried to escape. Maybe they'd shoot me and say they thought I had a weapon. Or maybe I'd just be locked up and, based on the new patriot act, not even allowed a phone call. I'd just simply disappear and nobody would have a clue what happened to me.

Well, it turned out to be a good thing that I did cause a scene because I was finally let out to make one phone call. Of course I didn't know the phone number of the American Embassy and they wouldn't give me the number, so I called a man in New York that I know who's always going around fighting for the underdogs. He's independently wealthy and spends all of his time trying to right the wrongs in the world. A more than full time job. My one phone call, and I got his voicemail. I explained the situation as best as I could and hung up, hoping he'd check his messages before I disappeared forever beneath tons of red tape. At least, I consoled myself, if I did get thrown in jail, somebody knew what was happening. Somebody would come looking for me.

After my phone call, I was returned to the waiting room. The other four people were all looking at me. The man who'd been lying down and sleeping was now awake and sitting upright, giving me his full attention. Now both of the women looked like they'd been crying.

They must want these people to see me being led off by the police, I thought. But the police never came. Instead, the prim looking Asian woman returned, beckoning me to join her in the room off to the side again.

"Look," she said, "I know you're upset. Believe me, I know how difficult this is for you. But once we start the process, we have to continue it. If you just let us fingerprint you, we can just have the interrogation and then, if everything checks out, you can go. Otherwise, you can just sign this paper and we can put you on a plane and you can return to the United States. It's your choice," she said, holding out a sheet of paper to me.

"Fine," I said, "return me to the United States then." But when I reached for the paper, she moved it from within my reach.

"Are you sure that's what you want? Because if you let us take your fingerprints and we have the interrogation, you can go after that. Otherwise, if we send you back to the United States now, once you sign this paper, you can never come back here again. And we'll still have to fingerprint you. We'll just have to have the police come and they will force you to be fingerprinted. It's your choice."

"That's your idea of a choice?" I asked. "Either I willingly allow myself to be fingerprinted or you'll have the police come and force me to be fingerprinted? What did I do to make you treat me this way?" I felt like crying at that point, just from the sheer frustration of the situation, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry like the other two women in the waiting room. I took a deep breath and regained my composure.

"I'll give you a moment to think," she said, leaving me alone in the room.

After she'd gone and left me alone in the room, I paced back and forth, trying to decide what to do. What were they going to do with my fingerprints? What did that mean? Would I then have a "suspect" file with Interpol or something? When I travel from now on, will there be some kind of red light that goes off indicating that I was suspected of terrorist activities at Heathrow Airport? Should I stand my ground? Not back down and allow myself to be intimidated by these bullies who were drunk on their own power? Would the police really come and force me into submission?

As I often do when faced with a difficult situation, I decided to leave it up to fate. I had one coin in my pocket. I'd ask the powers that be (and not the ones who worked at Heathrow) to decide. And this time, unlike when I was initially standing on line, I'd listen. I tossed the coin high up into the air and watched as it flipped over several times and came back down. Heads, I'd refuse to continue with the process and let them call the police and deport me. Tails, I'd submit to their request. I closed my eyes as my hand closed around the quarter. Slowly, I opened my fist, peeking with one eye at the coin, dreading either decision. The coin had spoken.

"Fine," I said, when my captor returned, "I'll be photographed and fingerprinted."

She sighed with relief. "I'm glad you've decided to cooperate. You'll see, it will all be over soon and you can go and be with your friends."

The turbaned man returned and set up the machine. I was photographed from each side and a full frontal. Then every single finger was placed against a computer screen and an image was taken. I was then ushered back into the waiting area. I wondered if the others knew that I'd capitulated and if they were disappointed in me. I just wanted the whole thing to be over and done with.

The prim Indian woman returned and ushered me into another small room off to the side of the main waiting room. This room contained a small grey metal desk and three small wooden chairs. She directed me to sit in one and she sat in the other facing chair and placed a stack of papers onto the desk and began the interrogation.
After a long series of pointless questions: Were my friends that I was visiting married? Did they have children? Did I have children? Did I have a boyfriend? Did I have any documentation on my person proving what I did for a living?

Finally, in exasperation, I said, "Look, I have a website. Why don't you just go on it and you can read my journal. You can see pictures of where I live and you can read about what I do. That will answer whatever questions you may have." I wrote my website address down for her.
"Fine," she said, gathering her stack of papers, "I'll do that."

Again I sat back in the waiting area until she returned a short while later. Apparently they'd gone to my website and were now finally convinced that I wasn't in the UK due to some evil plot to do whatever it was they imagined I was there to do. Or maybe they thought I wanted to live there and had no intention of returning to the United States. Well, if that had been my intention, they'd certainly done an admirable job of squelching that desire. Finally, I was released and allowed to continue on my journey, six hours later than I'd anticipated.

I've just arrived in Bristol and am going to take a long, hot bath and try to forget about the horrible start of this journey; at least until I get back to the United States and can meet with my friend and figure out what can be done about this affront against me.

This might be where this story began but this is definitely not where it ends.

More soon...

© Daughter of the Sun. Reprint by permission only.

August 4, 2007 - It's been quite an adventure being back on the west coast. first off, I heard that The Learning Channel (TLC) show, Miami Ink, was doing so well that TLC decided to have a second version in LA and call it LA Ink, of course. They were taking applications on the TLC website. I'd been thinking about getting a tattoo for a while to cover a burn mark that I have on my shoulder, so I thought, if I'm going to get a tattoo anyway, why not do it on television?! More...

July 3, 2007 - I had a great time in the UK. The first stop was Bristol, where I met the band, Laid Blak. They just signed with Island Records and are recording their first album. I'm hoping to get at least one co-write in. They performed at two festivals while I was in town. The audiences loved them and so did I! More...

June 5, 2007 - Sunday I had brunch with the sisters. "Are you twins?" I asked the first time I saw the two of them together. "We share the same birthday," they said, "let's just leave it at that." I made blueberry pancakes with strawberry syrup and salmon croquettes. We started with a lovely Zinfandel, so by the time we were halfway through the meal, the conversation had become quite lively. We shared stories about music, relationships, Paris, New York and dermatology. More...

May 1, 2007 - CNC's gone back to Paris and I have the place to myself again. I have to admit that, when I heard all the strange noises outside the house at night, it was comforting to know that someone was sleeping in the room across the hall. These days, however, I'm so exhausted by the time I get into bed that I don't even wake up until the morning. More...

April 16, 2007 - I went to a networking soiree at a posh house in Beverly Hills. My friend TNC invited me, so I went to her place first and we rode to the event in her car. TNC wasn't sure how to dress for it. "It's probably not dressy," she said, "because it's in somebody's home." More...

March 24, 2007 -I had kind of a surreal moment today. I sometimes keep the television on when I'm working on the computer. Just as sort of background noise so I don't feel so alone. Every once in a while, I'll tune in and listen to what's going on. There was a commercial on for a car dealership. When I heard "Sherman Oaks," I thought they'd made a mistake. For one crazy moment, I thought I was still in New York City! I had a good laugh at myself once I realized what happened. More...

March 12, 2007 - I drove down to Chula Vista to perform at Southwestern College's campus. There was a street painting festival going on and students from the college came and painted beautiful pictures while I sang. I was tempted to drive down to Mexico afterward but one of my MySpace friends was performing in Hollywood and I wanted to get back to see her. More...

February 26, 2007 - Let's see; what have I been up to? I went to a party at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood. My friend BGJ was sitting in with a band. It was a birthday party for a girl who's in the television show Scrubs. I danced a lot and gave out some cards of course. More...

January 20, 2007 - It feels like 2006 is just a rapidly fading dream that I had a long time ago. And it's only January. I'm firmly ensconced in Malibu. I have my recording setup up and running and actually finished the vocals and mixed a new song I wrote while in New York, entitled "Whatever." It's one of those fun, singing about nothing songs that the majors seem to like so much. More...

December 27, 2006 - I have much to be thankful for this holiday season. I have my health, a wonderful home in Malibu, a great car to drive around in, food in the fridge, loving family and friends, a new band and my God-given talents. And the stove is finally working at the house, which means I don't have to use the hotplate anymore. More...

November 15, 2006 - What a challenge these past couple of weeks have been. My plan was to go to Santa Barbara last Friday to finalize the details with the transfer of the car. I had to sign the agreement with the previous owner and to go to DMV to register the car, only to discover on Friday that the DMV was closed because Saturday was Veteran’s Day. More...

October 17, 2006 - I was on strike today. I decided that, not only was I not leaving the house today, but I also was not going to take off my pajamas. Fortunately, KBD’s new housemate, RJD, is away for a few days because he likes to have lots of attention and is always strutting around, puffing out his chest, bragging about his latest business conquest. The bad news is, we never got around to going grocery shopping so there weren’t a lot of options food-wise. More...

October 10, 2006 -I went out a few nights ago to hang out again with my new MySpace friend to see her friend perform. I was so proud of myself because I didn’t get lost once on the drive there. By the time I arrived at the Revolution Café, AMS and her friends had already polished off a few bottles of wine. More...

October 3, 2006 - I’ve been in Northern California for nearly two weeks now. I’m staying at KBD’s home once again, in the house overlooking the ocean and the rolling hills. Today I saw two deer grazing right outside the kitchen window. I felt a long way from the overcrowded, noisy streets of New York City. More...

September 10, 2006 - It’s almost midnight and here I sit in front of my computer still. I didn’t go out today. I don’t know if it was cold or hot but I do know that it was sunny because I sat near the window as I worked, so that I could feel the sun on my skin. More...

August 20, 2006 - Friday night was my performance at The Alphabet Lounge. There was a nice turnout, although about one third of the people arrived almost at the end of the performance. More...

July 7, 2006 - Yesterday was my show at The Talking Stick. I thought I’d get some photos of my performance but unfortunately TDJ arrived just as I’d finished my last song. I only performed a few songs. More...

July 3, 2006 - I’m in my own bedroom at TDJ’s apartment. My own little slice of Heaven. I’m sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in what is technically TDJ’s office/recording studio but who cares. I have my own bathroom and I can sleep as late as I like. More...

June 30, 2006 - I think I’ve worn out my welcome with NAP. Fortunately, I spoke with TDJ yesterday and his other houseguests have departed, which means that starting today I can stay in his extra bedroom. He’s my only friend in California that I haven’t met through MySpace. More...

June 24, 2006 - So I’m in Los Angeles, the city of broken dreams and make believe. I’m staying with a wonderful family, thanks again to MySpace. NAP is a singer, a wife and the mother of two absolutely adorable (and exhaustingly rambunctious) children. More...

June 8, 2006 - I am loving life right about now. I’m in Northern California in a little town near Sausalito with a population of about 200. I posted an ad on Craigs List saying I was willing to exchange administrative services for room and board and, lo and behold, I got two responses the very next day. More...

May 3, 2006 - I just got in from playing in the subway station. I like the F line at the 23rd Street station... More...

April 24, 2006 - I found a numerology site and, according to their calculations, I’m at the end of a cycle. I‘ve past the harvest and I’m about to lay down new seeds I guess to prepare for the coming Winter. More...

April 10, 2006 - I’ve been spending a lot of time online, working on my MySpace page, making new friends through MySpace as well. By the time I get to California, I’ll already know lots of folks there. More...

April 2, 2006 - I can’t believe it’s April already. The year is nearly half done, although some more optimistic than I am at this moment in my life would say the year’s barely begun. It just seems that time is marching along faster and faster each year. More...

March 23, 2006 - Not much new to report. Still laid up with my broken toe. More...

March 16, 2006 - What a week it’s been! A broken toe, post-Philly drama, TTT came into town, west coast tour in the works, April concert to plan, new band. More...

March 10, 2006 - It was a pretty smooth drive with almost no traffic even though we left the city at 5 o’clock. We reached Philadelphia at about 8 o’clock. It reminds me of a lot of other small towns I’ve been in, like Troy and Albany. More...

March 8, 2006 - This evening I’m off to New Rochelle to perform at a Habitat for Humanity fundraising event. I’m taking CDs, which I will autograph and sell and donate half the proceeds to Habitat for Humanity. They’re going to New Orleans to rebuild some of the homes that were destroyed by Katrina. More...

March 2, 2006 - I am so over the cold and ready for the Spring. It’s hard to believe it’s right around the corner. The groundhog saw his shadow last month, which supposedly means Winter is hanging around a bit longer but I remain ever hopeful. More...

February 25, 2006 - Another late night… What else is new? I performed at Bellizzi’s tonight. Two sets. I ran through my entire arsenal of songs and even threw in a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s song, “True Colors.” I don’t really like doing covers but the woman who hired me for the night asked me to and you have to give the people what they want, especially when they're paying. More...

February 19, 2006 - Another all nighter… My plan was to get into bed by midnight at the latest but I wound up staying up and setting up my page on MySpace. It turns out there’s another artist with my name (Setra) who’s already on MySpace so I couldn’t use my own name. I had to sign up using Daughter of the Sun instead. It took a while to upload the music and the photos, once I figured out how to do it. More...

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