Hacker Manifest (Or: Seven Hours of Heathrow)

Every day, I thank the forces of the universe that I was born pretty, white, and female. The last one might seem odd - aren't men supposed to be the ones with the power? - but it is the definitive trait, the get-out-of-jail ne plus ultra. It is, as far as I can tell, the only thing that allows me to work inside the law (if on the outskirts). The white and the pretty just help me avoid getting hassled.

I'm writing this entry from Heathrow Airport, where I have been waiting several hours for Ciro to clear immigration. I'm guessing, after several conversations with immigration control officers, that he won't. Perhaps I am wrong; it is the same panic I always have when in contact with a governing body - I feel the same fear every time I fill in my taxes, pass a police car, or go through a toll booth, regardless of whether I'm doing something wrong. I am made nervous by even the post office, if the document is of any consequence; more so if a package is involved.

Systems don't know how to handle people like me. People like Ciro (for we are tremendously alike). Artists. Wanderers. People who don't fit neatly on official forms. That's a flag which might be red and might be checkered; either way, it means "government go; Romie stop." I've never had a steady job; I've never had a long-term address. But because I'm female, I can say "homemaker." Because I'm female, I can say "here is my parents' address" without them hearing "deadbeat." It's expected that some women won't have careers; that some women will be taken care of; that pretty white women have no need to break laws - no dangerous testosterone impulse.

It goes without saying that Ciro is not female.

I've never understood why immigration doesn't process you before you get on the plane, instead of after you debark. I can come up with reasons, but not good reasons. Archaic reasons, mostly. The other way would save a lot of time. And money. And anguish.

I'm not naturally atavistic. I'm not acquisitive. I've sometimes been told that money would make these problems go away, but I don't find that it does. Fame would, maybe - the right kind of fame - which is why I pursue it; people are more willing to believe the famous, or at least less likely to oppose their whims. Higher costs; media unfriendliness. Money doesn't have the same power. On the other hand, I've tried (and witnessed) the strategy of having powerful friends, and it's as ineffectual as money - perhaps fame is the same.

In the end, I'm not sure how to get along in this world, unless as an outlaw. In the end, I'm not sure how to get along as an outlaw.

=

=

=

Ciro has been refused entry into the UK. They are not supposed to tell me why, but they have told me why. (Pretty, white, female. Insistent. In America, of course, we have opposite laws that protect the citizens instead of the government. These laws would allow me to demand every detail. But then, neither does America surveil me with hidden cameras, or track my every train ride.)

There are two reasons. One is that Ciro has all his CDs with him, and thus must mean to stay more than six months (the duration of a tourist visa). I have traveled with many more CDs for a much shorter visit - how can one know in advance what music will be desired in the moment? Presumably, this can be chalked to ignorance, or the slowness with which bureaucracies assimilate culture; as I look around me, I see dozens of people with 100-album I-Pods.

The other reason is that Ciro doesn't have any reason to be in the US right now. Therefore, they are sending him back to the US. In effect, he'd be allowed to stay here if only he wanted to be somewhere else.

Myself, I think the actual reason is that he's a man. A woman could say "my boyfriend will support me." A man would clearly look for work; his pride would drive him to.

(If you've wondered: English sexism is much more pronounced than American. Much worse. I try to learn from it - to make insights about cross-cultural approaches to gender - but most of the time, I'm too surprised to say more than: what?)

Although Ciro is only on the other side of a thin wall, I won't be allowed to see him. I'm on English soil; he isn't. They may find a way to let him call me; I'll wait here in the lobby until his flight departs. I don't know how the flight is being paid for [insert: the airline pays for it]; I do know it's to Boston. I know my parents will take care of him tonight. I don't know about tomorrow. I don't know about next month. I'll talk to him, talk to Dad, talk to the London Film School. I bought myself an egg salad sandwich, on the grounds that I like eggs. I bought a copy of the Economist so the world will seem friendly. It's hard to know anything. Y'know, people talk a lot of shit about America, but it took England to daily call me a liar.

you effectively traveled a long way to pay that promoter to electrocute you

Things England does better than America:

- Electrical plugs. Say what you will about Britain's shoddy plumbing; the electricals are impeccable. And, oh, electric kettles, how I love the speed with which you heat water.

- Sketch comedy. Actually, television in general. This does me little good, as I have neither a television nor time to watch one, but there it is.

- Crosswalks. Stopping traffic never gets old. I should probably be more cautious; Marla Singer-like, I fling myself on to roadways without ever looking (though I keep my ears open).

- Cheese. Oh sweet stilton.

- Clothes. The average person here dresses both more originally and more flatteringly.

- Calling people "darlin'." The American south is suppose to have this one sewn up, but in practice it's falling down on the job. I couldn't tell you the last time I got an American "sugar" or even a "sweetie pie." Here, one is "Hello, darlin'!"ed by almost every shopkeeper.

- Text messages which are priced sensibly. However, on balance, Britain loses out to American telephony; the line charges here are crazy.

- I'm pretty sure there's something else I'm leaving out - something important. It's not beer, tea, curry, or chips - I've had better, on average, in the States. It's not public transit - I'd like to praise the Underground, but it's both slower and more expensive than driving back home. Socialized medicine may or may not be a mess (I haven't tried it); parliamentary government may or may not be less corrupt - it's hard to compare countries of such different sizes. I think British coins and bank notes are more attractive; I think British banks are lumbering.

- Pedestrians? Sometimes I like the number of pedestrians. Usually I'd rather have the street to myself.

What America does better than England:

Commercials, newspapers, comic strips, openness, civil liberties (amazingly), transparency, lighting conditions, cost of living, freedom.

The irony of everything is threefold. The first irony is that most Dallasites firmly believed I'd feel at home in London, despite my telling them I wouldn't. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool patriot, a connoisseur of American history, of American geography, of American legal systems. I'm built on John Locke from the atom; my number one value is freedom from outside interference. That much should have been clear from my lifestyle, my jobless, roving lack of allegiance. Constraints are only fun when they're self-imposed - freely, as a game.

I came to London Film School despite - not because of - the London in the title (which was until recently London International Film School). I gambled the school would be good enough to make up for England. I don't know that it is. (No offense to people who like England - I can see it's got a lot to offer to someone whose essential nature is less Romie. But, well. That's the knife.)

The second irony is that film school was supposed to spark my creativity. In a way, it has. But I'd be writing more if I wasn't here, and showing it to more people. I'm more excited by the projects I left behind.

The third irony - the most beautiful - is that my decision to apply to London Film School was based entirely upon my marriage to Patrick. Financially, it was a smart idea; there were companies here that wanted to hire him once he had the work permit my student visa would give him. I might not have needed any loans, which do hang over my head. If I did need loans, well, governments only give them to institutions, not individuals. Banks only take risks backed by governments. I didn't know at the time that the primary organization I'd borrow from would not be America, or Bank of America, but my dad.

But that's only half the story; England's real purpose was to save the marriage. It was a chance for Patrick to put me first - to follow my lead for once, like he'd always said he would. It was an excuse to move away from his family. It was a hope I'd be happier with Patrick if I was far away from Ciro. Third irony: my main reason for going to London Film School was to get away from Ciro.

(I'm back at the flat now, and glad again for the electric kettle. Hot sweet liquids, even though I never take sugar in my tea. Full shock reaction - eyes wide open, skin conductivity off the chart. Adrenaline shakes. Nausea. I had trouble dialing the phone; my muscles have gone rigid like armor.)

If I'd known I'd divorce Patrick; known I'd be with Ciro; known my dad would lend me money - I would never have come. I might not have stayed in Dallas - might have gone to Boston - but I would have put this money toward a film, not a degree. I still fully respect the school; still fully respect the teachers. I'm starting to respect the other students.

I'd lose face by leaving. But I'm not an economist for nothing, and I studied enough social psych to know about low-balling. If I leave right now, I'm only out the money Dad loaned me - I won't owe the school or the government. Of the five reasons I had for coming to the school, only one still operates. Perhaps, after a night's sleep, I will find that's enough.

apropos, though out of context

"I think the idea is something like: if a person you don't know is staring into your window late at night, the fact that they don't know your first name is no comfort. Some people just feel surveillance in the hairs of their neck, and will not abide it."

-Tycho, Penny Arcade