The wild and crazy adventures of Mom and Me: Getting a Secret Clearance

Growing up in Dayton, Ohio has given me the unique experience of living next to a base for twenty five years. In this time, I have become accustomed to buzz cuts, military police and republicans. As a child, we lived in a less affluent neighborhood next to base housing. I remember a classmate crying hysterically as his father had left that day to fight in the Gulf war. Later, we lived in one of the more affluent areas of Dayton and I remember a classmate crying hysterically, as her mother worked at the Pentagon at the time of the 9/11 attacks. Needless to say, living next to a base affects an entire community, at every demographic level; because when you live in a military area, there are constant reminders of the government and war. You can’t turn around without seeing camouflage.
And then there is the second part to this scenario. Working as a civilllian for the air force base has entirely more to do with who you know (or do, for that matter) than it does your skill set. And for this reason, base families breed more base workers and highly qualified people in the technology field simply… well, work somewhere else or leave the area. The result is astonishing.

And this brings me to Mom and Me’s Most Fabulous Adventure: Getting a Top Secret Clearance. My mom has no interest in changing professions and really, I don’t either. However, anyone that has lived in Dayton longer than, maybe a millosecond or two, knows that a top secret clearance can take you from joe-schmoe McDonalds worker to tie-adorned professional. So, when we received an email from a local, non-profit company that offers classes in conjunction with local colleges through which you can receive said top secret clearance, we trotted on over and took a little peek. And what a peek it was.
The operation was run professionally and was quite impressive but I am not here to promote it. I am here to tell you about the man next to me who asked inappropriate questions and the woman next to my mom who wore booty shorts to the event.
We walked into the twenty person attended event and took our seats, booty short woman who did not bring a pen or paper tour to our right and Mr. Desperation to our left. The session began. The CEO of this thing is huge, tough, and has the rhetoric of a God. I watched him and tried not to drool from sheer awe at his word choice, his tone, his choice of inflection at the end of statements. And then he mentioned the process of getting top secret clearance. And the questions began.
The man next to me shot his hand up as if it was a race.
“so, um, you mean if we have financial trouble we can’t get clearance? What if, like, it wasn’t your fault and your ex-wife had a shopping addiction?”
Uncomfortable silence followed this, of course, but superhero that he was, Rhetoric Man retorted with grace and respectful chiding.
And then the presenter continued. The man raised his hand again.
“What if like, all your neighbors are new and don’t really like you and the investigators question them?”
Mom and looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The smell of booty- short -woman’s old gum wafted towards us and I noticed how nice my mom’s mascara looked.
Another man raised his hand, toward the front of the room. He was wearing dress shoes with work out socks. “What if you have some suspicious activity from the past, but it was ten years ago?” oh boy.
I pictured a person attending a medical seminar and standing up, lifting his shirt and asking, “What do you think about this? Does this look cancerous?”
I stifled a laugh.
The event concluded, and I stood with my mom as she waited to network with rhetoric God. A man wearing pants from the early nineties milled his way over to us.
“uh… hi….Did you work--like teach-- at Wright State? Math or something?” He asked my mom while diverting his eyes to the floor, the table, the clock and occasionally, at her.
Smooth as she is, she told him that she did and asked him about his life. I watched inquisitively. I used to attend class with her and help hand out papers. I was six. How did he recognize her from 19 years ago? The woman next to me, perm free and without red lipstick did not resemble the math TA he would have known. Stalker, I thought and squinted my eyes. Luckily, he was watching the floor and shifting nervously and did not notice.
I left then, taking mom’s phone to make dinner plans out in the privacy of the lobby which faced the front doors. I should mention that all around this building are notices: You can be searched without warrant. You are under surveillance. Big Brother is watching.
As I ended my phone conversation, I saw a man manically trying to open the door to the building. The doors were locked and it was raining. He had a wind breaker on and one of those cop/ horse rider hats. I watched him awkwardly search his person for his phone and punch in numbers. Frustrated, he pushed his phone back in his pocket and pressed his face to the tinted glass, using his hands to shade his eyes as if he were using binoculars. And then, he pointed at me. And then at the door handle. When I didn’t move, he lifted his windbreaker which had a security/cop/authoritarian logo on it and he shook it at me. I wondered if this was a test, to see if I was meant to be a part of our country’s intelligence. As I watched the man flop about outside the door, I decided to let him in, knowing that the numerous cameras would document my innocence and kindness. By letting him in, I subsequently locked myself out but was able to view the show in full detail as he tried to open a locked closet that he thought was a stairwell and started listing off names, asking me if I knew the people. He looked hurried.
Finally, he left. Mom appeared and looked at me through the glass as if to ask, “What the hell have you been doing?” I just shook my head.
We decided over dinner that we were meant to have security clearance and we will begin taking classes—but I will save that little gem for another day….