Separation Anxiety: A Parable

I was playing with my 18-month old son in Waco’s sprawling Cameron Park on a sweltering, windless afternoon. We were doing the best we could to make it a good day, but things were far from perfect. He was hungry, but I didn’t have any food for him; he was thirsty, but I didn’t have any water for him.

As we played, I looked a hundred yards north to a cabin-like building often used for receptions. Curious, I scooped up my son and walked over to it. Peering through its front window, my eyes widened at what I saw: in the center of the room was a cooler full of cold water bottles and a box full of snacks. What’s more, I could see the curtain across the room lazily blowing back and forth, a sure sign that the room was air-conditioned.

Eagerly, I walked up to the door, and there I saw the sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. I paused for a moment, and it was at exactly that moment that my son squeezed his hand demonstratively, sign language for “milk.” He was thirsty and the room had water…the sign seemed irrelevant. I checked the door to see if it was even unlocked. It was. I took my chances and walked in.

The moment I walked through the doorway, a hand roughly grabbed my arm and whirled me around.

“This room is for authorized use only,” said a uniformed man, his hand tightly gripping my arm. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I saw the sign, but my son was hungry and thirsty and—look, I’m sorry, we’ll leave.”

Stone-faced, the man said, “Not an option. We’ve been having problems with people coming in here without permission for too long now. You’re going to have to come with me.”

Seeing he meant business, I didn’t argue. “Come on, Buddy,” I said to my son. “We’re going to go with this man.”

“Actually,” said the man, “your boy is going to have to go with my partner.” Another man in uniform, nearly twice my size, stepped from around the corner and approached me.

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“Sir, please don’t argue. We’ll take care of your son while you are prosecuted.”

My face was getting red. “Hold on, let me call somebody—my wife, a friend. They’ll come get him while I go with you.”

“No, sir. You’re coming with me; he’s going with my partner. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”

“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed, stepping backwards. “Look, I’ll pay the fine or whatever you need me to do, but my son stays with me!”

The larger man moved forward and roughly grabbed my son out of my arms before I could object. My son started to cry.

“Hey, stop!” I yelled, and the first man gripped my arm even tighter to restrain me. “Can we talk about this? This is crazy!”

Without another word from the uniformed men, handcuffs were slapped on my wrists as I was pushed in one direction and my son was carried the opposite direction. I was shoved into a car, and the last thing I heard before the door was slammed was the sound of my son weeping as he was taken away from me.

Some would call this story unbelievable. Unfair. Cruel.

My government calls it justice.

What do you call it?