I’m Glad My Father Is Dead

What’s happening now with the FBI would have broken his heart

Photo by Marija Zaric on Unsplash

To my father, and most agents, the work was more than a job. It was a vocation. It sprang from the patriotic energy of WWII, in which risk and sacrifice were considered small prices to pay for the well-being of the country.

Their reward was the sense that they were serving the cause of democracy. What else could it be? The money was lousy, the assignments unpredictable, the days and nights long. The risk was high, the rules were rigid, and every day they stared down the ugliest, most dangerous threats to our country.

The “Special” in Special Agent

As a little girl, I believed that the “Special” in his title was worth something. My early memories are of getting dressed up, carrying an empty suitcase and taking a ride to the airport, with the promise of an ice cream cone at the end.

At the far end of a terminal, I sat still while he watched planes land and people disembark. Later I would learn it as espionage. It was incredibly boring. “Dad,” I called in a stage whisper, “what are we doing?” He’d put a finger to his lips, and then whispered, “We’re making the world safe for democracy.”

Making the world safe

In the middle of slurping our ice cream cones, I asked, “Dad, did we make the world safe for democracy?” I’ll never forget his surprised chuckle and his arm around me.

“A little at a time,” he answered, and reminded me of the secrecy of our airport adventures.

Bells and whistles

As a kid, my attention was focused on the things that struck me as exciting or disturbing.

The gun was a giveaway that something dangerous was possible.

My brother and I loved the occasional day he had “Firearms,” when he recertified his facility with guns. We were thrilled when he walked into the house with large rolls of paper with human outlines on them.

We circled the hits and competed with each other about whose targets had the most holes. It was an example of the many times you look back into events in your childhood and wonder, “What was he…