Wanted, MacBook Pro; Will Trade For Power Objects
The Watched Are Watching the Watchers
This post is the first of many that will reflect on life in a post-surveillance world. Some of you have always experienced this. Some of you know what the before was like.
Los Angeles, a City of Contradictions, and Community Resilience
As I shuffle onto the E-line towards East LA and Pasadena, my view of the train is temporarily blocked by people squeezing through the door, trying to leave. I scan around the train car to see which seats are open and who those seats are next to. A portly middle aged jewish man is standing next to the ones that face the entire front of the train, and another man is sitting hunched over, his body facing the standing man. I realize his black sweatshirt could be cleaner. It is worn down around the neck, and the black around the collar is lightly bleached brown from acidic sweat. I sit across the aisle from him and immediately question my decision as the slumped over man slips a hand into his backpack and pulls out a small torch. He deftly pushes a button and the torch shoots out a four inch flame. It is so shocking that my heart rate momentarily spikes and I feel my shoulders tense as I breath in deeply.
It is best that I do not move, get up and change my location in the train car. But my eyes briefly lock with the standing man. We are all in this together. The train rocks back and forth, noises from long forgotten terror birds screeching from the steel on steel. Nothing happens, so I focus my gaze on a what appears to be a masticated sticky brown substance on the window. I could slide one seat over towards the wall and window, but then I would be closer to the brown glop. I decide to stay where I am.
I have headphones on, but I know the sitting man is talking to the standing man, trying to make a point. He’s telling him that his lighter is ok, legal to use and carry because it’s not even one hundred percent as powerful as it could be. He feels harassed. The standing man disagrees with him, but in such a jovial way that it diffuses things slightly. He slides the torch back into his backpack and I notice that his knuckles are slightly swollen, his hands are worn, and as quickly as the dangerous thing appeared, it is gone. The hunched over man won’t give up his case though. He should be able to carry his torch. The standing man points out that this is the cause of all of his problems.
It is my stop. I get off of the train, and nod at them both as my feet pass over the gap.
I am now sitting at my computer, thinking about how the last time I hung out with her, my friend T pulled a giant can of bear spray out of her purse to show to a group of us. We were at restaurant/bar attached to a public outdoor dancing event last week. I remember that even in that situation, my heart rate went up. I told her to put it away, much like the standing man did to the sitting man. If she had looked like the sitting man in his stained sweater some stranger likely would have called the police. But I did get her to put the giant can back in her pack and felt an odd twinge of pride for my friend. The thing is, no matter who you are in Los Angeles, you are resourceful. And even the best of us are a little dangerous. Perhaps this is the cause of all of our problems. But I doubt it.
I tell my mom about the incident over the phone during one of our regular conversations. I should have called the police, she believes. Fire is a terrible injury. She is not wrong about it being terrible. But I do not have much faith in our police officers. It’s always been a shaky faith and now, after what I observed happening to ICE protestors in June, my trust of them is at an all-time low.
I believe that this man, was just lonely, and a little punchy, and not really going to light anything or anyone on fire. And if I had called the police, that may have been one more dead black man, one more dead psych patient. I had seen that the standing man had been able to get through to him, and while his actions were on the edge of recklessness, I think the situation was controlled by the small silent community on the train. I have witnessed many incidents on trains, and not once was anyone been hurt. Does it happen? Yes, sometimes. But the city I live in contains one in thirty-five people in the US. It is an enormous, ever changing organism. It’s actually miraculous that more crime doesn’t happen here.
I often think about Los Angeles in terms of a community that is like this. We watch each-other, and we watch the authorities.
There are cameras and facial recognition technology everywhere, but until recently, these devices largely accumulated data, with no one giving out citations or using it in ways that could be considered a violation of privacy. Now, we have AI llms going through video files and ticketing cars that illegally use bus lanes. ICE has an app that uses data from the DHS database to match faces to people that they use against protestors. DHS has been using llms to comb through data and find targets. ITIN numbers and names are matched to faces and locations. Our phones and accounts ping location data back and forth between our devices. Our internet service routers create shadowy maps of the rooms that we live in and of ourselves and objects within. An ex January 6er has created a Pokemon-like app for ICE to use to hunt down people attempting to immigrate to this country. DHS has access to all of the data from everyone on Medicaid. The real ID system aggregates everyone in the country into one database, making searches for specific people easier.
If we had all listened to Jaron Lanier earlier, and ditched the social apps, we might not be in the predicament where the government has the capability to track its own citizens closely, to the point where privacy is not a given right. But here we are, our data in the hands of billionaires who are more than happy to sell it to the government for contracts and kickbacks.
While all of us on the train were insignificant the other day, and not worth the attention of authorities, we can all fit into some bucket and version of ‘undesirable’ in this country. The man with the torch is a mentally ill black man. I am an underemployed, unmarried, middle aged white woman, and although I work and volunteer and attempt to make the world around me better, the data that tells the story of my life would omit this. The standing man is Jewish.
But there is more to life than our economic, and general societal contributions. Each person here can be a spark, or a catalyst for positive change. We teach each other lessons, positive and negative, and leave our own unique mostly vanishing footprints on the ever-changing history of humanity.
Reflection isn’t always solipsistic. Let’s have some fun here.
nothingbutbaguettes@gmail.com
Los Angeles, CA 90012
How to be hopeful
Wanted, MacBook Pro: Will Trade for Power Objects 
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