Who was that masked man?

by David Benjamin

“… You may never know which colleague posted your address on the internet or which neighbor anonymously reported your undocumented status to ICE. But, say, when those immigration agents show up at your asylum hearing, you can bet that at least some of them will be wearing masks and hiding their identities, potentially because they don’t want to be shamed online and in person … ”
― Tressie McMillan Cottom, NY Times, 22 June

Little Bobby Shaftoe ran from the window and hugged his mommy with all his might.

“What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“There are big, horrible men outside in the yard. They have guns! I think they’re going to come in and kill us!”

Mrs. Shaftoe hurried over and peeked through the curtains. “Oh no, honey,” she said. “That’s your daddy and his buddy Herb. They just got off work.”

Little Bobby always thought his daddy was a “civil servant,” a job in which he wore a suit and tie, not an outfit that made him look like a commando in Starship Troopers. “That can’t be Daddy, ” Bobby said. “Those guys are huge.”

“No, that’s him,” said Bobby’s mom. “When you’re wearing sixty pounds of body armor, it tends to expand your profile.”

“Daddy wears armor?” Bobby expostulated. “What kind of job is that?”

“He’s an ICE agent, honey.”

Bobby laughed, “Oh, Mommy, that’s silly. I remember, you told me. People used to have iceboxes. But now, we get ice from the fridge. There aren’t any icemen any more. Right, Mommy?”

“Sorry, sweetie, you’re right. Daddy’s not the iceman. He works for ICE. Eye. See Ee. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

“Gosh. What does Eye See Ee do?”

“Well, ICE’s job is to wage a Sisyphean struggle against heavily armed drug cartels, human traffickers of young girls and small children, terrorists, rapists, murderers, psychopaths and pedophiles released from insane asylums, sluts and whores, homosexuals, transgender athletes and all sorts of foreign evildoers.”

“Wow,” said little Bobby, “Daddy’s doing all that?”

Bobby’s mother cleared her throat. “Well, not exactly, sweetie. Those sorts of bad guys are hard to catch. Your daddy tends to go after smaller fry.”

“Oh, so who are they?”

“Well, he and Herb, they’ve been working their buns off rounding up hotel maids and tomato pickers, construction workers, day laborers, garbagemen, waitresses, short-order cooks, people like that. You know Hernando, who takes care of our garden? Well, Daddy arrested him just yesterday.”

“Hernando? But he’s nice,” Bobby looked alarmed. “Why would Daddy want to throw someone like Hernando in jail?”

“Not jail, dear. Detention. Eventually, Hernando will be deported to the shithole country that he came from.”

“You mean send him away? What did he do wrong?”

Mommy groped for an answer but finally leveled. “Nothing, really. But he’s brown and he speaks Spanish. We need to get rid of people like that.”

“Oh, and it’s Daddy’s job to catch those people.”

“Yes.”

“It sounds like Daddy’s job sucks,” said Bobby. “Does he like it?”

“Well, not much. But Herb loves it. He’s your daddy’s mentor.”

“Wait. Wasn’t Herb our neighbor?” asked Bobby, with a note of alarm.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he go to prison for cooking crystal meth and beating his wife? Isn’t he the one who killed the Swansons’ dog for barking? Aren’t his kids all afraid of him and don’t half the families in the neighborhood have temporary restraining orders to keep him five hundred yards away? Is Daddy’s partner that Herb?”

“Yes, dear. But when he joined ICE, Herb got pardoned for all that,” said Mommy. “He fits the ICE profile to a tee. He’s bitter and pathologically racist. He seethes with anger. He’s a sadist whose greatest pleasure is a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”

Bobby trembled with alarm. “Mommy, is that what Daddy’s like?”

“No, sweetie, but he’s learning. He’s getting used to inflicting senseless cruelty on helpless people. But it’s not easy.”

“Is that why he wears a mask?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Is that why he doesn’t wear a numbered badge or a name tag?”

“That’s right.”

“So, my Dad is in the Secret Police?”

“Don’t say that, sweetie. It has unfortunate connotations.”

“Well, yeah, but you know what Daddy always says.”

“What’s that?”

“If the shoe fits … ”

As little Bobby and his mommy watched, Daddy did a chest bump with Herb and shouted the ICE slogan, “Hasta la vista, wetbacks!” Then, Daddy turned and came indoors. He hurried into kitchen, where he drank beer through his mask.

Bobby asked his father why he didn’t take off his mask in the house. Daddy didn’t answer. He grabbed a six-pack, went to his man cave and slammed the door.

“Why won’t he take off his mask, Mommy? Why won’t he talk to me.”

“Well, honey, he’s ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Because he’s mean to people who’ve done no harm, because he takes parents away from their children and locks them up in concentration camps?”

“Detention centers, dear.”

“Tomayto,” replied Bobby, “tomahto.”

Mommy tried to reassure her little boy. She said, “Don’t worry, Bobby. Dehumanization is a process. Your daddy has only been doing this for a few weeks. After he has ruined a thousands lives, he’ll be pretty much the same heartless bastard as Herb. Nobody will know his name or what he has done. And we’ll be a happy family again.”

“But, Mommy, what if he never gets used to being a masked thug abusing the weak and defenseless. What if an endless routine of bigoted sadism eats away at his conscience and shatters his soul? What then, Mommy?”

“Don’t worry, honey. He can always fall back on his official alibi.”

“What’s that, Mommy?”

“He’s just following orders.”

Realization dawned on Bobby. “Oh, that’s what German soldiers said when they slaughtered six million Jews. And it’s what the Khmer Rouge guys said when they filled whole fields with dead people. It’s what the pilots said who bombed—”

Mommy interrupted. “Bobby, where did you hear this?”

“From my teacher.”

“Your teacher? What’s her name?”

“Miss Dominguez. She’s really smart.”

“A little too smart for her own good, the bitch,” said Mommy.

She picked up her phone and hit speed-dial.

“Hello. Homeland Security? Yes. I’d like to report a traitor in a government school poisoning my son’s mind with Marxist propaganda.”

“Mommy, no!”

“Shut up, kid.”