As a child it took me quite long time to figure out my father was working for the CIA.
But after so many 3am "hunting" trips, long waits in the car while he dropped brown packages into garbage cans, and the uncanny feeling that we were always being followed, I finally conceded that it must be true. I was about 6 at the time.
While other children got sheriff stars to wear on their t-shirts, my sister and I had to make due with Junior Hit Man badges, empty bullet casings, and counterfeit passports to play with. (My sister was always the Russian Counterspy.)
Our home life was never what you'd call great. Our mom was wonderful but Dad was always caught up in his work. During family dinners (when Dad wasn't off in Libya or Pakistan) he'd ask us what we did that day. Then we'd have to avoid giving him information at all costs. Around dessert, he'd usually have it out of all of us, even our mother, who was a pretty tough nut to crack.
We were really jealous when we found out other kids got to watch TV while they ate their dinners.
Unsurprisingly, any attempt to hide bad grades, stealing, or smoking was a colossal waste of time, as Dad had intelligence everywhere.
I was actually afraid to say anything in confession for over 12 years.
And though loving, Dad always erred on the side of caution. For example, we were always subjected to "pat downs" before we could give him a hug and kiss goodnight. If you'd sneak around a couch and try to surprise him, he'd always have the gun out and cocked before you could say, "Boo!" Which was kind of a bummer for an 8-year old. Whenever we'd go to a restaurant, Dad would insist on taking the chair facing the entrance, even if my sister and I wanted it. (Many times he's make the waiter/waitress cry by pressuring them into delivering the "secret specials".)
All this might have been easier to take if we could have at least impressed our friends by telling them our father was a CIA Agent, but we couldn't say anything. In fact Dad kept reminding us that he'd have to kill us if we did.
The only time of the year we could talk openly about what our father did was during the summer barbecues with other CIA dads and their families. Unfortunately, they were nothing like other people's barbecues with friends. The dads would always do things like ask you if you wanted a hot dog, then give you a hamburger, just to keep you on your toes. I don't even think they had any hot dogs. That's the kind of people they were. After they gave you the hamburger all the Agents would look at each other and laugh.
More humiliating were the camping trips with the Agent families. The incessant midnight interrogations kept everyone awake. If they weren't hauling you out of the tent, you'd wake up when they were carrying someone else out. And the questioning took hours!
"What did you eat for breakfast?"
"Why did you throw that fish back?"
"Who's your favorite CIA operative?"
They loved to play us kids against each other. One trip I told them that Jimmy left the toilet seat up just because I wanted to get back to my tent and go to sleep. The poor kid had to spend the rest of the trip in solitary. Jimmy and I were never close after that. In fact, all the kids eventually learned never to trust each other.
During the trip none of the CIA dads would take us out fishing, canoeing, or swimming. We'd go with our mothers while they talked in hushed tones about the Kennedy assassination or the Bay of Pigs and drank gallons of coffee.
At the end of every night they'd hold a dance contest and the loser would have to clean up the site at the end of the night.
I was never happier than when summer was over and I could finally go back to school and get some peace and quiet.
In fact, it's quite possibly the main reason I always went to summer school. And went to college on the opposite coast.
And could explain why I'm working on my 5th Master's Degree (this time in Communicative Disorders).
And still live in a dormitory.
With lots of aluminum foil on the windows.
You can never be too careful.
That's what Dad says, anyway.
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