Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

The subject of Kofi Annan, U.N. Secretary-General, came up this weekend when I was at a party.

"He's not that tall," I mentioned casually. "Just a little taller than me."

Then I mentioned that I'd photographed him while I was working at a museum in Philadelphia. Mr. Annan was receiving the Liberty Medal that year.

Oh, but I'm a dreadful name-dropper.

Since there was some interest in the subject, I dug out a column I wrote at the time for InYourTown.com, as well as some pictures of Kofi Annan and his wife greeting guests, and one of the secret service agents.

Under Surveillance

The Secret Service agent barely moved when I crashed into her. I apologized, and she growled, "That's OK," so I had to assume it was. I suppose it wasn't the first time somebody bumped into her while trying to photograph United Nations Secretary-general Kofi Annan. And after all, I was wearing the purple staff badge the museum had prepared for the occasion.

Besides, I'm sure they'd already run a security check on all of us, and found out we were law-abiding, wimpy peaceniks.

I have no idea how long they'd been checking on us, but considering how long preparations had been underway for the reception for the Secretary-general, they had probably completed their checks weeks ahead of time.

How far into my past did they delve? did they know about the time the police questioned me in connection with an underground newspaper I was suspected of printing? Did they know about my speeding tickets, and the two-week suspension when I was caught blowing down a Central Pennsylvania road at speeds so high I got five points in one go? Did they know I once had my truck searched at the Canadian border for looking too much like a hippie, and had to sign a form to turn over some "contraband," two large sparklers left over from Independence Day?

Most likely, they knew all of this. But how much more? Did they eavesdrop on my electronic communications and my inbox full of silliness and spam? Are they responsible for the Frank Sinatra music that's been filtering through my phone line for months now?

Did they go even further back? Did they discover that James Wilson, a signer of the Declaration of Independence and Carlisle, Pennsylvania attorney who spoke with a Scottish brogue his entire life, was the brother of my direct ancestor? Do they know some of my Quaker ancestors helped found the first abolitionist society in the United States and ran a stop on the Underground Railroad? Did they find out that my grandmother's cousin was one of the Flying Monkeys in "The Wizard of Oz?"

Until I saw them checking the statue, I never would have figured they'd go so far. But as they made their pass through the museum the night before the Secretary-general was due to arrive, I saw one of them tilt a statue off its pedestal and look behind it. I guess they were making sure nobody was hiding behind the two-foot tall work of art.

"The statue's safe," I told one of my coworkers. "It's been checked."

"Good. I was worried."

When the world leader himself arrived, it was almost a letdown. He was small and soft-spoken, and he kept a gracious smile on his kind-looking face as he tolerated the constant stream of well-wishers. Later at dinner, when he spoke, his speech was so well-crafted and his speaking manner so refined that he left no doubt how he'd earned his position.

I suppose I should be humbled by having stood so close to a great leader; but I was more concerned with trying to get good photographs for the museum's archives. There was no time to bask in the glory. My mind was full, evaluating the light, keeping track of how many pictures I had left, and competing with the UN photographer for a good angle.

By this point the Secret Service agents had loosened up. There were so many of them in so many different locations that they rotated throughout the museum in shifts. I heard some of them joking around about using hand lotion because one of their supervisors doesn't like agents with chapped hands.

At the end of the reception, the Secretary-general was once again hemmed in by admirers, and I was out of shots. As I left, several agents were standing outside, guarding the limousine. A street vendor tried to sell them glow-in-the-dark necklaces and got suspicious glances in return..

One of the agents was squeezing hand lotion into his palm.

I thought about asking him about the Frank Sinatra music on my phone, but decided it was a bad idea. But if any agents are still checking up on me, I have a request: Could you make it the Moody Blues instead?

Copyright 2001-2003 by Alyce Wilson

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