In 1989 I was handed a clipboard, on it was a red cover sheet emblazoned with the word “SECRET”. The Sgt at the desk told me I needed to read the document and sign it before I could move on to my next assignment (PCS). Once I read the secret document, I was asked if I wished to change my travel plans. The document had outlined a viable threat against passenger aircraft leaving Europe and heading to the States over an American holiday weekend. It listed suspected groups that were involved and details of a quite involved plan. After reading it, I remember looking over at the Sgt and saying something along the lines of; I was fat, dumb, and happy without knowing this. Yeah, now I want to change my flight out. I did get a later flight, and ended up spending a few more days in Germany before heading back to the States. There were no attacks over the weekend. It was my first personal encounter with vague threats and “the dangerous stranger”.

The Lockerbie disaster was fresh on everyone’s mind and intelligence was focused on threats to airline travel. https://www.fbi.gov/history/famous-cases/pan-am-103-bombing

The dangerous stranger has always existed, just as the dangerous person we know has also always been available for mayhem. Us being humans though, we try to reassure ourselves that the stranger is a greater worry; they’re unpredictable and could be anyone. Of course, we might ignore the very real red flags of those closest to us. We don’t like to admit that not everyone we trust is worthy of our trust. In the quest to keep ourselves safe we try to create profiles, and images, of who to avoid.

The outlines of the dangerous stranger change with whatever the current fear focuses on. Today, it’s someone, usually with brown skin and an accent, that isn’t from these parts; wherever these parts may be. They might be an illegal alien, not that that is an inherent physical threat to anyone. They might not speak English yet, but we don’t want to help them fix that, nor is it a danger to anyone other than the non-English speaker. Miscommunication can get a person killed, even if we speak the same language. They might have a different set of religious beliefs. Which is an odd thing to worry about since the sheer number of variety found within the Christian denominations in the States is astounding. The stranger becomes the dangerous stranger all too easily when we keep them at arm’s length. When we refuse to share simple greetings and hospitality, they remain a stranger.

I have been the stranger for most of my life. I was a stranger in Germany, but to Americans, not to most Germans. Half my family line is from Germany. My last name is German and I look like most Palatinate Germans. When I was off base, I would have Americans approaching me, with broken German, asking for directions. I didn’t have to pay a phone deposit. They saw my last name and assumed I wasn’t a stranger. Even the French thought I was German. Where I have been a stranger has been in the States.

In the deep South, I was a Yankee. American Southerners are weird about this one, there’s a competition about just how South is Southern, and how far East makes a true Southerner. Even if I hadn’t been considered a Yankee, the state I was born in sided with the North during the Civil War, so I was a Yankee. Being born north of I-10 just cemented it. But, if you were from Florida, you weren’t Southern. I had problems with the culture in the South. I lost a job over voicing my dislike of the standard derogatory term for a black person, after hearing it being used in my presence at work.

I was a stranger in the Midwest, Chicagoland to be exact. I was from the Southwest so I didn’t fit there either. I was from the land of fruits and nuts and often pasted with stereotypes. There seemed to be some cultural differences because I was regularly told that I didn’t look like a veteran, or an artist. I certainly wasn’t thought of as a Yankee there. I was born South of I-40 after all.

Up to the Pacific NW, I was an unwelcome stranger there. It didn’t matter whether I was a Yankee or not. All that mattered was that I wasn’t from there. Anyone not from there, was unwelcome and should have turned around and gone back to wherever they came from. That was probably the least welcoming area I have lived in so far.

It’s uncomfortable to be the stranger. It usually means you’re distrusted. The locals may seem to use a different language entirely, even when they’re using the same one you are. You’re left out a lot and it can take years before you’re accepted as a non-dangerous stranger. But even then, there’s always something held back because you might change at any moment. Having been the stranger, it’s usually more dangerous for the stranger than for the locals.

We hope, and expect, that we’ll be treated with kindness when we travel. We wish to feel welcome with our neighbors. We are all the stranger. At any moment we can be seen as the dangerous stranger due to circumstances out of our control. Be kind, it costs nothing. Be generous, what you give might matter more than you know. We fear that which we don’t know, not necessarily that which is dangerous.