LEAVE ME ALONE!

This is the story of my continuing battle to NOT participate in the census. However mis-guided or inappropriate this may seem, it is a battle that I am undertaking on philosophical grounds. The following events, in reverse chronological order, is  documentation of the government's efforts to invade my privacy.

• June 4, 2000: The doorbell rings. The dogs bark. The television is blaring. A singular call, "Census." No response from within. A knock. They go away. These people are very annoying.

• June 1, 2000: The doorbell rings. The dogs bark. I look at the clock and note the time at about 2030. I let it ring. Then comes a knock. And another. I tuck my trusted 1911 into my back pocket and head toward the door.

The porch light goes on and I spy a short, heavy-set black woman on my step. I crack the door only slightly to keep the dogs from running out. I notice the census I.D. badge. She starts her introduction. I reply that I'm not interested and close the door. The porch light goes out.

She yells through the door that I must give her my name. That I must answer at least that question. That my refusal is a crime. That this crime allows her to return to my home with a police officer in tow to force my compliance. Over my shoulder and through the door I tell her to get lost.

•  Late May, 2000: The newspapers report that this state will only gain one mis-representative based on a census projection. I smile.

• Mid May, 2000: The doorbell rings. The dogs bark. I look at the clock and note the time at about 1430. It is Saturday and the game is on. I let it ring. Then comes a knock. And another. I tuck my trusted 1911 into my back pocket and head toward the door.

Through the peephole, I spy a short, Hispanic man on my step. I open the door and the dogs run out on the porch. I notice the census I.D. badge. He starts his introduction. I reply that I'm not interested.

He replies, "But I am the census." I again reiterate that I am not interested and close the door.

• Early May, 2000: The doorbell rings. The dogs bark. I look at the clock and note the time at about 1730. I let it ring. Then comes a knock. And another. I tuck my trusted 1911 into my back pocket and head toward the door.

  Through the peephole, I spy a middle aged, white woman on my step. I do not reply. I head back to what I was doing. A few more rings. A few more knocks. And then through the mail slot, on the way to the trash, census blurbs.

• April / May, 2000: Census blurbs mixed with my mail. More junk.

• Late April, 2000: Census blurbs, (Hi, We were here and you weren't. Please call. We will return.) mixed with my mail. More junk.

• Early 2000: Ball and Chain tosses census form. Good girl. She mentions this in response to a passing query sometime after the event.

• Even Earlier, 2000: Census notification letter arrives. I declare that I will not participate.