This is some text to get the table of images to appear only after the jump.
Hackity hack.
This is some text to get the table of images to appear only after the jump.
Hackity hack.
This is some text to get the table of images to appear only after the jump.
Hackity hack.
This is some text to get the table of images to appear only after the jump.
Hackity hack.
This is some text to get the table of images to appear only after the jump.
Hackity hack.
The TSA agent had just finished running their fingers through my hair, and
begun to pat down my shoulders and outstretched arms.
“So… do you live in Washington D.C.?” they asked.
I shook my head, no. They asked what I was doing in the capitol. I responded,
in my politest, most innocent, most mousy-little-girl voice:
“I’m just going to talk to some of our nation’s senators about my work.”
The TSA agent jumped back a bit.
“Oh? What do you do?”
“I’m a programmer and computer security researcher.”
“Oh! Are you like really smart? I saw things about this on TV. Do you like
break code and stuff?”
“Perhaps, sometimes. But, you know… I can’t really talk about it.”
I forced my face into what I hoped was a kind and knowing half-smile.
They seemed utterly shocked.
“Well then, good luck with your talks, miss, and you’re free to go.”
they said, forgetting to pat down the remainder of me, swab the baby blue
latex gloves, and put the swab into the machine that purportedly checks for
chemical compounds used in explosives.
I coolly walked away, holding my nose up in the air, as if I believed I had
every right in the world to not be humiliatingly groped, holding all my
snickering giddiness inside until I got around the corner of a head-high
dividing wall. Then I shook my head, shocked at myself and feeling somewhat
bad and for the multiple lies² that had just fallen out of my mouth before I
could even think about them, and I laughed out loud, wondering how long it
would take for that person to realise they still hadn’t checked their gloves.
· · ·
That evening, arriving at the hotel in Washington D.C. for the
Open Tech Fund summit meeting, I spotted
Moxie in the lobby through the glass doors; I ran
inside, dropping my backpack, and flung myself upwards at him to wrap my arms
around his shoulders. Moxie had been talking with two others: Trevor from the
Freedom of the Press Foundation, and
Zooko of Tahoe-LAFS. I awkwardly
waved a friendly hello at Trevor, and since I’d only “met” Zooko over
videochat before, I awkwardly hugged them for the first time. Inwardly, I
mentally kicked myself again for my shyness around people I should be able to
call comrades and cohorts, yet haven’t interacted with as much AFK.
We sat down in the hotel lobby, exhausted and idly chatting. Moxie and I, as
usual, got to one of our lifelong favourite topics.
“So I was down in Malibu, and I ran into Laird Hamilton… you know that
guy?” Moxie asked.
Yep. Dude surfs crazy huge waves. I’d run into him before. Moxie continued:
“I just finished this book about rogue waves — they’re these monster waves,
hundreds of feet tall, pretty much unpredictable. There’s whole conferences
that people go to — people like us — but instead of talking about crypto …
