CLEARWATER, Fla.--During the 2020 Decennial Census, I was assigned the resort community of Clearwater Beach. Local census headquarters had been having trouble getting people to respond to the survey. The simple reason was that so few people actually lived there. Probably a third of the homes, mostly condos in secure apartment buildings, were lived in year round. The rest were vacation homes, or time shares, or Airbnb units. Census takers knocked on the doors and dutifully placed a notice of visit--notices that would never be answered or even seen. So I was asked to find out the true status of these units to close out the addresses. One of the challenging beachfront buildings had half a dozen questionable units. One of the units I needed to confirm listed a mom and dad, with three kids. I spotted a young couple pushing a stroller with small children in tow; quite the coincidence. I jogged toward them and called out, "Excuse me, I'm with the Census, and I'm looking for a family who lives in this building and meets your description." The mom stopped and stared at me. So I walk up to them, holding out my Census ID as I explain what I'm doing. The guy starts to answer, but the mom interrupts. "We don't have to tell you a thing. We don't have time."
I've had a lot of unfriendly responses, so this didn't stop me. I told them that all I needed is to confirm how many people live in that unit and I can close it out. "...and no one from the census will be back," I promised.
But mom purses her lips and marches away, kids and guy follow in her wake. I noticed a middle-aged man walking out of the building just then, so I abandoned the uncooperative family and approached him, identifying myself and my mission--and as luck would have it I hit pay dirt. He was the building co-op president and knew everyone who lived there! Best, he agreed to share his knowledge and allow me to close out each questionable unit. While he answered my questions, I noticed the mom talking animatedly with a gaggle of middle-aged women. She would point at me, and the women would glare my way. I continued with my source, then saw the group of women marching toward us... toward me. One woman, the leader, got close to me and interrupted. "Who are you, and why are you harassing our friend?"
Hmm, how to handle this...? I pulled out my ID, then showed my Census bag, identified myself, and told her, "That's okay, I'm getting everything I need and will be done shortly." But she wasn't mollified.
"I'm calling the police," she announced to me and the four or five other women close by as she pulled out her phone. I don't know why this particular situation annoyed me, why I took this one personally. Maybe it was the heat; maybe it was an earlier guy who yelled at me for "soliciting"; maybe it was the likelihood that I was the native and these were outsiders. Or maybe it even had a little to do with a talk I had with my supervisor about how running away can look suspicious. But their taking offense pissed me off. I said, "I'm a federal agent representing the Department of Commerce, and I'm looking forward to meeting a fellow government official. I'll wait." The leader stomped away, phone still to her ear. I continued with my interview, closing out units one by one. I completed the last of the units with the co-op president, and thanked him for his help. At that moment, the women, who had been standing a couple dozen feet away, moved as a group for a Clearwater Beach police car. The leader hurried to the officer and spoke rapidly to him while pointing at me.
Co-op president sighed. I shrugged to him and waited by my motorcycle. The cop walked up to me, asked what was going on, and I gave him my standard spiel. He glanced at my Census bag and ID, and asked if I was done. "Just finished."
"You need to come back?"
I shook my head. "Nope."
"Take off then." I pulled on my helmet and rode away, followed by the deadliest glares I experienced that weekend.
--Fla. Anonymous
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