don't count me in

I do not trust my time memory.

At least, not recently. I start to describe an event thinking it happened a month ago, and then realize it was just three days ago. Changes in our routines do that.

Time is always a bit elusive here. Because I am not a joiner, my weekly calendar is as devoid of engagements as a Celebrity cruise ship. If I did not have church on Sunday morning, days would slip into days. Unnoticed. Unacknowledged. Perhaps, a bit unlived.

For the past month (and you can weigh that time period against my caveat), the Mexican decennial census has been underway here. Teams of safari vest-clad young people have been navigating the streets looking like the Face of the Federal Government for whom they are undertaking the onerous task of interviewing every person in Mexico.

Mexico conducts its census for the same reason every other nation does: to know how many people are under its sovereignty, who is eligible for taxation, and how to allot Federal funds. For that reason, the states have a vested interest in ensuring all of their people are counted.

And, just as it has in other countries, the nature of the census has changed. Most people are still asked the traditional questions: number of people in the household and their name, race, age, religion, sex, marital status, education level, and place of birth. But some respondents will be asked more-prying questions. Number of rooms in the dwelling. Whether the dwelling has electricity and indoor bathrooms, and if the household owns a radio, a microwave, a refrigerator, or television.

Now, all of this is second hand information because no one has yet stopped at the House with No Name to add my name and Omar's to this ten-year count. This appears to be the second census where my presence in Mexico will not be noted.

The census tabulators have been in the neighborhood. Last week as I left for a short shopping trip, the young woman across the street was being interviewed. When I returned, the official had moved on.

The census was to start on 2 March and conclude on 27 March -- Friday a week ago. I do not know if the count will be extended because of the coronavirus. But it appears I may have missed my opportunity to talk about my microwave.

That may be just as well. I was cutting my teeth on libertarianism when William Rickenbacker, son of Eddie, objected to providing anything in the 1960 census other than his basic personal information. He had received what was referred to the "long census form" that asked some of the same questions the Mexican census now does. He was particularly incensed about the "number of bathrooms" question on the basis that the government had no business even asking the question in a census.

The United States federal government took him to court and Rickenbacker was sentenced to 60 days in prison (suspended), fined $100, and placed on probation for one day. The punishment was symbolic, but Rickenbacker was thereafter labeled as a criminal.

The second circuit federal court affirmed the conviction in United States v. Rickenbacker, 309 F2d 462 (1963). The Supreme Court refused certiorari.

I mention the case only because it has forever changed how I look at the census. For me, it is not a beneficent tool.

It seems, though, that I may not have to worry about having my political scruples sullied. The tide has moved on, and I am that pitiful piece of kelp that has been left behind.