Random Security Check

I heard the voices of friends echoing in my brain, "You don't know what it's like!" as I watched Airport security in a mid-western city last week. My response has always been – we have all been othered at one point or another in our lives. All of us.

My experience on March 20, 2003 comes immediately to mind. I was driving, t-tops off stereo blasting (Alice's Restaurant), bumper stickers declaring strong political opinions ("it will be a great day when our schools get all the money they need and the air force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber," and "be all that you can be, work for peace"), my waist length hair flowing in the breeze, and my dream-catcher hanging from the rear view. I was run off the road by men in pick-ups with rifle racks (rifles included). They got out of their trucks, with their rifles and came after me. I was glad I was in my environmentally incorrect 8-cylindar sports car as I burned through the gravel and grass back on to the highway at 90 mph. Yes, I understand what it is like to be different. I am a very liberal thinker living in the heart of George-Bush-is-akin-to-God country. And there are moments when that is frightening on oh-so-many levels.

But this was different. It was prejudice such as I have never witnessed before.

I arrived 2hrs prior to my flight (as ordered by the TSA) and went barefoot and jacket-less through the checkpoint holding my travel Listerine and carmex in a plastic bag (no larger than quart-size), my computer placed isolated in a plastic tub and my possessions x-rayed. I sat quietly with a view of the check point for two hours.

The nice, white, middle-aged woman checking tickets was pulling people from the line for "random checks". In my 2hr sojourn she pulled several (like 5 or 6) African-Americans, the only Native American to travel through the gate, 3 people of Asian descent, one of Arab ancestry, 7 or 8 Hispanics, and one who looked Indian, or perhaps Bangladeshi. The only white person in the group was the flamer – and he was flaming! The platform shoes in particular seemed to upset the all-white security team. And he was traveling with an Asian man, who was clearly his sig. other. I found this experience deeply disturbing.

I considered volunteering myself as the token white person in the mix – but opted to cling quietly to my New Yorker magazine. I wanted to get home without Homeland Security investigating my every possession and movement. One young Asian man, a Korean American, sat down beside me and I struck up a conversation. I told him I felt bad that he had been searched like that…violated on so many levels. He smiled and patted my knee. He responded with a thick southern accent, "I have not been through an airport since 2001 without being randomly pulled from the line. You get used to it."

You get used to it. What a sad statement. I wanted to scream about the injustice. But just then 2 young black men were pulled from the line – armed guards came running – guns in hand. The "targets" had pocket knives. Knives they apologized for—like teeny knives pen knives.

I boarded my plane for Denver feeling dirty. White and dirty.

(copied from mejones.net -- my new blog site, because my OLD blog site is now a literary journal.).