Being Black: At the Airport
It's 9:45 and the bar is closed. How anyone manages to make it through an airport excursion without a caffeinated upper or an alcoholic downer is beyond me. With the coffee shops shut down too, I am the most out of luck. The fact that humans are not wired to experience the airport on neutral makes my ears ring. I brace myself for the full feeling of what is to come. Not only am I stuck in neutral--I am a black woman..at an airport. A black woman with a short afro, a pink jacket, small breasts, a Michelle Obama backpack, and an uncanny ability to be called sir. I step into the airport triggered. Tension holds my body together, willing someone to say something twisted-waiting really. It always happens. Something always happens. As I wait to board the plane, I note that I've only been sir'd once. That's a record in my book. The TSA agent who tipped me of by laughing at those of us lowly travelers who placed our belongings directly on the conveyor belt when no bins wer...
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