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 were available, decided to take a second jab at me. And although I didn't take that first hit without a defensive strike back.."There haven't been any bins since I've been in line, thus the tragedy of placing items on the belt-in case you actually wanted to know why that was happening. And there still aren't any bins back there." I was locked and loaded for whatever was next to come.
Fighting against microaggressions is no easy task. For as much tension and hyper-awareness as I have, I rarely get out more than a few words-if any. What is it about feeling minimized, unseen, that renders silence?
I manage to make it through security without a super-secret, 'the scanner is confused about whether you're a boy or a girl', private, 2 agent pat down. One can only hope that there's a limit to the number of times clothing choices and human inconsideration dictates the drudgery of TSA interactions.
I stay tight as I wait the perfectly timed 'one drink at the bar' that is not to be, knock off another uncomfortable interaction that sends me running to the ever-lengthy boarding line, and walk onto the plane that will fly me to my future. And he ma'am's me! The flight attendant puts one in the win column of airport unruliness. Off I go, with a smile in my back pocket, to enjoy a retreat gifted by one of the greats. Maybe Albuquerque is meant to be different...
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 were available, decided to take a second jab at me. And although I didn't take that first hit without a defensive strike back.."There haven't been any bins since I've been in line, thus the tragedy of placing items on the belt-in case you actually wanted to know why that was happening. And there still aren't any bins back there." I was locked and loaded for whatever was next to come.
"Step forward, sir."
"I'm a woman."
TSA agent turns way.
Traveler stares at TSA agent's back.
The end.
I manage to make it through security without a super-secret, 'the scanner is confused about whether you're a boy or a girl', private, 2 agent pat down. One can only hope that there's a limit to the number of times clothing choices and human inconsideration dictates the drudgery of TSA interactions.
I stay tight as I wait the perfectly timed 'one drink at the bar' that is not to be, knock off another uncomfortable interaction that sends me running to the ever-lengthy boarding line, and walk onto the plane that will fly me to my future. And he ma'am's me! The flight attendant puts one in the win column of airport unruliness. Off I go, with a smile in my back pocket, to enjoy a retreat gifted by one of the greats. Maybe Albuquerque is meant to be different...
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