The Airport Adventure

 by Rachael Anne Fajardo 

Spring Semester started Monday, and for anyone who cares, it’s going great.  It was getting back to Tallahassee that turned out to be an ordeal.

My itinerary said that I would be in Tallahassee at 10:00 p.m., January fourth.  I arrived in Tallahassee January sixth, around 11:00 a.m.  I won’t bore you with the mechanical problems that initially delayed my departure, or how the airline didn’t want to help me get back, or any of that.  I will bore you with how the airline employees treated me as soon as I passed through the security check in Tyler, Texas.

My aunt and uncle brought me to the Tyler airport (again) on Saturday (the fifth) afternoon.  The airport is extremely tiny.  There is one “gate.”  You go through the security check, a member of the National Guard checks your boarding pass and I.D., and then you go outside and get on the teeny-tiny puddle-jumper.  That particular flight, six people were traveling from Tyler to Dallas.  Considering the size of the airport, they are extremely overstaffed, especially since they use the National Guard guys as extra hands.  Basically, this means every passenger is thoroughly searched. 

I was the last person to go through the metal detector, savoring every last second to hug my aunt and uncle good-bye.  The woman had me turn on my laptop for her, and then she opened my backpack.  She handed my purse (which was inside the backpack) to a woman next to her.  The first woman flipped through my journal and another book, and looked into every section of my bag.  The woman who had my purse had me open my camera and cell phone, and she went through every pocket of my purse and every fold in my wallet.  Then the Tyler airport personnel had the most exciting moment of their post 9/11 lives—a canister of pepper spray was found dangling from my key chain.

I have no sinister intentions, and I’ve thoughtlessly tossed my keys into my purse for many flights.  I had carefully removed tweezers and nail clippers and hangnail nippers from my carry-on items, but I never gave a second thought about my key chain. 

“You can’t take this on the plane.” 

“Ok, well, can you put it in my other luggage?”  I looked at the group of interested employees, and I believe my situation had the attention of everyone in the airport. 

“No, no it’s too late,” the woman replied as she walked over to a little room, still holding my keys.  I heard a metallic clang, and jumped.

“Hey!  Did you just throw away my keys?!?!”  I stepped toward the room. 

The woman handed my purse to me, with just the keys on a ring sitting on top.  “No, just the pepper spray.”

“You can’t throw that away!  It’s mine!  I own it!”  The woman looked toward her superior, who had searched my backpack.  The superior started toward me, but another woman beat her to me.  This woman slammed my laptop shut, picked up my backpack, purse, keys, and pepper spray and carried them outside the secure area.  By this time I felt thoroughly frustrated and humiliated, and fairly pissed.  I left the spray with my aunt, and tried to talk to the woman who had kicked me out.  (There’s really no other wording for her actions.) 

“I’m leaving the spray with my aunt.”  My aunt held up the spray.  The woman didn’t look at me.  The National Guard guy standing there looked at me, but didn’t say anything.

I asked the National Guard guy if I had to go through security again, and he said yes.  So I went through the exact same drill, except there was no contraband this time.  I repacked my backpack, and headed out the door.  My aunt later told me that the woman who kicked me out said, “She almost talked herself off that plane.”

I walked outside, and three men stood at the end of the covered area leading to the plane.  One was the man who had issued my boarding pass, another was a cop, and the third was in a blue worker’s jumpsuit.  The airline employee and the cop tried to talk to me, explaining that it this was FAA regulation, and I could buy more pepper spray as soon as I reached my destination.  I don’t remember what I said to them now, but I started crying when the airline guy brought up the FAA.  I must say, that is the least comforting thing to tell an anarchist. 

As I headed for the steps up to the plane, I saw the man in the blue jumpsuit at the top, talking to the flight attendant.  He jumped down to let me up, and I boarded the plane, and proceeded to bawl unabashedly for the duration of whole 45-minute flight.  The more I thought about the implications of what happened, the more upset I became.  The other five people didn’t bat an eye when those women unpacked their bags.  Did no one else mind?  Do they not care?  When the plane landed in Dallas, a nice Southern gentlemen across from me tried to make small talk.  Are you on your way back to school, where is that, do you like it, and finally, are you okay?  I had all six passengers’ attention, and I cleared my throat and said, “I am not a terrorist, and neither are any of you.  I don’t enjoy being treated like one.  And I don’t feel any safer because of it.  I’ll feel safe flying when the captain and crew are armed.”  I glared at the attendant, and everyone remained silent as the plane pulled up to the gate.

My flight from Dallas to Atlanta switched gates, and the departure time was delayed twice, but that gave me time to sit and calm down.  As I sat by the gate, I listened to several airline employees debate the existence of God.  They sat in a little area that was blocked from view by a screen, but the lively conversation was easily audible.

When first class began to board, a woman came from behind the screen, and asked if she could search me.  I looked up at her in disbelief. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”  I felt tears start to build up again, and bit my tongue.

“No, really.  We have to search someone.”

“But I’ve already been searched twice today, and I haven’t been out of a secured area since!”  I looked up at her, still incredulous that this was really happening again.

She looked bewildered at my reaction, and asked again if she could search me, reiterating that the searches are random.  I picked up my coat and backpack, and followed her behind the screen.  She handed one of the men my bag, and then asked me to turn around.

“Can I watch him go through my bag, please?”  I asked.  I don’t trust people going through my stuff. 

They said yes, and the woman moved so that she was behind me, and moved her wand over my body. 

“Why are you crying?  Nothing bad is going to happen.”  She stepped in front of me to look in my eyes.

“I’m crying because this is humiliating.  I’m not a terrorist.”

“It’s not humiliating.  I have to get searched every day when I get to work.”

“If it’s not supposed to be humiliating, why are we hidden behind this screen?  Giving someone your boarding pass isn’t humiliating, and you do that right out in the open.”  The guy carelessly searched my bag; he just opened it and sort of shook it a little bit.  He asked if he could search my coat, and I said yes.  The woman asked if she could touch me, and I said yes, and she frisked me.  I cried harder.  Another man, the one who had been arguing for the existence of God, watched the whole thing but didn’t say a word.  I know I’m biased, but I think he knew I was right. 

The woman made a big deal out of how I got to board early since I got searched.  I didn’t bother to reply to such a stupid remark.  She looked at my passport and said, “Thank you, Rachael.”  The use of my first name brought a fresh supply of tears, and I grabbed my stuff and rushed to the gate.  The man took my I.D. and boarding pass, and said, “Don’t cry!  Smile!” and cupped my elbow with his hand.

I jerked away and said, “Don’t touch me!” and literally ran down to the plane, sobbing. 

I know that this story makes me sound like a hypersensitive emotional little girl.  But I don’t think it was an unreasonable reaction.  I will not smilingly comply to be searched.  That is an incredible violation of my personal space and privacy.  I was shocked when the woman at the Tyler airport flipped through my journal; no one but me has even touched that precious book since I bought it.  I couldn’t believe that the people in Dallas were so happy and friendly to be “doing their job” by searching an eighteen year old girl on her way back to school.  And I’m glad that I cried; I’d be willing to bet that they’d never had someone get upset about being searched.  You never see anyone who’s interviewed on the news say it’s humiliating and pointless.  But it is. 

January 14, 2002