This past weekend, I had the great opportunity of attending the Gloria Steinem Leadership Institute at the University of North Carolina. If the name of the event was not cause enough for chagrin, thanks to my right-wing neighbors, the troubles I met on my way down certainly added fuel to the fire.
I woke up at 5 a.m. on Friday, called a cab and arrived in the sketchy area of the D.C. Greyhound station to board a bus. The ride to Richmond, Va., where I had to switch buses, was uneventful. While waiting for the bus to depart, the police surrounded the vehicle and arrested one of the passengers. This man looked like a Columbian drug lord, wearing a peach-colored suede ensemble and an Indiana Jones fedora. Apparently he had a gun on him, and the driver had called the police. The cops made us get off the bus with our bags. I, along with the other males, had my bags searched and was frisked. The cop went where no man had gone before when he cusped my ass in his hands. I was furious, but everyone else seemed to be having a great time, laughing and telling jokes as if it were a game. I felt violated, but the feeling quickly dissapated, as I was relieved to be on my way to Raleigh. Not only had I missed my connection to Durham, but as a result I had to pay 40 bucks for cab fare to get there.
The conference went well and I was glad to learn that I would be flying back into BWI?the organizers took pity on me for the trauma I had undergone in Richmond and had decided to buy me a plane ticket. On the way to the airport in Raleigh I realized that I had left my passport in D.C. and, being from Boston (a city blessed with public transportation), I have never learned how to drive. I got to the check-in desk where a lovely elderly ticket agent tried to help me out. Her name was Barbara, and with a Southern drawl and steel-eyed gaze she asked me, “What kind of name is Asencao?” I answered, “It’s Arab, you old hag!” Actually, I said it was Spanish. As I have dark blonde hair and green eyes, in her ignorance (she probably does not know that Spanish people live in Europe, not Mexico) she gave me a dirty look. I convinced her to give me a boarding pass after having shown her my Georgetown ID, my debit card and my USAirways frequent flyer card. My troubles were now over and I could finally head on home. Or at least that’s what I thought.
The line was interminable and it took half an hour for me to get to the x-ray machines. National Guardsmen bearing huge weaponry spread abundant dirty looks, exciting the already giddy Southerners and occasionally yelled some imperceptible threats to discourage us from holding up the line and “move along quickly.” I felt as though I was in boot camp. I got a full body metal detector scan while three guards eyed me over. As my bag was going through, the guards removed it from the conveyor belt. “But that’s my bag!” I chirped. I was pulled aside and patiently waited as the guard went through my bag in front of dozens of people. It turns out that my nail-trimming scissors were the cause for concern. The guards threw them into a cube-shaped piece of furniture with a narrow opening on the side, and I was on my way to the gate.
I had the pleasant surprise of encountering an English teacher from my high school who was leaving for Boston from the same gate at a later time. I told him all about the travails I had suffered at the Richmond bus station and at the airport x-ray machines a few minutes earlier. He was astonished at what I told him, and I promised to visit my school as I got in line to board my flight. There were about 60 passengers, and I was one of three selected to stand aside as the others went by. Once again, I had my bags searched. Once again, I was frisked. Once again, I had the full body, handheld-metal-detector scan. This was not only done in front of total strangers, it was done in front of someone I knew. I had resigned all hope for some dignity; too tired to care I walked over the tarmac to the dinky, propeller-powered plane and took my seat. I recall thinking that if terrorists actually took over the WWII relic I was flying in, the most damage it could do is wreck a medium-sized suburban home.
This had been my first time traveling since the Sept. 11 attacks, and I can say from personal experience that thing have changed drastically. Knowing full well that our civil liberties have been curtailed I dared not complain while being frisked; the threat of being detained was too great. It is sad that things have come to this, when harmless, khaki-clad students such as me have to be subjected to bag and body searches. I didn’t expect the weekend to be as action-packed as it was … or as humiliating. But looking on the bright side, at least I didn’t get strip-searched. Let this serve as a warning for those of you who will be engaging in travel during the coming breaks. Bring your IDs, and please, don’t go into an airport carrying a briefcase, sunglasses and a scarf. Oh and by the way, if you see me walking around, please, I need to know whether I look like a terrorist.
