On Traveling as a Fat, Black Woman Pt. 2
A week after my humiliating experience in Bellingham , I was on my way home from Wenatchee, WA via Seattle on another Alaska flight. I was concerned that I would have another experience like the one I had the week before and trying to keep a low (skinny?) profile, which was kinda hard to do because there was hardly anyone there that afternoon. In fact, the security area was closed for the first hour or so I was even at the airport. When the TSA employees came and opened up the security line, the five of us in the airport rushed the line. Which I now acknowledge was silly.
Now, whenever I go to the airport, I expect the pat down . Between jewelry and underwire, I always set off the metal detector. It's annoying, but I've gotten used to it. I don't even find it humiliating or intrusive anymore, it just is. Even after the underwear bombings and a few other incidents, and those pat-downs got way more intrusive, lengthy, and over-explained, I just accepted it. I think I was one of the few people who was thrilled when those x-ray machines started coming out because people wouldn't have to touch me anymore, unless they decided they had to check my hair.
When I set off the metal detector at the Podunk Wenatchee airport, and had to wait for 15 minutes for the only female TSA employee to come in from break, I tried to be as pleasant as possible. Again, it's annoying, but it's not her fault. She's just doing her job. And, I didn’t want to get kicked off the plane or end up on any sort of list.
So, after she over-expained how she was going to violate check the front of my body and then re-explained at every step of the process, I just let it happen. Then she explained how she was going to pat down the back side and stood behind me and joked that at least I was getting a free backrub. I laughed (not on the inside). After sensually massaging patting down my back, she stopped, came around again to the front, explained how she was going to slowly, but firmly, cup my ass use the back sides of her hands to smooth them over my “behinder.” She went back around and used the back side of her hands to smooth them over my “behinder.”
“Hmm,” she said. And she, again, used the back side of—you get the picture. Then she came back around again.
“Honey, are you on yo--” she came in close and whispered, “Do you have on a-uh- a napkin.”
“What?!” I laughed, shocked.
“You know, like a lady napkin."
“… What?!!?!”
“You know, a-uh, sanitary napkin.”
“No. Why?!?!”
“It just… feels lumpy… back there.”
“…” I am Jill’s gobsmacked face.
“Let me try again,” she says as she goes to stand behind me again and rub my ass some more check again for weapons uses the back side of her hands to smooth them over my “behinder.”
“Ohh,’ she says, sounding relieved, “that’s just you back there. There’s a lot of you, isn’t there,” she chuckled.
For the life of me, I can’t recall what happened next. The next thing I can remember is sitting at the gate, on the phone with my husband. I was simultaneously whispering and laughing manically, all to keep from crying, while I told him the story.
To be honest, I find this story tragically funny. I totally understand the humor in it. I have a much harder time understanding the tragedy. First there’s the unwelcome touching, then the totally inappropriate line of questioning about my menstrual cycle, and then—wait for it—fat shaming! But, having gone to the doctor recently, I’m totally used to that chain of events. So, why was this such a hard experience? As I said yesterday, I’m still processing these events, and I guess I have more work to do on that front.
And, I’m spent.
