At The Airport

I’m on my butt, on the thin carpeting, over the very hard floor, at Gate 6 at Bradley International. That’s the only way to sit near an electrical outlet.

I know the label ‘International’ now fits this airport because across the hall Northwest Flight 98 to Amsterdam is getting ready to board.

I went through security with one tiny problem. As my bag was rolling into the x-ray machine my cellphone began to ring! The TSA agent told me it was OK to answer it… but what a bad place to start a conversation.

As I was reconfiguring my baggage – putting my watch on, my wallet in my pocket, my belt on my pants, my laptop back in its case, etc., an older woman was being frisked. She stood there, arms outstretched horizontally at her sides while a guard waved a metal detecting wand up and down her body. Her feet were carefully placed on the foot outlines stenciled on the mat she stood on.

Here’s the deal. I am willing to live with the risk this woman is a terrorist. Let her pass. Is there anyone who could possible consider her a threat?

Frisking her doesn’t make me safer. When I start hearing about gray haired old ladies making trouble, I’ll reevaluate my position. There’s a happy medium between profiling and stupidity.

Seeing her there only went to point out the foolishness of the whole security procedure. Truth is, by noon on September 11, 2001, the type of hijacking we’d experienced that morning was no longer viable. Emboldened passengers, not governmental vigilance, changed the paradigm.

Can you tell I’m upset?