After a short flight from DC on USAir, I landed in Philadelphia. Because my connecting flight to SF was on United, I had to walk from terminal C over to terminal D. Walking through any unfamiliar airport can be a daunting task. No matter how clear directional signs may appear to locals—for visiting fliers, the signs might as well be written in Braille.
I followed the crowd from terminal C but mistakenly wound up in terminal B. Turning around toward terminal D, I should have gone right but turned to the left, and rather than heading down toward the gates, I wound up accidentally exiting the terminal and having to pass back through a long security line.
The security line snaked down the corridor, and the people waiting were mostly grumpy, complaining about the slow rate at which they were advancing. After about ten minutes, once I approached the roped entryway, I saw there were actually two security lines—one slow line where dozens of people within the rope maze went slowly back and forth on their way toward security, plus another empty line with a straight shot at security.
The empty line was guarded by a young woman, an airport employee who seemed more concerned with picking her teeth with her press-on nails than watching out for potential terrorists. After a quick, cursory glance at my ID and boarding pass, the young woman directed me into the slow back-and-forth line. After another few minutes, after I advanced another few inches, the young woman opened the rope to the straight-shot line and permitted a half dozen passengers to proceed directly to the TSA security guards.
I was shocked, and so were the other passengers around me, all of us wending our way through the snail-paced maze. After another few minutes, after the young woman permitted another dozen privileged people into the straight-shot line, I started staring over at her, locking my eyes on her, waiting for her to finally notice me. When she did, I shrugged my shoulders and jerked my head toward the people who had just passed by—as if to ask, “What the fuck?”
The young woman shrugged as well—as if to say, “Whatever.” Then she calmly looked away, picking at her teeth again with another press-on nail. Hungry and having to pee, I waited a moment, then slipped surreptitiously under the rope that kept me in the slow line and stepped into the straight-shot line. Then, just as I started to head toward security, I heard the young woman call out from her stool: “Sir! Oh, sir! Please, stop!”
I immediately thought of yesterday’s visit to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, of what happened to Jews and Jehovah’s Witnesses who stepped out of line at Auchwitz: They were instantly shot or beaten to death or torn apart by dogs. The young woman came over to me and asked what I thought I was doing. I asked what she was doing—picking and choosing who went fast and who went slow.
I didn’t bother telling her where I’d been this morning—at the National Archives in Washington, viewing the US Constitution and Declaration of Independence, two historical documents, both signed in this fair city, each assuring that all men were created equal, that no one was endowed with the inalienable right to make some people wait while others go by.
Instead, I just stood there, staring into her dark brown eyes, while she berated me for not waiting my turn with everyone else in the back-and-forth line. When she was done, when she didn’t direct me to get back in line, I realized that she wasn’t part of TSA, that she wasn’t an agent of Homeland Security, that she was only an overpaid airport employee enjoying an eight-hour ego trip .
So I thanked her for her passionate opinion, then grabbed the handle of my luggage and walked right past all those passive passengers, all of them waiting like sheep to be shorn. From there, it took only a couple minutes to pass through security and reach the men’s room inside the terminal.
Now I’m sitting in the terminal bar, a tall beer on the table beside me, waiting for my greasy Philly cheesesteak sandwich. This morning, in the gift shop of the National Archives, I opened a small book full of quotations by Thomas Jefferson. One of them said (and I paraphrase here), "While the meek will yield to tyranny, only the brave deserve to be free."
Thank you, Philadelphia, for reminding me of the meaning of being an American.
I followed the crowd from terminal C but mistakenly wound up in terminal B. Turning around toward terminal D, I should have gone right but turned to the left, and rather than heading down toward the gates, I wound up accidentally exiting the terminal and having to pass back through a long security line.
The security line snaked down the corridor, and the people waiting were mostly grumpy, complaining about the slow rate at which they were advancing. After about ten minutes, once I approached the roped entryway, I saw there were actually two security lines—one slow line where dozens of people within the rope maze went slowly back and forth on their way toward security, plus another empty line with a straight shot at security.
The empty line was guarded by a young woman, an airport employee who seemed more concerned with picking her teeth with her press-on nails than watching out for potential terrorists. After a quick, cursory glance at my ID and boarding pass, the young woman directed me into the slow back-and-forth line. After another few minutes, after I advanced another few inches, the young woman opened the rope to the straight-shot line and permitted a half dozen passengers to proceed directly to the TSA security guards.
I was shocked, and so were the other passengers around me, all of us wending our way through the snail-paced maze. After another few minutes, after the young woman permitted another dozen privileged people into the straight-shot line, I started staring over at her, locking my eyes on her, waiting for her to finally notice me. When she did, I shrugged my shoulders and jerked my head toward the people who had just passed by—as if to ask, “What the fuck?”
The young woman shrugged as well—as if to say, “Whatever.” Then she calmly looked away, picking at her teeth again with another press-on nail. Hungry and having to pee, I waited a moment, then slipped surreptitiously under the rope that kept me in the slow line and stepped into the straight-shot line. Then, just as I started to head toward security, I heard the young woman call out from her stool: “Sir! Oh, sir! Please, stop!”
I immediately thought of yesterday’s visit to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, of what happened to Jews and Jehovah’s Witnesses who stepped out of line at Auchwitz: They were instantly shot or beaten to death or torn apart by dogs. The young woman came over to me and asked what I thought I was doing. I asked what she was doing—picking and choosing who went fast and who went slow.
I didn’t bother telling her where I’d been this morning—at the National Archives in Washington, viewing the US Constitution and Declaration of Independence, two historical documents, both signed in this fair city, each assuring that all men were created equal, that no one was endowed with the inalienable right to make some people wait while others go by.
Instead, I just stood there, staring into her dark brown eyes, while she berated me for not waiting my turn with everyone else in the back-and-forth line. When she was done, when she didn’t direct me to get back in line, I realized that she wasn’t part of TSA, that she wasn’t an agent of Homeland Security, that she was only an overpaid airport employee enjoying an eight-hour ego trip .
So I thanked her for her passionate opinion, then grabbed the handle of my luggage and walked right past all those passive passengers, all of them waiting like sheep to be shorn. From there, it took only a couple minutes to pass through security and reach the men’s room inside the terminal.
Now I’m sitting in the terminal bar, a tall beer on the table beside me, waiting for my greasy Philly cheesesteak sandwich. This morning, in the gift shop of the National Archives, I opened a small book full of quotations by Thomas Jefferson. One of them said (and I paraphrase here), "While the meek will yield to tyranny, only the brave deserve to be free."
Thank you, Philadelphia, for reminding me of the meaning of being an American.
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