edges of shadow into light.
Devin ’ s red hair looks like kindled fire under the stark fluorescent lighting. He breezes through security once he emerges from the snaking line ’ s mouth. The fireman grabs his keys and money clip out of the gray plastic tub and tucks them back into the silk-lined pockets of his dress slacks. His emerald eyes dart to the right as a muffled argument grows.
An Arab man in a Mariners jersey is roughly pulled out of line by an armed TSA officer. The Mid-Easterner ’ s thin upper arm is held tight by a uniformed man wearing light blue plastic gloves. The security officer ’ s shaved head and thick white arms blend into his button-up shirt, making the large black TSA letters swim on a sea of ice.
“ Get your filthy hands off me! ” Abd yells. His accent chokes on the words. He tries to yank his arm out of the agent ’ s authoritative grip. But the stocky TSA officer just squeezes harder, digging his fingers through the jersey and into the Arab man ’ s flesh. Another security guard quietly exits an unmarked door beside a large mirror to join them. He ushers the struggling men off to a slightly darker side of the security area.
“ Just step over here, sir, ” the bald TSA officer says firmly. His grip tightens to persuade compliance.
Abd winces in pain as he ’ s forced forward. His dirty Converse sneakers stumble along the slick tile floor. He glances back, his face reddening in humiliation at the ridicule and criticism staring back from thousands of strange eyes. Their unspoken insults silently scream words of contempt. Suspicion.
The TSA agents drag Abd to a secondary security station 25 feet to the right of the main line. They stop next to a row of empty chairs lining a powder blue wall. The bald officer walks carefully behind the Arab man while his partner stays just in front. His right hand firmly grips the taser handle at his waist. The bald man forces Abd ’ s arms up and begins to pat him down.
“ Oh, come on! ” Abd whines. An American flag hangs overhead. The faint bristle of activity sends its patriotism pulsing in the still air.
As Chris Thomas finishes stuffing a black leather wallet and phone back into his baggy Diesel pockets, his brown eyes join the others in security. “ Should have just danced for them , ” Chris says, shaking his shaved head.
“ Discrimination sucks, huh? ” Darius adds. He looks on with a silly grin stretching from pierced ear to pierced ear.
Chris laughs, unable to stop from watching the manhandled Muslim. A sudden happiness for the day ahead flashes into his eyes. Mostly he ’ s just grateful it ’ s not him getting felt up by white men with too much time and pent-up frustration on their hands.
“ Move it, D, ” Chris says. He pushes Darius out of the security area even though his friend is still trying to put on his left shoe.
“ Shit! ” Darius blurts as he hops. He jumps forward with his foot cocked awkwardly up in one hand, cursing while he tries to keep his balance.
Stacked television sets fronting the gift shop beside them show images of the President inside a small classroom. Diverse kindergarteners recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. Their words bounce around the airport, echoing past the deaf ears of hectic travelers.
“ … One nation, under God … ”
“ This is ridiculous! ” Abd barks. He purposefully shouts loud enough for everyone in the security area to hear. “ Do we have to do this every time? ”
“ Every single time, ” the bald TSA officer whispers intensely into Abd ’ s ear. He leans back, staring into the Arab ’ s eyes. The officer ’ s hands tremble, trying to quiet the violent impulses begging to teach this belligerent towelhead some manners. “ Now, take off your shoes and hold your arms out to the side! ”
“ … indivisible … ”
Devin looks on as a third officer closes in to join the fray. The security officers grab and pull at the Arab man ’ s clothes, patting him
Devin ’ s red hair looks like kindled fire under the stark fluorescent lighting. He breezes through security once he emerges from the snaking line ’ s mouth. The fireman grabs his keys and money clip out of the gray plastic tub and tucks them back into the silk-lined pockets of his dress slacks. His emerald eyes dart to the right as a muffled argument grows.
An Arab man in a Mariners jersey is roughly pulled out of line by an armed TSA officer. The Mid-Easterner ’ s thin upper arm is held tight by a uniformed man wearing light blue plastic gloves. The security officer ’ s shaved head and thick white arms blend into his button-up shirt, making the large black TSA letters swim on a sea of ice.
“ Get your filthy hands off me! ” Abd yells. His accent chokes on the words. He tries to yank his arm out of the agent ’ s authoritative grip. But the stocky TSA officer just squeezes harder, digging his fingers through the jersey and into the Arab man ’ s flesh. Another security guard quietly exits an unmarked door beside a large mirror to join them. He ushers the struggling men off to a slightly darker side of the security area.
“ Just step over here, sir, ” the bald TSA officer says firmly. His grip tightens to persuade compliance.
Abd winces in pain as he ’ s forced forward. His dirty Converse sneakers stumble along the slick tile floor. He glances back, his face reddening in humiliation at the ridicule and criticism staring back from thousands of strange eyes. Their unspoken insults silently scream words of contempt. Suspicion.
The TSA agents drag Abd to a secondary security station 25 feet to the right of the main line. They stop next to a row of empty chairs lining a powder blue wall. The bald officer walks carefully behind the Arab man while his partner stays just in front. His right hand firmly grips the taser handle at his waist. The bald man forces Abd ’ s arms up and begins to pat him down.
“ Oh, come on! ” Abd whines. An American flag hangs overhead. The faint bristle of activity sends its patriotism pulsing in the still air.
As Chris Thomas finishes stuffing a black leather wallet and phone back into his baggy Diesel pockets, his brown eyes join the others in security. “ Should have just danced for them , ” Chris says, shaking his shaved head.
“ Discrimination sucks, huh? ” Darius adds. He looks on with a silly grin stretching from pierced ear to pierced ear.
Chris laughs, unable to stop from watching the manhandled Muslim. A sudden happiness for the day ahead flashes into his eyes. Mostly he ’ s just grateful it ’ s not him getting felt up by white men with too much time and pent-up frustration on their hands.
“ Move it, D, ” Chris says. He pushes Darius out of the security area even though his friend is still trying to put on his left shoe.
“ Shit! ” Darius blurts as he hops. He jumps forward with his foot cocked awkwardly up in one hand, cursing while he tries to keep his balance.
Stacked television sets fronting the gift shop beside them show images of the President inside a small classroom. Diverse kindergarteners recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. Their words bounce around the airport, echoing past the deaf ears of hectic travelers.
“ … One nation, under God … ”
“ This is ridiculous! ” Abd barks. He purposefully shouts loud enough for everyone in the security area to hear. “ Do we have to do this every time? ”
“ Every single time, ” the bald TSA officer whispers intensely into Abd ’ s ear. He leans back, staring into the Arab ’ s eyes. The officer ’ s hands tremble, trying to quiet the violent impulses begging to teach this belligerent towelhead some manners. “ Now, take off your shoes and hold your arms out to the side! ”
“ … indivisible … ”
Devin looks on as a third officer closes in to join the fray. The security officers grab and pull at the Arab man ’ s clothes, patting him
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