A journey across the Atlantic and back into time
Excitement turns into anxiety as I enter Manchester International Airport. This is a modest, almost strictly functional airport. But after 9/11 and later 7/7 the queues are often fairly long and slow especially on transatlantic flights. Not surprisingly then, the queue on the Delta airlines flight to New York’s JFK airport is a long stretch of humanity. Moments after I join the queue, a security officer comes over and requests for my passport. She is accompanied by a young intern and very courteously requests to ask me a few questions in the intern’s presence. I’m not sure it would make any difference should I decline so I casually nod my affirmation. I’m not surprised I am asked to be the security ‘case study’ for the young trainee. I am the only black man in the queue. I am aware that in official circles, I am more likely to have the wrong papers, to have no good reason to visit America, or live in Britain. I am potentially an illegal alien, a potential tabloid story sucking the National Health Service dry or perhaps doing the unthinkable elsewhere. Although with a fairly thorough interview at the US embassy in London I certainly wouldn’t have been granted a visa, the security officer still asks for my letter of invitation to the US. Well, having traveled to major European cities, I know this is standard practice. But then she demands that I produce my driving license and a document to confirm my residential address. Carrying a council tax bill or a gas bill to the airport seem outlandish to me but I ask no questions. She then asks for my business card, which I provide without fuss. I am aware of the stares around me. But I’m African and black. The gazing is a life I am getting used to in multicultural Britain. When the security officer reads my business card and realizes that I hold a PhD, her shock is palpable. I suddenly become a ‘Sir’ and she quickly wishes me the most pleasant of journeys. I respond with a wry smile.
Aboard the flight, I am seated next to an old English couple on their way to Bermuda on holiday. The old man can’t hide his enthusiasm and we quickly engage in a hearty conversation. His wife, whom he proudly introduces, isn’t as enthusiastic and watches us keenly, looking bemused. I look around and it’s the usual odd story. Whenever I stand to stretch out or visit the restroom I can feel the uncomfortable stares, some vicious and unrelenting. But then again I know I may have been conditioned by my experiences as a black man living in the West to think the way I do. When you live in a world where you look different and where you are treated differently, you begin to believe in your difference. You become an Other, one whose very existence, whose reaction to social experiences is defined by that Otherness. One of the stewardesses, a lovely young girl provides me unsolicited extra attention. Like me, she is black. For once, I experience privilege and understand why humanity finds it so difficult to change, to accommodate the Other.
The landing is rough and I watch the old couple I am sharing a seat with hold onto each others arms, terrified. I have no one to hold on to but my memories of the strange 8 hour flight. Everybody claps as the plane hits the runway at JFK airport. As we disembark, two US homeland security officers request for our passports. One picks up mine and quickly motions his colleague. The zealous requests for the passports suddenly end and everyone else but me is quickly welcomed to America as I am told to accompany the officers. “There’s no problem Sir, just a routine security check”, I am told. Why a routine check would mean singling out an individual who also happens to be African and black seems an interesting coincidence to me. One of the officers is carrying a piece of paper and I quickly glance at it and see a name that resembles mine. “Just doing our job Sir”, they explain even though I do not protest. They ask me about my final destination. “Austin, that’s a great city. It’s the only place in Texas that voted the Democracts”, one says excitedly. I mull over why that makes Austin great. When I tell him I am attending an academic conference, he tells me the city is “a very intellectual city”. I wonder what that means. I am then showed to the immigration desk. It is at this point that I realize an interesting irony; that the face that welcomes you to America’s JFK is black. Immigration desks are manned almost exclusively by black officers. As a black man, you therefore cannot possibly accuse anyone of racial profiling, of racism and other. The immigration officer orders me to stand still and takes my mug-shot after which I am ushered into a room, the two officers in tow, grinning sheepishly. “Just doing our job, Sir”, they say in unison as though to remind me. I can sense a feeling of pride in their talk. My fellow passengers are on separate queues. I see the old couple I shared a seat look at me and whisper to each other. Some fellow passengers seem to sympathise, others seem curious while others remain indifferent. My documents are taken by another officer and I am motioned to a seat and told to wait. The room is poorly lit, stuffy and my immediate impression is that you cannot be here unless something is wrong. In the room are a bunch of foreigners. From their accents, I can tell the white ones are from Eastern Europe and the two black men from West Africa. A gentleman whose accent I guess is either Nigerian or Ghanaian, panicking, asks me who is usually brought into this room. I look for answers but find none. But then I look at the walls and see mug-shots of America’s ‘most wanted’. There lies his answer. He shakes his head and forces a smile. Going through our papers are three black homeland security officers. Perhaps the nature of their jobs is such that they don’t smile, and certainly have no time for niceties such as greetings. They simply stare, ask questions, expect answers and make decisions. One by one we are rudely called for questioning. Where are you from? Where do you live? What do you do? Why have you come to America? Have you ever lost your passport? Where’s your letter of invitation? How long are you staying here? Have you ever visited the Middle East? Have you ever trained as a soldier? Please speak up I can’t hear you Sir? Despite taking all my documents, including my business card, I am asked whether I hold a High School diploma! For a PhD holder to be asked about a High School diploma is a question I find most insulting. Popular contemporary lore has it that few of us make it past High School. Is the officer simply bigoted or painfully ignorant? And to know that the officer is black makes me realize how the victim also internalizes the prejudices that confirm her victimhood. The officer moves over to a different office, leaving the door ajar, intentionally perhaps just so we know higher powers are being consulted. After nearly waiting for two hours, I am motioned to the officer’s desk, given back my passport and wished a safe journey to Austin. I am not told why my passport was confiscated in the first place or why I am in this room. But this is not the time to ask. In any case, I am not sure they are obliged to giving any answers. This is America but liberty is relative and certainly not extended to all.
At the baggage claim, I am fearful my bag may be lost. I see two men of Latino origin openly solicit for bribes to carry or find bags for travelers. Yes, this is JFK. One woman threatens to report them to the airline but then quickly agrees to part with $5 for the service. Heavily pregnant and with a 4-year-old running around, I believe she realizes the odds are stacked against her. After a frantic search, I find my bag and head off to the domestic terminals. As I take my flight to Austin 18 hours later, I begin to reflect on my experiences. I realize I have a potential paper for my next conference. I even have a tentative title; The Paradox of Liberty: Black Otherness and the World Post 9/11. I realize it is only in inconsequential academic conferences that I’m I allowed to engage and unpack prejudice. It has been a long journey back into time.
Aboard the flight, I am seated next to an old English couple on their way to Bermuda on holiday. The old man can’t hide his enthusiasm and we quickly engage in a hearty conversation. His wife, whom he proudly introduces, isn’t as enthusiastic and watches us keenly, looking bemused. I look around and it’s the usual odd story. Whenever I stand to stretch out or visit the restroom I can feel the uncomfortable stares, some vicious and unrelenting. But then again I know I may have been conditioned by my experiences as a black man living in the West to think the way I do. When you live in a world where you look different and where you are treated differently, you begin to believe in your difference. You become an Other, one whose very existence, whose reaction to social experiences is defined by that Otherness. One of the stewardesses, a lovely young girl provides me unsolicited extra attention. Like me, she is black. For once, I experience privilege and understand why humanity finds it so difficult to change, to accommodate the Other.
The landing is rough and I watch the old couple I am sharing a seat with hold onto each others arms, terrified. I have no one to hold on to but my memories of the strange 8 hour flight. Everybody claps as the plane hits the runway at JFK airport. As we disembark, two US homeland security officers request for our passports. One picks up mine and quickly motions his colleague. The zealous requests for the passports suddenly end and everyone else but me is quickly welcomed to America as I am told to accompany the officers. “There’s no problem Sir, just a routine security check”, I am told. Why a routine check would mean singling out an individual who also happens to be African and black seems an interesting coincidence to me. One of the officers is carrying a piece of paper and I quickly glance at it and see a name that resembles mine. “Just doing our job Sir”, they explain even though I do not protest. They ask me about my final destination. “Austin, that’s a great city. It’s the only place in Texas that voted the Democracts”, one says excitedly. I mull over why that makes Austin great. When I tell him I am attending an academic conference, he tells me the city is “a very intellectual city”. I wonder what that means. I am then showed to the immigration desk. It is at this point that I realize an interesting irony; that the face that welcomes you to America’s JFK is black. Immigration desks are manned almost exclusively by black officers. As a black man, you therefore cannot possibly accuse anyone of racial profiling, of racism and other. The immigration officer orders me to stand still and takes my mug-shot after which I am ushered into a room, the two officers in tow, grinning sheepishly. “Just doing our job, Sir”, they say in unison as though to remind me. I can sense a feeling of pride in their talk. My fellow passengers are on separate queues. I see the old couple I shared a seat look at me and whisper to each other. Some fellow passengers seem to sympathise, others seem curious while others remain indifferent. My documents are taken by another officer and I am motioned to a seat and told to wait. The room is poorly lit, stuffy and my immediate impression is that you cannot be here unless something is wrong. In the room are a bunch of foreigners. From their accents, I can tell the white ones are from Eastern Europe and the two black men from West Africa. A gentleman whose accent I guess is either Nigerian or Ghanaian, panicking, asks me who is usually brought into this room. I look for answers but find none. But then I look at the walls and see mug-shots of America’s ‘most wanted’. There lies his answer. He shakes his head and forces a smile. Going through our papers are three black homeland security officers. Perhaps the nature of their jobs is such that they don’t smile, and certainly have no time for niceties such as greetings. They simply stare, ask questions, expect answers and make decisions. One by one we are rudely called for questioning. Where are you from? Where do you live? What do you do? Why have you come to America? Have you ever lost your passport? Where’s your letter of invitation? How long are you staying here? Have you ever visited the Middle East? Have you ever trained as a soldier? Please speak up I can’t hear you Sir? Despite taking all my documents, including my business card, I am asked whether I hold a High School diploma! For a PhD holder to be asked about a High School diploma is a question I find most insulting. Popular contemporary lore has it that few of us make it past High School. Is the officer simply bigoted or painfully ignorant? And to know that the officer is black makes me realize how the victim also internalizes the prejudices that confirm her victimhood. The officer moves over to a different office, leaving the door ajar, intentionally perhaps just so we know higher powers are being consulted. After nearly waiting for two hours, I am motioned to the officer’s desk, given back my passport and wished a safe journey to Austin. I am not told why my passport was confiscated in the first place or why I am in this room. But this is not the time to ask. In any case, I am not sure they are obliged to giving any answers. This is America but liberty is relative and certainly not extended to all.
At the baggage claim, I am fearful my bag may be lost. I see two men of Latino origin openly solicit for bribes to carry or find bags for travelers. Yes, this is JFK. One woman threatens to report them to the airline but then quickly agrees to part with $5 for the service. Heavily pregnant and with a 4-year-old running around, I believe she realizes the odds are stacked against her. After a frantic search, I find my bag and head off to the domestic terminals. As I take my flight to Austin 18 hours later, I begin to reflect on my experiences. I realize I have a potential paper for my next conference. I even have a tentative title; The Paradox of Liberty: Black Otherness and the World Post 9/11. I realize it is only in inconsequential academic conferences that I’m I allowed to engage and unpack prejudice. It has been a long journey back into time.
posted by Janam at 5:41 AM
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