Airport Security

I am flooded with the white noise of the atrium.  I stand in a disgruntled line, waiting to step through the magic arch which determines whether we are friend or foe, I watch as Muslim headscarves are untied and jerked aside.  A small girl looks up at her mom clutching her scarf as the security woman yanks her hair. The mother does not meet her eyes. In the next line over, Iraqi parents kiss their son goodbye as he is ushered into the additional security line. He is old enough to be a man, but naive enough to be a boy, eyes darting around as a short black woman in blue jerks him into the screening area.  She wears the uniform of the United States, but the under-eye-circles of an overworked underpaid caffeine addict. Perhaps after she builds enough credit hours, she will become an offical part of the Chicago police force, catching criminals in a high-speed chase or investigating murder charges, bringing justice to the dirtiest alleyways in the city.  Her mind lingers on those dreams as she shoves the Arab man into the body-scanner.  She examines her fingernails as she stands with her back to the door like a guard.  Her face softens.  Lost in the white noise, her mind meanders through memories of her great-grandmother's stories of standing in lines, waiting to be tested, screened, scorned, jeered, and spat on.  Her great-grandmother bore scars on her ebony skin, but she also held the glory of the vote, the power to change the country that rejected her. She stood in that line, tobacco spit on her shoes and bruises on her back, and she felt no pain.  And now the woman in blue feels no pain as she plucks the Arab from the crowd like a weed.  And he feels no pain as he is patted down twice, ostracized from the country he has tried to love, from the flag to which he pledged allegiance. He feels no pain because his prayers surround him - they are his food, his drink, and his shield.  The visions of Mecca urge him forward.  They were strong.  His shield did not shatter, though there are dents.  They feel no pain, and we feel no remorse.  But once we are deprived of dreams, our shields turn to rust. They will shatter, if struck with another blow.  Once our prayers fail us, our walls crumble down.  But the rumble of falling stones, the whine of corroding steel, the screech of broken rust, will be smothered by the hum of the white noise.