OUT OF THE BLUE
Enduring the security checkpoint
By Elliott Hester

Whenever I hear about passenger "outbursts" at airport security checkpoints, my temperature rises a few degrees. What are these problematic people trying to accomplish? Why are they being so thorny with the very people who are trying to keep them safe? But after my recent clash with airport security at Miami International Airport, I realize that some passengers have valid complaints.

Traveling for pleasure and dressed in civilian clothes, I placed my carry-on on the conveyor belt and prepared to walk through the metal detector. "Take off your jacket please," said a security attendant. He was young, maybe 21- or 22-years-old, slope-shouldered and pimply-faced. Because I wasn't wearing a jacket, I looked up in surprise. "Your jacket," he repeated. "Take it off and put it through the machine."

"This isn't a jacket," I replied, matter-of-factly. "It's a shirt." I was referring to a thin, cotton, zip-up top. The same shirt I've worn more than a dozen times while passing this very same checkpoint. I call it my "flying shirt" because it resists wrinkles and always looks neat when I travel.

"You still have to take off the jacket."

"It's not a jacket, it's a shirt."

"Just take it off."

"Why," I asked, without a hint of sarcasm or frustration in my voice. (Having dealt with hundreds of disgruntled passengers over the years, I'm always careful to speak in a calm, non-accusatory tone during moments like these.) The security guy looked at me. His eyes blinked and began to soften – an indication that he may have realized his mistake. But instead of waving me on, he stared at my garment looking for justification. "Because it has a metal zipper," he said. "It'll set of the alarm if you walk through."

"The zipper is plastic," I replied. "This shirt NEVER sets off the alarm."

"Sir, just take it off," he said.

I'm a conscientious, law abiding traveler. I'm always thinking of ways to make my airport security experience faster and less infuriating so I take the necessary steps. I always say hello to the employees as I approach. Always have my ticket and I.D. out and available for inspection. I take my laptop out of its carrying case and place it in a plastic container before anyone has to tell me to do so. I never carry coins or metal objects in my pockets. Never bring a carry-on that won't fit through the security template. I've even begun the practice of wearing slip-on shoes so that when I'm asked to remove them I can do so in the blink of an eye.

But there was no apparent reason for the removal of my flying shirt. If there was a hidden motive, however, I wanted to know about it so as not to make the same mistake the next time I travel. This wasn't about dress, I soon learned. The security guy was out to get me. What had begun with confusion over a simple garment had become an issue of power.

I've seen many such power plays during my 16-year flying career. Once, while attempting to clear immigration in Miami, our captain – a resident alien – was told to wash his Green Card (he had made the mistake of placing it between his teeth momentarily while searching for his crew documents). When the captain refused, the immigration official would not let him into the country.

While serving passengers on an international flight, a flight attendant once refused to give a passenger the can of Coke he requested. She poured him a cup, placed the half-full can in the drawer and despite the fact that we had an ample supply of soft drinks she said, "We might not have enough to Coke to serve other passengers."

And now a pimply-faced security employee – one who couldn't tell the difference between a shirt and a jacket, no less – was pulling a power trip on me. Once again I asked why my shirt needed to be removed. Once again he replied, "just do it." In an attempt to calm the situation, I asked to speak to a manager.

I issued this request in an agreeable voice, but judging from the employee's response you'd have thought I'd been caught with a firearm. His eyes hardened. The sloping shoulders suddenly stood erect. Before I knew it I was surrounded by three or four of his security cohorts

"See... you should've done like I told you." He said this with a smirk on his face. I was then sent to security hell.

I walked through the metal detector (the shirt's plastic zipper did not set of the alarm), and was told to walk through a second metal detector. Afterward, I entered a screening area where I was checked and double checked with an electronic wand. Next, I was told to remove my shoes. I stood there in my stocking feet, waiting from my slip-ons to be sent through the x-ray machine. When they finally materialized, I put them on and was escorted to a table where my bags were checked. Then I was told to remove my shoes again. This time they were swabbed for explosive residue. All the while a gang of security people watched me like pedophile in a school yard. When I was finally cleared to leave, I grabbed my roll-aboard and walked toward my departure gate. Before leaving the security checkpoint, however, I threw a look over one shoulder. The pimply-faced kid with sloping shoulders flashed a victorious grin.

If ever you have a problem at the security checkpoint, never, ever ask to see the manager. And remember to take off your jacket, even if it's actually a shirt.