I am going to approach this article slightly differently than I’ve approached my previous articles. I am going to tell a story of something that happened to me over the holidays, and leave it up to you, reader, to take what you will from it.

Don’t expect a point to be made, or for a feeble attempt from me at inspiring you. Just read, and react. Please comment your feelings on the experience I am going to illustrate if you are so inclined. I’m not going to give this any back story, just take it as you will, and ask questions if you have them.

At the airport in Cost Rica, our boarding passes are handed to us. My mom’s is normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Mine, on the other hand, has an SSSS in the corner. Again. Not again.

Note: I am an American Citizen.

We go through security. Nothing comes up. They’re all very friendly. I was actually hit on by a few of the guards. Anyway, all’s well. That is, until I go up to board the plane. Then, in front of at least a hundred people, with only a glass window to separate us, I’m escorted to the side. My bag is searched, and I’m patted down. At least they weren’t as intimate as some of the guards in the US have been. Nevertheless, it was frustrating, humiliating, and nerve racking.

That was just the beginning.

The flight back was smooth, nothing worth mentioning happened. I watched a movie that…I actually wouldn’t really recommend. Nothing special.

Fast forward, we’re back in the States. After having just landed, we head to customs, excited to see my dad who is waiting for us. We get in line, and wait. We’re soon guided to an irritating machine that scans our passports and takes our pictures. Again, my mom is fine. She gets her ticket, and takes her place in the next line. I, on the other hand, am not fine. My ticket prints, yes, but where her information was shown clearly, and innocently, mine has a large black X. There was my picture printed alongside a cruelly accusatory X. Why? I’d like to say I don’t know, but that would be a lie. I am not admitting to anything. I’ve never done anything. That’s a lie. I stole a pencil from grade school once, but I brought it back the next day…I’m only saying that from my past experiences with traveling, and the issues that have come up especially regarding my father’s situation and my relation to him, I was not surprised.

We waited again until it was our turn to approach one of the customs officers’ posts. My mom checked out. She got her passport back, and a kind welcome back into the US. I, however, was handed to an officer, who proceeded to hand me off to another officer, who guided me across the airport to a remote corner where signs written in primarily arabic languages and english told us that cell phones were prohibited. Here we (my mom came along) were told to wait until they called me up for questioning. We were the last people there. It was New Year's Day. We waited.

I sat there on the verge of tears, unsure what to do or think. I felt waves of guilt with every suspicious glance thrown my way by a loitering officer. I wracked my brain for anything illegal I might have done and forgotten. Yeah, the pencil incident was really one of my worst. Humor helped. As did singing. Yes, singing, I sang a short set in-between interrogations, it was lovely, I thought.

The questions weren’t bad. They were actually quite pointless. My name, birthday, address, phone number (that sent a chill down my spine, I was tempted to give a fake, but didn’t. I swear I didn’t!), school, mother’s name, birthday, address, number, father’s name, birthday, etc. (I took a beat before telling them what my father’s name was as I knew that would add quite a few frustrating hours to this nonsensical search of theirs). They even had the nerve to ask my mom about her relationship with my dad. Yes. They then said we could have a seat as they reviewed my record. MY RECORD. I was rather taken aback by this statement, and so politely asked what record that would be. I was then met with the kurt response that he was not at liberty to say. Maybe there’s something I don’t know about myself, or about my past that they do. I actually caught myself thinking that.

They say I’m on a list, I say that’s BS. Decode that acronym as you will.

*Deep breath.* My mom got permission to call my dad who was waiting for us on the other side of the airport. He was…mad, to put it lightly. So, he made some calls. One of them being to Congresswoman Jan Schakowsky, who took time out of her holiday evening to call both the supervisor of DHS where I was being held, as well as DC. I could not be more thankful, and happy that we have such incredible representatives who we can count on to stand up for our rights when our voices are dismissed and silenced. Thank you Congresswoman Schakowsky.

There was no one else there. We were the only ones left. I was the only one left on this holiday evening. At least six officers were consulted by the one working on my case, each of whom gave me that lovely look I illustrated earlier. I strained to hear what they talked about, and to see what they were looking at through the computer’s reflection in the glass, but it was all futile. That is, until I heard that there was a congresswoman on the phone calling on my behalf.

I was out in under 15 minutes, after having waited nearly two hours.

We were also wished a happy new year by the supervisor, who shook our hands and told us that I wasn't the kind of person that they were looking for, casually adding the comment “nice eyes, good for you” before letting go of my hand.

You see, this wasn’t a nice compliment given by an innocent stranger. No, this was the supervisor of DHS, the Department of Homeland Security, looking me, a woman he had just suspected was a terrorist, in the eyes, and telling me that I was not.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. They don’t look you in the eyes there, that’s part of their intimidation strategy; part of their dehumanization strategy. “Nice eyes” wasn’t a compliment, it was his way of expressing to me that he no longer saw me as a threat, but as a human.