Further Evidence of My Lack of Bad-Assness

Returning to the States from Canada this past Wednesday with Sprucey, a co-worker. This is my first time traveling using my "parole" documents, and just a note to clarify: for some reason, flying back from Montreal to DCA, you go through customs and immigration on the Canadian side. I have no idea why, or if this is true for all flights going back to the U.S., but without that bit of knowledge, this story won’t make too much sense.

As you may recall from a previous post, according to the forms, the agent at the border is making a decision as to whether I should be "paroled" into the States or not. Accordingly, I hand over all my paperwork and wait nervously for questions at the passport control booth. The agent flips through my passport, stops to look at my visa. I mention that it's expired, and he nods. "I saw your advanced parole," he says. Then he snaps my passport shut, gets up, and says, "Ok, follow me." And he leaves his little booth and starts leading me somewhere. I hesitate, and he says, "We need to get this stamped now."

So, I'm still not sure if I'm in the clear, and as I'm being led into this glass-encased room, my colleague Sprucey has a somewhat confused look on her face. She gives me a half-wave and a half-quizzical smile, maybe thinking, "Just in case this is the last time I see you..." I don't want to shout out, "Hey, don't worry, I'll catch up in a second," so I half-wave back because I'm still not sure what's going to happen. But then the agent asks her if she'd like to join me in there, which she very kindly does. So there we sit, waiting for me to be called in for a mini-interview.

When I do get called in, here's how I remember the exchange:

Him: So, sir, where you are going today?
Me: To DCA.
[silence]
Me: Uh, National Airport.
[silence]
Me: Home to my wife...?
[he perks up]
Him: Oh, home to your wife? So who's that out there waiting for you?
Me: Oh, no no no...she's a co-worker. We were here for a convention and wanted to sight-see, so we -
Him: What's your social?
Me: xxx-xx-xxxx.
Him: And what's your occupation?
Me: Well, I work for a health care organization that is primarily a standards-setting and accreditation body for blood banks, cellular therapy, and other parts of the lab. My primary job function is -....
[he gets up, leaves without saying a word. Returns two minutes later.]
Him: Well, Mr. Noonyez, have a nice trip.

So now, we’re positive that we are in the clear. My parole is good, and Sprucey – well, she’s like a human version of mom-and-apple-pie. I can’t imagine anyone taking any kind of issue with her. She is sweet, kind, warm, genuine – a shining example of the best that the American South has to offer. We make our way to the secured area for our security check, and suddenly agents are converging on Sprucey. The minute she approaches the conveyor belt and puts her stuff down, a female security guard approaches her, asks for her boarding pass, and basically pulls her aside. Meanwhile, no one even looks at my boarding pass! I am chopped liver. I go through security without a problem, while Sprucey is being given the treatment – so much so that I'm surprised there was even anyone left to look at my bags when they were being scanned!

Now I'm standing off to the side, putting my belt back on, tying my shoelaces, while Sprucey is being scrutinized. They're emptying one bag, and then they're emptying the other. They've got their hands all over her. They're speaking to her in hushed tones, she is nodding or shaking her head, and I'm standing there with this dumbfounded look on my face because Sprucey is LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME. She's got her back to me, so I can't see everything that's going on, but if you were there, listening to her laugh, it would have you believing that this is about the most enjoyable thing that could happen to a person.

Afterwards, she mentioned that it was a little ticklish, all the reaching and groping, and that the woman's running commentary on her carry-ons was worth the price of admission. As in:

Security: Oh my, you certainly have a lot of things in here.
Sprucey: It's ok, you can take it out.
Security: But then I have to put back in!!
Sprucey: Oh, that...yeah, I like jewelry.
Security: Yes, this I can see!
[Security takes out her make-up bag]
Security: Why, you have every color here!!

And so forth. In any case, the woman also warns Sprucey that she will be subjected to this a second time because we are flying to National. We are confused and unsure as to how this will take place, considering that we are now on our way to the gate, but alas. Meanwhile, I'm feeling totally invisible - remember that no one even checked my boarding pass to make sure I was in the right terminal. Clearly, this is a little emasculating for me, since I'd like to believe that, between the two of us, I am the one more likely to be perceived as a threat. But no, it turns out that a blonde Southerner with a kind disposition has been keeping these security folks up at night, while I'm barely an afterthought.

Onward to the terminal bar to blow the last of our Canadian dollars on family-sized gin and tonics. When we finally make it to the gate, we find that it is encased in glass with - you guessed it - a second security set up. I am instantly and uncomplicatedly waved off to the side, while Sprucey is again subjected to the vagaries of airport security for a second time. At this point, I’d just about had enough. Why aren't they worried about ME??? I’m the FOREIGNER! And I’ve been working out! I'm STRONG! Well, almost strong…but I am taken with radical notions about how health care ought to be a right, and how diplomacy is not such a bad thing! Except no, I'm not. I'm puny, and Sprucey is the threat. Outgunned by kindness, once again…