United We Stand
2024-12-11
I spent last week in Las Vegas for work. It was my first week at a new company, and I attended reInvent. Life was hectic, to say the least.
Before starting this new position and attending such a major conference, I was fortunate to spend a couple of weeks on a much-needed vacation in Hawaii.
In between those two events, my wife and I hosted a small Friendsgiving gathering. Many wonderful rounds of [[The Queer Agenda]] were played, and our San Francisco apartment was filled with laughter, too many slices of pie, and sparkling tea.
As I reflect on these past weeks, I can’t help but consider the things that went wrong, the missed opportunities, and the words left unsaid.
Towards the end of my Las Vegas trip, I had an extremely negative experience at the airport. While it could have been worse, it was something that should never have happened.
I’ve rarely spoken publicly about my health, especially my mental health.
I’m neurodivergent—ADHD and ASD—among other diagnoses. Navigating the world is often challenging, even on good days and even with the help of friends.
Unfortunately, I was traveling alone for my return trip home. While it had been a while since I’d traveled solo, I’d recently been to Vegas in August for Defcon and felt confident that this trip would go smoothly.
I set a stretch goal for myself. As an avid scuba diver, I live by two rules: never stop breathing, and always come back safely. My goal was to reactivate my TSA PreCheck.
Knowing that achieving goals requires preparation, I brought all the required documentation. During my departure from SFO, I spoke with some of the friendliest security staff to confirm that what I wanted to do was feasible. They assured me it was.
For the return leg, I gave myself a full four hours to check my bags, complete the TSA PreCheck application and interview, clear security, and reach my flight home.
In fact, I arrived so early that I had to wait several minutes to use the automatic bag-check kiosk, as bags cannot be checked more than four hours before a flight’s scheduled departure.
Of course, my checked bag was just the teensiest bit overweight, coming in at 65 pounds instead of the allotted 50. I assure you, this really is me packing light—no, seriously, it was even worse on the return trip from Hawaii.
Still…
After finishing my bag drop, I headed to the agency offering to help fast-track my PreCheck application.
At first, I was greeted in a seemingly friendly manner. I explained to the first person what I wanted to do.
“I don’t do that. You need to talk to that guy,” he said, pointing.
I walked over, but after only a few words out of my mouth, I was cut off mid-sentence as the QR code was shoved in my face with a curt, “Fill out the form.”
Fine. I filled out the form, entering my personal details and selecting the documents I had with me. The person helped with the airport selection but didn’t know the local zip code, and I had no idea what the name of the airport was at the time. It took a few minutes to complete, but I got through it.
“Okay, what are the next steps?” I asked the balding man, showing him the completed form page on my phone browser.
“Now you go to the enrollment office and get your fingerprints done. You have your passport, right?” he asked.
When I explained that I didn’t have a passport, it turned into an argument. The man insisted that I couldn’t complete the application without one.
After several heated moments—and after the man consulted four of his coworkers—we determined that I didn’t, in fact, need a passport to get TSA PreCheck.
“Okay, well, you still need lots of documentation with you, and you don’t have that,” he asserted.
“I have everything I need, I assure you,” I replied, my patience nearly gone.
“Sir, I don’t think you understand—”
“I’m not a sir,” I cut him off. He looked back at me, blankly.
“Where do I need to go?” I asked again, my tone growing thin.
“Terminal 1.”
I was in Terminal 3.
“You go down and around, and find the shuttle to Terminal 1. It’s...”
I cut him off. “Down where? Turn where? Your directions are confusing. Can someone escort me to the shuttle? I have a disability.”
“That’s not my job.”
At this point, I was frustrated and turned to the four or five onlooking staffers who had been standing and watching the entire time.
After several heated “not my jobs,” one of them finally walked me to the other side of the terminal, pointed to the guard at the information desk, and said, “Ask there.”
“Ask for what? I thought you were taking me to the shuttle.”
I was genuinely confused at this point, and the person just walked away.
I approached the information desk and explained the situation. The guard there informed me that the TSA PreCheck office in Terminal 1 was closed—and had been for more than a year.
“They probably don’t know,” he added, pointing back in the direction of the third-party fast-tracking service.
I walked back to the agency booth and relayed what the guard at the information desk had told me.
“Oh, no, you need to go to our agency office in Terminal 1. It’s not the PreCheck office, but that’s where we process the PreCheck registrations,” Mr. Bald Head said.
I asked again for help getting to the shuttle in that case.
“Sir,” he started. I cut him off immediately: “I am not a sir.”
The woman standing next to him chimed in, “Sir, that’s not our job.”
I lost it. I snapped and yelled at her, “I am not a sir.” I let loose, shouting at the entire group standing there. For about thirty seconds, I was just yelling, with no idea what was coming out of me—anger, frustration, and, as I caught myself, shame.
I walked away, holding back tears and rage that wanted to spill over. I set my AirPods to maximum isolation mode, drowning out the noise of the airport.
I found a quiet seat and sat down.
I wrote. I listened to music.
I vented to my partner when she called me.
I sat and tried to relax for an hour.
I went back to the security checkpoint, where some new faces had rotated in for the fast-track agency. The woman who had called me "sir" earlier refused to help, but a new face—a lovely, tall gentleman with dreadlocks—stepped in and escorted me to the TSA security screening point, letting me ramble and vent along the way.
After placing my carry-on bags onto the conveyor belt and explaining to one TSA agent why I wasn’t going to remove my earbuds, another TSA agent motioned me toward the metal detector.
As I walked through, everything seemed fine—I didn’t set off the alarm. The TSA agent stopped me, looked at me, and said:
“Sir, I’m going to need you to take the earbuds out.”
I lost it again. She hadn’t even finished her sentence, and I couldn’t stop myself—my nervous system was reeling, amped and cranked to 11. “I am not a sir!” I yelled, surprising even myself with the sheer volume that escaped my lips.
I caught myself immediately and began to apologize. Perhaps the nicest TSA agent I’ve ever encountered stepped over and put her arms around me.
“I got you, hunny,” she said softly into my ear and helped me get the rest of the way through security. I deeply wish I had been able to get her name in the moment—I was too frazzled.
Later, after a burger and fries, I sat at my gate playing Balatro on my Steam Deck. It was the perfect escape from the hellish past couple of hours. A young woman approached me and asked, “Is that Balatro?”
We had the most fantastic conversation, and I showed her how I approached playing the game. In fact, we got so caught up in our conversation that I almost missed the boarding call for my flight.
The flight home was quick and, thankfully, uneventful. My checked bag was already on the baggage carousel when I arrived back at SFO. My lovely wife was there to pick me up when I walked out of the terminal. She ran over and hugged me, and I just started crying.
The ride home was short. I cried some more and don’t recall much of the rest of the evening. I just know that I got the best sleep that night—perhaps the best I’d had in weeks.
On Saturday evening, I went to a small kink party with my queer family and friends. Toward the end of it, after so much fun, I fell into the lap and arms of someone very close to me. It felt so good. Knowing they would be there for me when I returned from traveling was one of the things that kept me going through it all. 💚
As I reflected on this experience and took in the experiences of those around me over the following days, I was reminded of the Pledge of Allegiance—the thing we used to recite every morning in grade school.
United we stand. Divided we fall.
It’s so true on so many levels. Perhaps now, more than ever, it’s something we should all reflect on. It’s something I feel deeply when I’m with my queer family and friends, and when I’m surrounded by my coworkers and community.
It’s something I didn’t feel at all at the airport.
However, I want to acknowledge something positive that came out of this experience: an executive at the third-party fast-tracking agency reached out to me personally to apologize for what happened. They assured me that steps would be taken to ensure this wouldn’t happen to anyone else in the future. That kind of personal touch and commitment to addressing potential systemic issues goes a very long way, and it meant a great deal to me.
It’s not hard: when people ask for help, listen. Stand with them, help them, fight with them and for them. When we don’t do this for each other, we all fall.
To the special people in my life, I love you all, and I stand united with you.
And to the amazing young person I had that wonderful conversation with—I won’t post your name here—if you decide to go into tech after your gap year, reach out. I’ll help you get an internship. I stand with you too.