TSA’s Mishandling of a Transgender Woman. Legal Sexual Harassment?
I keep thinking the TSA agent knew I was transgender the moment she saw me in line for the scanner.
I can’t remember a time when I felt more powerless, more violated, more reduced to a tiny speck of dust.
On Sunday June 11th. On a return trip from an otherwise spectacular weekend of tournament-style queer hockey. I was traveling with three of my teammates home from Seattle. That day I was wearing a tank top, white cardigan with fake pearl buttons, and a dark floral patterned, mid-length split-front skirt with sheer tights.
When exited the rotating scanner at airport security, I was told to step aside. This is nowhere near my first rodeo. Since late 2018 I’ve sported a titanium prosthetic hip. They showed me the scan, and sure enough there was a red mark over my right side. But there was also a red mark over my …
Oh my. That. That is odd.
My heart sank.
These after-scanner spaces are close quarters, thinly separated by tensor fences. I had been paired with a female officer based on my gender presentation, and to her I quickly offered that I “have a hip”. She curtly dismissed my comment and asked me what was in my pockets. I simply said that my skirt didn’t have any pockets.
If you haven’t been through an airport scanner with an implant before, this is where they get out the magic wand to test for metal in my hip. From a safe distance, this device works for nether regions too.
However, this officer chose another route altogether. She immediately escalated her voice and asked where my bin of stuff was, pointing to the conveyor belt. I glanced over toward the familiar security conveyor belt, scanning for my bin to no avail. Interestingly, the three people in front of me, including a teammate, were shuttled over to the metal detector right next to the scanner. The officer had pointed at them and said, you three go through that one, and had beckoned me through first. I had been singled out. My bag hadn’t had time to be scanned yet.
I told the officer I couldn’t see my bin. She then told me that she was going to do a body search and promptly asked if I wanted a private room.
Stunned by the sudden escalation and scared to be separated from the relative safety of the very large mass of humans standing in in queues, I protested.
I muttered, “get it over with.”
I raised my arms slightly and readied for what I hoped would be a quick frisk.
Breathe girl.
You’ve done this plenty of times before.
Around the waist, up the back, under the arms, around the ankles.
Outside the clothing with the back of their hand.
You’ll be on your way shortly.
She told me to reposition twice, for some unknown reason, before starting in. When she started, she went straight for my ass, running her hands all around the creases of my buttocks massaging me briskly through my skirt. Then she told me to turn around and bent down in front of me. She ran her hand along my nylons briefly. My breathing stopped feeling very very exposed.
Fuck. This is no normal frisk.
And just as I was talking to myself, trying to calm my own nerves, she abruptly jerked her hand straight up my skirt and directly into my crotch causing me to wince. Panicked, my eyes darted around, looking for someone familiar I could silently plead with. I saw one teammate in the distance, but they seemed impossibly out of reach. The room started to spin. I started to sweat. My mind racing in circles headed for nowhere good.
Let me repeat myself for dramatic effect.
A TSA agent at the Seattle Tacoma International Airport groped me.
Up my skirt.
Hand in my crotch.
Subserviently, I asked “Are you finished?”
She barked back at me “No!” She returned to my ankles for what seemed like forever as I just stood there frozen. Frozen like a deer in the headlights, inappropriately touched by a federal employee, spread eagle amidst a sea of strangers.
I can’t remember a time when I felt more powerless, more violated, more reduced to a tiny speck of dust.
I stared around looking for someone, anyone, to say something.
Those strangers. Nearby.
The ones within feet of me.
Surely they could see what was happening to me!
Surely they will intervene.
But that didn’t happen.
Was the look on their face empathy?
for my plight
mixed with fear
of what might happen if they opened their mouths?
No matter, they did nothing.
Said nothing.
Moving along purposefully like ants in a kitchen.
Trained into subservience, just like me.
Thinking I could only delay my arrival home if I said anything more, I just waited. After what seemed like forever, and without any fanfare, she bluntly said, “You can go.”
My body tingling all over and my eyes were darting around again. Darting faster than before, meanwhile only slowly gaining my bearings again. I gingerly walked straight to the conveyor, deliberately not looking back. I snatched my shoes and purse, and walked straight through the threshold, rudely leaving the bin on the belt. Bleary eyed and shaking uncontrollably, I sulked towards my travel companions staring into space. My teammates immediately surrounded and comforted me as I collapsed crying, head in hands on a nearby bench.
On airport time, the only thing that matters is how long until boarding time. The security experience had taken so long by this point we had no time to spare. After a few minutes, they were able to coax me up and towards the gate. A shadow version of myself tried to keep calm, though my head was still frozen in time, left back in line, enraged, where my relative innocence fell into the hands of a legal abuser.
One on the plane, with nothing prepared to dab unexpected trauma and tears, I collapsed into my seat. What little mettle I had left melted into streams of mascara-tinged tears.
I cried for most of the trip home. My friends checked in with me mid flight and then comforted me as we waited to claim our bags. They made sure I got home safely. They even carried my bags up to my house.
The next day they checked in with me, making sure I felt supported. I feel incredibly lucky to have such caring people around me. It’s this real. I have no idea how I would have gotten off that bench without them.
I am immobilized. I haven’t been able to sleep normally since.
The nightmare keeps running on repeat.
What happened? What could I have done differently?
What did she say? What did I say? What should I have said?
Where did she touch me?
Why me?
I know why. But why?!
I can still feel it. My nerves begin to fray, at random on a dime, and I start to panic. I shut me down and change the subject. But somehow the same reel begins playing in my head over and over. Again and again.
After a sleepless Sunday night, I spent all day Monday in bed, trying desperately to shut it off. Stop the movie. Change the subject. Eventually I’d drift off, only to find my self being assaulted in a nightmare too.
Trying and failing to get back on the horse, I worked remotely on Tuesday even though I would normally be in the office. I was not yet strong enough to face the world in person.
I finally got out of the house to play hockey with my women’s league team. Exercise is good for the soul. Normally, hockey can erase everything for me. Normally. But now, for the first time maybe ever, my mind wouldn’t stop. Images kept coming back. Still playing on repeat in my head. I haven’t played worse hockey than I played in that game in a very long time.
I keep thinking the TSA agent knew I was transgender the moment she saw me in line for the scanner.
I keep thinking the red spot presumably auto-detected by the sensor could have been the first sign that she needed to consider her next steps more carefully. Causing her to carefully consider protocol. But, armed members of the TSA are seemingly legally allowed to touch nether regions at at the slightest sign of a threat.
I keep thinking this is a bigger problem than just me. Because sadly, this is not news. It is certainly not news to the trans community. Trans people actually celebrate when we get through TSA unscathed. It’s really quite gross.
I keep thinking this is not news to anyone else either! Everyday people standing in these long TSA lines are terrified. They are terrified for their physical and emotional safety. Terrified they will make some innocuous mistake. Terrified that they could be detained and treated like a terrorist for hours on end. That their travel companions’ plans might be disrupted. That they might miss their flights. Ruin their vacations. Delay their safe arrival home. Severely mar what could have been cherished memories, now singed by legal violence.
I keep thinking I did nothing wrong. Still, going through it, I was sweating profusely. My mind still can’t shake the image of that little red spot on the scan.
I knew what she wanted. I knew she wasn’t going to give up. I knew.
I also know the rules. I know that TSA in general is taught to err on the side of caution and detain anyone fitting the profile of a disturbance to normal operations. Overt systematic oppression presumably creates safer borders.
This was not that. This TSA officer’s behavior, violated my rights. There was absolutely nothing I could reasonably do without causing a stir and much much more trouble for myself.
I am angry at the TSA agent.
I am angry at the system that taught her.
And I am angry at my country for looking the other way.
I feel hurt and abused. I feel taken advantage of. These are things you can’t un-experience. What happened to me was sexual harassment. And that damage is permanent.
Love,
Nicole
