I used to hate airports. I mean loathe them.
I was fearful and afraid of strangers.
I avoided eye contact as if life depended on it.
My feet would shuffle quicker than professional dancers,
As I leaped over tiles and carpet.
You’d think I was trying to balance on a tight rope and hop over coals all at once.
Fear could pulsate a little bit more on airport days.
Strangers that stare into space would meet my gaze.
Kids with green monster eyes would eye my electronic devices.
I’d fear bumping into other hasty passengers,
Making contact with another is a no-no in my world.
I have a bubble of comfort about three feet in radius.
It encompasses me in security.
But those security checkpoints?
X-rays invade my privacy.
Plastic bags with carefully packed bottles no larger than 3.4 ounces.
Where they don’t trust me?
Why can’t I be trusted in my own country?
I’m not up to no good, in fact, I’m too good.
I like rules and order, and feed off of the taste of fear.
Then I realized:
Fear keeps us in line.
Why must I be so quick to fear the unknown?
When in fact, I know what’s around me.
Why can’t I look those strangers in the eye?
Or give a kind nod or smile to passersby?