Line 8

I was traveling with a friend through a foreign country.

She’s black. I’m white. 

We arrived at the customs line in the other country with the same amount of luggage in tow. We had one more security check before we could leave the airport. My friend was walking in front of me and got to the officer first.

“You traveling alone?” The white officer asked, flicking his eyes up over her face.

She hesitated. We were traveling together but had booked separately. We were ending in different destinations and we’re not a couple.

Yes, she replied.

“Line 8,” he said, pointing to the farthest end of the room.

She left and I stepped up.

He barely looked at me. “Line 1,” he said quickly before I had a chance to say anything. I also looked to be traveling alone as there was a gap behind me so it wasn’t clear why we were sent to different lines.

Line 1 was directly in front of me. It was short, there was no one in it, and it exited right out of the airport. I looked over my shoulder to see if I could get a glimpse of my friend whose line was at the other end of the big room and out of sight.

Within seconds, I was outside of customs. My friend was nowhere in sight.

For 40 minutes I waited. 

Had she been detained? Was there a problem? Why had she been put into that line?

I waited and waited, getting more nervous by the second. 

From the side of the room where my friend had been directed, families with copious amounts of luggage, animals, and children staggered out in dribs and drabs. A majority of them were people of color. 

From the side of the airport where I was directed, many people poured out. They were almost all white.

As it dawned on me what had happened I became more and more angry.

Finally, I saw my friend walking easily behind a large family and all their luggage.

“I was so worried,” I exclaimed in relief. “And I’m so sorry we didn’t say we were traveling together because I just sailed right through the other line.”

“It’s all good,” she said with a smile.

But I was still angry. I filled her in on my observations - that she had been sent to a different line than me because of the color of her skin. Actually, let me rephrase that. She was sent through a different line because of the officer's mindset. 

“I can move through the world with love or hate in my heart,” she responded. “Hate takes up a lot of energy and doesn’t leave me with much left over. Love fuels me - and I get a lot of love back when I chose love. I’m not saying I don’t get angry, but I can’t carry all that anger all the time.”

Humbled, inspired, I moved on. I thought that was the end of the story.

Months later, I saw my friend and we talked about our takeaways from our trip together. 

Again, I shared how one of the biggest takeaways for me was walking beside her as she moved through the world and seeing how the world interacted with her and her skin color. It was endless, relentless, ever present. It was either an issue or it wasn't - which made it an issue.

I thought I had understood. Theoretically, I did. Situationally, I did. But I had never been exposed to racism as consistently as I had during our 10 days together. 

“That’s why you’ve got to go into your own spaces, your own communities and share your experiences, Anne,” she gently - patiently - reminded me. “I don't need to hear this as much as people who don’t live with it need to hear it.”

Right. Yes, of course. 

Where, how, can I put my anger to use - productively?

Doesn’t mean I can’t be, or shouldn’t be angry. But it’s my responsibility to use my emotions - and the belief system and values they are based on - to create change, not just noise.