For people like me, who have implanted medical devices such as pacemakers, a trip through the airport has become a bit surreal. Unlike the general public, we “bionic” humans must identify ourselves and submit to a full-body search by a uniformed member of the Transportation Security Administration.
In general, our culture does not encourage close body contact between strangers, unless unavoidably jammed into a BART train or a bus to San Francisco during commute hours, and this contact is limited to jostling and bumping. By and large, we are a “hands off” culture in which unrestrained groping and squeezing of other people’s body parts is not only discouraged, but is considered physical assault. It is, therefore, highly ironic that the airport has become the venue in which this taboo has not only been removed, but is actively pursued with a zeal guaranteed to make the most gregarious traveler blush.
After identifying myself as unable to pass through the metal detection equipment or be exposed to a magnetic “wand” (both of which can disrupt the functioning of implanted medical devices), a loudly shouted call goes out for “male assist!” This in and of itself attracts some attention, as most people are curious about any passenger who is singled out. Having emptied my pockets, removed my belt and shoes, and placed all inside the ubiquitous plastic “trays,” I am then escorted to an area surrounded by glass walls, and asked to place each foot on yellow “feet” markings adorning a mat. I am instructed to hold my arms out perpendicular to my body. I am then informed, Miranda-like, that when the search moves to “sensitive areas” of my body, the back of the hand will be used; the procedure then begins.
Grabbing one hand in both of his, the uniformed attendant proceeds to deliver a firm but gentle massage-like squeezing of my arm, slowly moving all the way from hand to armpit. Rounding my shoulder, he begins to deliberately move down the front side of my body, pushing, squeezing and palpating my flesh as he moves down. Approaching my groin, he dutifully yells out “sensitive area!” whereupon most people in the vicinity quickly swivel their heads to watch. The back of his hand pushes into my “sensitive area” until he gets to my upper thigh, at which point the double-handed squeeze and massage approach returns and he works his way down to my foot. The same procedure is repeated on the other side, and then down my back, where we get another refrain of “sensitive area!” as he prods my backside. By this time, at least five minutes have passed.
My pants are in danger of falling to my feet; my shirt is almost entirely untucked; and this entire procedure has been performed like a public carnival side-show, adjacent to the normal security check-in area. The final step is to have me sit and the bottoms of my feet are rubbed. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what they expect to find on the bottom of my feet.
Then, just like that, it’s over. We’ve barely gotten to know each other, but having been thoroughly groped, I sense a certain growing intimacy between us. I think this process can be improved. Next time, I am going to ask for more time spent rubbing my feet, and I plan to offer a nice tip.
