American

I use the word "bitch" a lot in this post. And I mean it. Every single time.

2AM

I'm still awake. Actually, I'm sitting on my travel bag, pleading with the zipper to make it to the other side. I'd already gotten rid of the "BRAZIL" bikini and the "WHOLLY SHIT...I LOOK FUCKING GREAT IN THIS.." bikini. Also left behind are two "just in case" generic looking Gap tee-shirts and one pair of flip flops.

By omitting these few items, I'd gone from "there's no fucking way this thing is going to close" to "it might just happen". And happen it did. If it's not in there, then it's not coming. Fuck it. In twelve hours, I'll be leaning over a bridge in Costa Rica, marveling at the crocodiles below. Laughing and slightly buzzed...thanks to the grocery store we'll stop at along the way. This is going to be great.

4:45AM

"Do you have any luggage?"

"Just these."

Anna, in her official faded red American Airlines blazer shakes her head.

"If you didn't have those, I would let you on."

"We can't carry this on?"

Anna shakes her head and directs the people on another line to the next ticket agent.

I notice briefly that American Airlines seems to be the only airline who has "red blazer" people, who's job is to point you to the next ticket agent. That's it. No other purpose. Oh...or to say you can't get checked in. I check my watch...our plane takes off in 45 minutes. It's sorta like waiting for a meteor to hit the Earth, and there's nothing you can do. Because the bitch in the red blazer said so.

5:30AM

Yep. We're still on line.

Anna lets everyone else bypass us and go up to the ticket counter, claiming she doesn't want to traffic jam the agents. We complain. Then get annoyed. But we still haven't journeyed to the dark side until...

Anna looks at us...and then down at our bags.

"Why didn't you carry those on?"

Blink. Blink.

"You just said we couldn't."

"No...you could."

"Can you check us in?"

Anna lazily walks over to an agent and returns with arms folded.

"No. It's too late. Sorry."

"Look. The plane takes off in fifteen minutes. We can still make it if you..."

"No. Sorry."

Anna almost got jumped.



8:05AM

Mr. Santorelli is going apeshit.

His family of four just had their seats given away since they went for a stroll in the airport. Santorelli Jr. begins to cry. Mrs. Santorelli holds the Santorelli daughter...who is too young to understand that their vacation is fucked. But back to Mr. Santorelli...

"This is completely unacceptable! Nobody told us!!"

"Sir, you should have been at the gate ten minutes prior to boarding..."

"This is insane! Nobody told us that!!"

I actually feel kinda bad. I mean, crying kids and all...geez. However, I don't feel too bad. Thanks to the Santorelli lollygaggin, four people ahead of us on stand-by made that plane, therefore, we've moved up the list. While checking our names in the computer, the ticket agent notices two people are still on the list. He tells the OTHER agent. (OTHER meaning: The agent who referred to all the stand-by passengers as "these people", and thought nobody heard her. )

The OTHER agent then goes into the computer...deletes "these people" who made the plane from the system, allowing the ticket agent I was speaking with to us up.

Next flight...11:20. Well..at least we have time to hit McDonalds. I deserve a McGriddle damn it.

11:10AM

My arms are folded and my stare hasn't broken in five minutes.

By this time, the Santorelli family should be settling into their seats, buckling their belts, sighing with relief. Their vacation, a bit delayed, but not ruined. Ours...however...

"They made the plane because they have executive status. The computer does it automatically. I have no control over that." The OTHER agent tells me.

"Yes you do. I was there when an agent moved us up, so you obviously can manipulate the order. So now, in addition to taking this very personally, I'm offended because you lied to me."

"Ma'am, I know what you're getting at, and really, it's not like that."

"Really?"

...now, let me interrupt and say this before I go on.

Anyone who knows me...KNOWS how reluctant I am to play this card. I just don't do it. For starters, however easy it is to call someone out on their prejudice shit, and although I know white privilege exists, it's a bitch to prove. So when you do this, you'd better have your game tight. Besides, I usually take the fun route. Become a total pain the ass. You know. Push things to an unbelievably annoying peak, whereas, the wrong doer retrospectively wishes they would have just treated me fairly than jerk me around.

Anyway, yeah...I took it there.

"Ma'am, you tell me what I should think. I was there, when the Santorelli family missed their flight. And it was their fault. They should have been placed on the back of the stand-by list, instead, we were bumped to accommodate them. Now, call me crazy, but there's only one difference I see between the Santorelli family and mine."

"Ma'am, anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a racist. I have black friends, I know plenty..."

"I didn't call you a racist. I asked you to tell me what I should think."

"I know how it looks, and I assure you..."

"So, please tell me why the Santorelli family are on the way to Miami, and I'm still sitting in this airport...since 4:45AM."

"Ma'am, would you please tell me the story from the beginning."

I do.

As I tell the story, an American Airline manager and a Port Authority Police Officer show up...in response to the "411" that was called. They asked her what was going on. She turned red. Really red...and never answers.

Yep. The bitch called the cops on me.

Funny. I don't remember Mr. Santorelli getting a "411".

I stare daggers at the OTHER agent, and cock my head to the side.
Oh no you fucking didn't.

"Now let me ask you a question. How, are you going to make this right?"

The officer shakes his head, and leaves.



Midnight

The room smells like old sex. Lots of old sex. Prostitute sex. Cheat on my husband sex. I'm gay and don't want anyone to know sex.

"Don't touch anything." I giggle.

We look like shit. We smell..well...close to it. Feeling? Broken.

Miami International Airport Hotel seems like a good idea when you've been awake for over 24 hours and traveling for 21. But it's not. Don't do it. Ever. Not even if the "OTHER" agent gives you a free voucher and meal credit.

I'm not even going to go into it, but all I'm going to say is I didn't brush my teeth because the water was yellow. And smelled like urine. No lie.

(I purposely skipped over the six hour layover in Boston because, to be honest, I slept through most of it in an uncomfortable rocking chair. Personally, I can't stand Boston. The "what are YOU doing here" stare is definitely in effect. However, they have the highest concentration of hot men that will never...ever bring you home to Mama on the planet. Oh...and a lot of baseball caps. A fucking lot.)


10AM (Costa Rican Time)

I laugh. Pia says she almost wrote "black" down as her nationality on her immigration card. I chuckle, not because she's stupid (far from) because I remember making the same mistake when I first traveled internationally.
There was something in my soul that made me want to AT LEAST jot down "African" before that "American", but to a Costa Rican, that would make no sense. None at all.

Why?

Because the minute we de-plane'd American Airlines flight 988 from Miami to Costa Rica, we left the "African" part on the plane. I know you may not know what I mean, but let me try to explain.

The first thing you notice when you encounter any Costa Rican is, no longer present is the "pause". That tiny, eighth of a second pause when, in America, people shift their normal social personality into their "I'm dealing with a black person" persona. Anyhoo...unknowingly, all Americans do this. All of them. Black, white...we all do it when dealing with a black person because of your own prejudices and belief in stereotypes. (Yes, blacks too. Bougie vs. Ghetto...you know what I mean.)

This shit simply does not exist in Costa Rica.

...and it's pretty fucking nice.

Because coming home...

5:45 AM

Of course the flight is cancelled. Of course it is.
No "red jacket" told us this. The actual agent did. And sorry, there's nothing we can do.

It's cool.

We're on the next flight out...nothing to worry about. Pura vida. I'll just go shopping.

"Hola!"

"Hola papi...coma estas?"

"Bien! Habla espanol?"

"Un poco..."

"Americana?"

"Si..."

"Que linda..."

"Mucha gracias..."

"I will leave you to your shopping. Adios Linda.."

"Gracias. Adios.."

And he did.

And that's when it hits me. I look around.

People could care less that I was there. Nobody even blinked. I could TOTALLY shove ten shirts in my bag..and nobody would notice. Not that I'd want to, but if I did, I COULD. Why? Because I'm not being followed. Or watched. In a STORE.

Nor was I followed, watched, stared at, "paused" on, ignored or paid too much attention to... at all. EXCEPT...when we walked into places where other "Americans" were.

Americans stared.

Americans removed themselves from the hot tub when we entered.

Americans left the pool the minute we arrived.

Americans greeted other Americans with "hi" and "where are you from?"s...but ignored our greetings.

Americans "paused".

...Americans managed to bring that stupid shit with them.

Just hope it doesn't contaminate the Costa Ricans.

To be fair, not all Americans. Anyone I've ever met from Arkansas have always been mad cool. (Shout out to Katie and the crew!)



2:15pm Costa Rican Time

Eyes everywhere.

When you haven't been black for 48 hours, it fucking hurts coming back to life.

The flight to Miami was located at Gate 4A3, which was downstairs.
The minute we walked into the waiting area containing mostly Americans...we were welcomed home.

I sat quietly, opened my book and tried to ignore the woman next to me shifting uncomfortably after she peeked at the title.

"Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl"

"Oh for the LORD!! What is with all the damn shifting? Did you NOT know this happened? Don't I seem sorta...over it? I mean, I'm sitting next to you, aren't I? JESUS...can we PLEASE just get over this already?"

...OK. I didn't say that. I wanted to though. Badly.

...just as badly as I'm sure she wanted to ask me, "What are you doing here?"


"I go back to... I go back to...black." - Amy Winehouse