It's not a bomb...

There was a lot of backlash when the TSA first installed full body scanners at many of the nation’s airports. There were concerns of privacy and how much the security personnel would see and what would happen to those images. I’m sure that many women were very concerned (with great reason), but I didn’t really worry about it for myself. I already had a pretty poor body image, so all I felt was a bit of sympathy for any poor TSA agent who had to cast their eyes upon my unrestricted frame.

In response to the backlash, TSA adjusted the image so that (supposedly) the shape is standardized and only the area where contraband is suspected will be highlighted.

Something like this:

Of course, we have the option to bypass the scanner and request a pat down, but I’m not a fan of strangers laying hands on me. It’s awkward and I never know whether to look really uncomfortable (which I am, but might make me look guilty of something) or to try and relax and go with it (which might make them think I’m enjoying it). It’s far too much pressure when I’m already worried about the twenty ton metal tube I will soon be trapped inside for a four hundred mile an hour rocket ride five miles above the earth.

So I always go through the scanner. I don’t worry about the potential radiation, although I probably should. I already have a cell phone to my ear for half my day and I live in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where animals routinely grow extra legs and no one eats the local fish. It just gets to be too much to worry about, and I could already serve on the US Olympic Worry Team.

Now, after all the fuss about what the image would show, the tricky thing about the new full body scanners is that you have to get almost naked to go inside. Shoes off. Belt off. Coat, jacket and sweaters off. Nothing in your pockets (even a tissue). It’s only you and a thin layer of clothing.

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of the more difficult things for me is removing my belt. I’m kind of at an “in between” size right now. Not quite snug in one size, but too big for the next size down. Since I don’t aspire to the idiotic teen male trend of having my pants hang down to my upper thighs showing my underwear to the world, I keep my belt tight and my pants around my waist. Once my belt is removed and I step unsupported into the body scanner, I am required to raise my hands over my head (see photo above) and remain still. This is not so easy and I know it is just a matter of time before a video of me hobbling out of an airport scanner with my pants around my ankles ends up on YouTube.

This past Monday I showed up at the Knoxville McGhee Tyson Airport for my flight to Washington like I had done for the last three weeks and many times throughout the last ten years. Being an experienced traveler, I have learned to wear the same basic clothing when I fly. My logic is that once I found an outfit that gets me through security without issue, I will stick to that. It makes sense and in general, it works.

Monday I arrived and after checking my luggage and getting my boarding pass, I made my way to security. After a short wait in the serpentine control line, I started filling the gray plastic bins with my personal items: belt, wallet, cell phone, two tissues, boarding pass and shoes. In a separate bin I placed my laptop and then pushed them all into the conveyer for their fun ride through the tunnel of no secrets.

I then waited behind a slightly older gentleman who apparently had neither flown nor watched the news in the last ten years. He also did not appear to have the capacity to listen, since every two minutes there was a loud and clear announcement blaring through the entire area stating that you need to remove your shoes, belt, etc. He ignored all of those things, threw his oversize bag on the conveyer and marched proudly forward.

The TSA Agent sent him back to remove his shoes, watch, coat, cell phone, and clearly said “Do you have anything else in your pockets.” The man shook his head and said, “No.”

He stepped into the scanner and didn’t raise his hands. The agent pointed at the large sign inside the scanner (about 12 inches from the man’s face) that showed a clear diagram of a body with their hands over their head. The man put his arms straight out. It was brutally obvious at this point that the man was a career politician. No one else could possibly be so oblivious to their surroundings.

Once he finally grasped the correct standing procedure and the scanner ran, he was stopped and informed that he had something in his right pants and left shirt pockets. He stepped back through the scanner and emptied a few dollars in change, some car keys and his boarding pass into a bin and tried again. I wanted to suggest that this man must have been hiding something and in the interests of security he should submit to a full cavity search. Unfortunately, he was cleared on this go through and he began the slow process of gathering his belongings.

Swift and practiced, I stepped into the scanner and planted my feet on the painted yellow feet on the floor and my hands in perfect symmetry with the diagram in front of me. This should be quick and painless and I would soon be on my way to the gate.

The scanner bar made it’s quick half turn and I was motioned by a TSA agent to step out and wait to be cleared to proceed. It only takes a few seconds, twenty at most. I don’t even look back at the screen anymore because I am the model of travelling efficiency and I know that there can be no problem.

I knew something was wrong when the eyebrows on the TSA agent standing in front of me went unnaturally high. He looked at the female agent to my right and said, “We’re going to need a supervisor.” I watched as she lifted her radio to her lips and in soft, calm voice said, “Supervisor to One…we have a Groin Alert.”

I turned to look at the screen and the cut-out human diagram displayed there, and sure enough, dead center of the crotch was a bright yellow square.

Supervisors must be trained to respond rapidly to “groin alerts” because by the time I looked back a very tall and intimidating man was standing within inches of my face. He gave me a quick look up and down and then without a hint of humor, said, “Sir, do you have anything in your pants?”

There was only one correct answer in that instance, because TSA agents are not known for their appreciation of sarcasm, so I simply said, “no.”

“Okay,” he said. “Are you willing to go through the scanner again?” I quickly agreed to that option because I was almost positive that any other option might not be very pleasant.

I stepped back inside the scanner and silently prayed that whatever had set it off the first time was a technical glitch and would not happen again. The supervisor stood just outside the entry and said, “Sir, please untuck your shirt from your pants and pull your pants waist up as high as it will go.” I did as I was told. “Now sir, please raise your hands above your head.”

I quickly glanced around to see if anyone had their cell phone out filming my moment. I knew that without the extra snugness of my shirt being tucked in, my pants were considerably loose. I had no idea what would happen when I raised my hands. If nothing else, I could prove that I wasn’t carrying a weapon.

After a few attempts to raise my hands and feeling my pants start to slip, I finally pulled them as high as I could and spread my knees a little bit, hoping against hope that this bizarre yoga squat move would hold them up long enough for the scanner to run. The TSA supervisor gave me a strange look but hit the button to start the scanner. As soon as it was done, I grabbed for my pants and stepped outside, waiting nervously to see if my groin was still considered a threat to national security.

After what seemed like a half an hour, but was only about 30 seconds, the screen flashed bright green with the simple word OK on it. The TSA supervisor looked just as relieved as I was, probably because the next steps in the screening process would have been somewhat awkward for us both. He stood by me as I gathered my belongings and I asked, “I guess this happens a lot, right?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s very rare.”

As always, lucky me.



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