Security

Mother -”Why are you so black?”

Me – “The sun has raped my skin mother”

30.03.2008

The above text epitomised the conversation I had with the woman who gave birth to me, after my arrival home from California. And there is no way I can blame here, the sun has literally made barbecue of my normally brown skin. But it was worth it… Ish.

America. It was going to be my 1st time visiting The Land of The Free and The Home of The Brave. My perception of the states had only come from over-saturation from various forms of media outlets.

So on the 19th of April my three amigos and I embark on our journey. Bags and fags in hand we breeze past our lovely and humane security officers at the gate.

Fast forwarding past 8 hours of bad oxygen, diabolical airplane food and shitty crying babies. We arrive in Detroit.

You know one of the unknown places you happen to hear about only when a nerdy loner decides to vent his frustration on his class mates with a little help from an ak-47?

Not having had a cancer stick for a few stressful hours, we arrive officially arrive to the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!

Ok, now, security. Tiredly waltzing through the tacky 70′s style corridors we arrive at security. A barrage of booths are in front of us. One says “USA citizens and Diplomats”. The other politely something along the lines of “Aliens”. Honest to God. Aliens.

Anyways, I meet the gentleman at the desk. He checks my passport, asks me some questions, nothing special. Bit of chit chat and a stamp and im on my way. My dad, the 24 hour news channel watching man that he is warned me about the airport security in the states. What does he know? Mr. Lopez was a dignified gentleman, with perfect manners.

Well, what I didn’t know was that Mr. Lopez was the welcome guy so to speak, the guy who gives you that green thing. He was the pleasure before the pain, the concierge, the foreplay.

So we pick up our bags and walk towards the other security checkpoint. There is a man, with a nice shiny gun who asks us more questions. Stupid as they are, I answer with sincere and utter truth. And with a ‘i-think-you-might-be-a-cocaine-distributor’ look he sends me to the some special place.

The special place wasn’t so special. I doubt a terrorist would break surrounded by dusty carpets and burgundy wallpaper, but I am not a terrorist.

“Sir you have been specially selected by NWA Airlines for a thorough search, we promise to blah blah blah blah” – Fat Police Guy Man 20/03/08

Never in my life have I felt more criminal. Those glorified “border protectors” had a way of making you feel like you were in fact carrying a kilo of raw cocaine or/and a plastic bag of explosives. My father’s paranoia had struck me. “They’re gonna send me back, I knew I should have worn a tie” was one the many idiotic things going through my guilt ridden mind.

“Where am I going?”

“Why am i going?”

“What did your dad used to do?”

And I think they asked me “Who am I doing?” But that might of been idiotic-thing-going-through-my-mind #36

Finally they deemed me worthy to enter they country and I am yet put through more “security” measures. Being sprayed for hazardously chemicals was fun, followed by having to take my socks off after an 8 hour flight, whilst in the presence of a few tasty American females.

After that I was home free. Looking like a lost puppy I searched for my friends. Where could they be? I decide to follow the cloud of smoke coming from a loud shop at the other side of the terminal. I come closer and realize it’s not a shop, but a bar.

I enter and spot my friends. After the nerve racking experience of being mentally molested by border patrol or whatever they called themselves, nothing is more beautiful then being served 4 greasy burgers, as basket of chips and a liter glass of Coke.

Cigarette and burger in hand I can gladly say to myself Welcome to America.