the landing they roar in the plane AFRIKAAA
the outside smell is delicious
warm, motherly, dark green
my papers in hand. i stand in line
welcome, akwaba. they stamp, they hand back
sistah! sistah! let me help
welcome home
the landing they clap inside the plane
the cold slaps me and i almost forget
where i've been
the sterile smell, the blue eyed stare
i'mmmmmm baaaaaack
my papers in hand, i am pushed into line
no my latina sistah you are not suspecting me
this line please.
i am standing
with my sistahs
one in each row waiting to be
humiliated
they pass by -- from amsterdam
bleached blonde, bleached brain
eyes half closed
pierced tongue, safety pinned eyebrow,
ragged jeans carrying boxes not luggage
tied with belts
i must have drugs
i am not profiling and styling
but profiled because i am a Black woman
i stand in line as i watch
mr cell phone passes, missy sun tanned passes
i watch and wait
angrily
wait
the toe of my shoe is over the red line
MAME, STAY ACROSS THE LINE
i don't move
MAME, MOVE BEHIND THE LINE
i say please
MAME, WOULD YOU PLEASE STAND BEHIND THE LINE
i roll my eyes
wishing her death
i move slowly
my brass bracelets clang on the rail
i decided that i will clang till my turn
i am behind the red line
clean clothes were offered me before i got here
i politely declined
knowing that they would be touched
i fit a profile. i am a Black woman
the clanging stops.
it is my turn
you spent this amount on books
yes
what is your occupation
professor
where
i quickly give an answer with an address attached
you spent this amount on books
(she don't get it)
yes
she opens my bag
her look tells me that she is preparing to drag out
my dirty laundry
with a smile,
i am laughing in my head
i tell her
as she begins to grab my clothes
like an escaped convict caught but still wiggling
i just finished my period
she looks at me
with disgust
her joy has been cancelled
she zips my bag back up
i walk away
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