I got separated from Kristina and Mary at Minneapolis Airport customs, but I was confident I could do it on my own, having just returned from a 10 day excursion all over southern England with my sweet daughter and her fiancee. I was working on bravery, being independent, being bold. I confidently handed the customs officer my passport. He held it up in front of him to compare the picture with my face. I smiled a slightly cheesy smile. I didn’t mean to - it just happened. “Where were you?” he asked. “England,” I answered. “What were you doing there?” he asked. “Visiting my daughter and her fiancee,” I answered. “What’s your daughter doing there?” I paused. Well, she’s doing THREE things there. Does he want all THREE answers, or just one simple answer? “She’s taking some online classes and being with her fiancee,” I stutter. He looks at me a little more closely. I can feel my heart pounding a little faster in my chest. Crap. “What do you do?” he asked me. Crap! I do lots of stuff. I’m a writer, a psychic, a housewife, a columnist. Does he want to hear all of those things? I stutter again. “I’m a writer,” I answer simply (I hope). “What do you write?” he asks me really fast. “Children’s books,” I answer just as swiftly. Crap. I also write a column, and I really want to tell him about my dad’s book I just finished writing with him, because it took 10 years, and I really spent a lot of time on it. I feel like a criminal.
“What did you bring back?” he asks. Crap. Haven’t I answered enough? I glance over, and there’s Mary and Kristina, already through, BOTH of them, just waiting for me. I think I see them smiling slightly. I had showed the NICE security lady at Heathrow my amazing goddess dress that was packed in my carryon, and SHE seemed to appreciate it, what was THIS guy’s problem, anyway? “I brought back t-shirts, souvenirs, chocolate, a dress...” He interrupts me - “did you buy anything from the duty-free shop?” “Yes, some Pimms and some candy.” “How many bottles did you buy?” “Only one.” “Any cigarettes?” Okay, NOW he’d gone too far. “NO!” I say, very vehemently. I’m sure I looked at him kind of outraged. He reluctantly handed me back my passport. I walked away, angry. Seriously, was that all necessary? Seriously. I don’t like mean people. I don’t like people who don’t (or won’t) smile. I like to try to engage them, connect with them, help them be happier, like the laughing yogi (search “laughing yoga” on youtube and you’ll see what I mean). It’s not that that customs agent didn’t like ME, he probably didn’t like his job, or just wanted to make me squirm a little bit. I’m sure he knew I was harmless, but I wanted to walk back to him and tell him I didn’t appreciate how he treated me, but of course I didn’t. I could’ve been arrested for harassment or something. I just took some deep breaths and kept walking. I told Kristina and Mary what had happened. Kristina explained it probably best of all. “You like to talk to people, so if you talk to friendly people, you’ll get friendly conversation. If you talk to mean people, you’ll get mean conversation.” That customs officer was mean. He was a bully. I didn’t like it. Then I think of other people who face that kind of arbitrary meanness and unfairness all the time. Thankfully it’s rare for me. But I felt it deep down, like I WAS somehow a criminal, and it was just a matter of time before they uncovered my truth. Guilty until proven innocent, and that sucked. It really did. I hope I don’t do that to others - maybe I do. I’ll have to think about it a little more and see if I can get some clarity. If I don’t, that’s okay, too. I’m sure if it needs to, it will come up again later to be healed. Crap.