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the bag of hair
Several months after 9/11 I was in the Atlanta airport. I was “randomly selected” to have my bags extra searched. I guess I looked a little like a terrorist. To add to this luck, the two people assigned to search my bags were women [Insert the obvious stereotypes of women cops here]. My bags were over-stuffed, and the zippers were bulging. I cringed as they took things out of their crammed locations knowing that they would never get it all back in. I thought for sure that I had nothing bad in there, but I didn’t account for culture differences. One lady pulled out my nag champa incense and asked what is was with incredible attitude. I explained that it smelled good, and she confiscated it. She found matches and took them. She found laundry detergent and took it. Our friendship was on the fritz. Then it happened. She pulled out a small ziploc and my heart sunk. It was full of my recently chopped off hair and affectionately labeled “Junior”. She looked at me like I was the filthiest criminal to ever live and with much more attitude and confusion than before she loudly asked, “What is this?” I tried weakly to explain why it was funny to me and my friends. She let me keep it. I didn’t recover my dignity. Micah the Admin
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mile high club
I was on a flight headed towards London. The line for the bathroom was consistently long so I was going to wait. Finally, when I could not wait any longer, the seat belt sign came on and the plane started to shake violently. I decided to attempt going anyways because it was either in the bathroom or in my seat. I made it to the bathroom without the flight attendant seeing me but soon learned why they ask you to remain seated during turbulence. The airplane suddonly dropped and my hand hit the door which wasn’t properly latched. I looked up and the woman in the seat nearest the bathroom had a look of shock on her face. I shut the door quickly and finished my crazy ride and sneaking back to my seat got a very awkward glare from the lady. Lesson learned. Amanda – CA
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the racist
During a summer break in high school, I took a trip with some friends. While we were in the airport waiting to board our flight, a couple of my friends started picking on me and another kid for being so white and pale. Both of us happened to be the type of people who couldn’t ever get a tan, no matter how hard we tried. I was pretty touchy about this feature of mine, so I tried to say something that would boost my self-confidence and make it look like I wasn’t bothered by them pointing out how pasty I was. I raised my fist high in the air and yelled out the first thing that came to mind,”White people rule!” As soon as I said it, I knew it was a poor choice of words. I also realized that several people at the gate had heard my exclamation and were now staring at me. I wanted to die. What was meant to be a quick comeback made me look like a racist jerk. Emily – CA