It’s a moment no one enjoys when traveling through airport security: waiting in stockinged feet as a red indicator light turns on.
I look at the computer screen where the TSA agent is examining the contents of my bag at Portland International Jetport.
There it is on the screen, clear as can be. A single whoopie pie.
It’s in a transparent plastic box from Hannaford.
It’s next to a bag of Humpty Dumpty All Dressed chips — both novelty gifts for my sister who lives in Arizona.
I made sure my toiletries were less than 3.4 ounces and zipped them in a quart-size plastic baggie.
I packed KN95 masks to help protect against viruses, including COVID-19.
I downloaded the airline’s app and have shared flight numbers with family members in case something goes wrong.
Somehow, amidst the chaos of packing and racing to finish work assignments, I forgot to consider the cream frosting.
My stomach ties itself in knots; anxiety manifests in my body.
Another TSA agent sharply tells me to move aside so a passenger can retrieve their bag.
I always feel as if I’m doing something wrong when going through security.
I never remove my sneakers fast enough. I’m not efficient when dumping my possessions into the bins. I try to show my boarding pass when all they need is my license, and vice versa.
I’m wearing Minnie Mouse ears with a purple spider web design and a purple bow because it’s Halloween. Apparently, no one else got the memo. I’m the only one in the airport wearing a costume.
I thought, naively, that everyone would be dressed up for the occasion.
After reading the room, I decide it’s best to remove the ears when going through the full-body scanner where I have to raise my hands above my head.
I’m singled out to receive an extra pat-down.
Were the Minnie Mouse ears too much? There’s no policy about faux ears on the TSA website, as far as I can tell.
After waiting a few minutes as my bag sits in limbo, I let out a sigh of relief.
The bag with my whoopie glides down the rail. It is not deemed a threat.
I heave up the roller bag, grab my duffel and try to slip away as incontrovertibly as possible.
As I wait for boarding to begin, announcements periodically project over the PA system stating that firearms are prohibited.
“Remember to check firearms before entering the screening checkpoint,” a woman’s voice advises.
I’m traveling less than a week since Maine became forever altered by the deadliest mass shooting in its history.
Like most other Mainers, I was consumed for days by the panic-inducing, around-the-clock news coverage as authorities sought to capture Robert Card.
Given the number of mass shootings throughout the country, I’ve noticed in the past few years that my demeanor has changed when in public spaces. I often take at least a few minutes to acknowledge the possibility of a crisis.
Where are the exits? How would I hide upon hearing gunshots? What would my last text message be?
Now, those thoughts are more pervasive.
Any time I visit a bowling alley or play a game of cornhole, I will think about the lives lost on that tragic day. How could one not?
Herein lay the incalculable ways that horrendous events like mass shootings and terrorist attacks continue to send ripples of hurt and anguish throughout communities.
In addition to the lives lost, the families ripped apart and the graphic scenes that victims, first-responders, medical staff, police, firefighters and public leaders must witness, comes a collective loss of innocence.
As with the aftermath of every mass shooting, there are countless debates and discussions circulating about weapons and security protocols.
Less talked about is the loss of freedom that comes from losing one’s peace of mind.
For people who would never intentionally harm others it becomes more difficult to find calm and joy within common, everyday life experiences.
These people, which are most Maine people, will be looking over their shoulders at bars and movie theaters and baseball games and school conferences.
They will undergo active shooter drills.
They will have to explain to their children why schools are closed when it’s sunny outside and the roads are dry.
They will live in a world of metal detectors, locks, gates, barricades and steel.
A world where even a whoopie pie can be suspect.
Emma Joyce is a freelance writer and marketing-and-communications professional who lives in Gorham. She wrote “Welcome to Nowhere,” about Portland’s Libbytown neighborhood, for The Bollard in 2010. Her writing and photography can be found at emmajoyce.com.
