recurring, yet unexplainable experiences: narratives of a Black, African trans woman, part 1

by TINOTENDA

JAN 06, 2026

A picture I took last Friday at LAX, waiting for my return flight. This is where I was ruminating on the idea of writing this piece, but I gave up because I did not know how to pen everything down.

“It was nice chatting with you, dear. Have a safe journey.”

“Thank you, Clarissa. Have a good rest of your night.”

I exit the car and head over to the bag drop station for my flight. Judging from the queues at the self-service stations, the travel agents are yet to turn them on. Let me find one that is less congested for faster check-in when they open.

The moment I step in, I can already feel glares from some of the travelers who are probably going to be on the same flight as I. I thought these glaring looks were a thing I would only experience back home, but I thought wrong. You know the look I am talking about: the “Oh, you are here” type of look, signaling that your kind does not belong in a particular space. Could it be my melanated skin? My transness? I don’t know, but all I know is that it’s a mix of everything because my onlookers are a diverse bunch.

“Good morning, everyone. Our travel agent will turn on the self-service machines…”

the tall man wearing a Delta Airlines uniform projected as he paced around the floor, weaving his way through the other impatient passengers who were eager to go through TSA and find their boarding gates on the concourse.

You may be wondering why I am evoking your presence into a typical early morning at a busy international airport, where thousands of people pass through on their way to different parts of this vast expanse we call the World. I invite you to think deeply about what an airport and anything associated with it–whether it is a passport, boarding pass, or even your luggage–means to me and you, too. All these articles, and others I have not stated, carry a story, a visceral message about your being and how you came to be this person whose existence is crystallized in this moment.

For me, the airport is a beacon of my complicated independence. The privilege of stuffing nineteen years of my life and all my aspirations into two twenty-three-kilogram–or fifty pounds, as the Americans like to say–bags, an eight-kilogram carry-on and a sizeable personal item. I think of the struggle I go through as I decide whether or not I should pack something up, because everything I touch carries sentimental value; I simply cannot choose what is more valuable than the other, but here I am, making that dreaded choice. More importantly, there is the intangible baggage that I have to pack in the process that clings to me like a fly caught in the inescapable grasp of a spider’s web. The childhood memories, good and bad times with family, births, deaths, weddings, divorces, betrayals, friendship fallouts, my life’s wins and losses, the list goes on. Most importantly, I will not forget to mention my motivations for traveling as a person whose green passport signals less access to higher places that people who have melanated skin, like my own, or women like myself are not allowed to enter. All of this does not simplify my relationship to the airport, and you will see why.

Now that the self-service stations are open, I glance around me to see how other passengers go about their check-in. I notice how a mixed bunch of adults, teens, and children, typically four to seven people, all form a cluster at a booth, printing out bag tags and boarding passes. I then take a moment to look inward to situate myself in this space. A single Black, African trans woman going on a solo trip to a place she had dreamed about since childhood. I think of the unrelenting desire I had for a chance to maneuver the world on adventures, savoring the different cultures and sceneries this world had to offer; I am living my wildest dream, and it warms my heart to know that I fought tooth and nail for this. As I print my boarding passes, I also think of the people I left behind when I chose this life of solitude in a land where no one understands my quirks or the underlying meaning in my countenance. I also worry about the person I have become because she would not have this privilege to do all she does now if she were still in the place she familiarly calls home.

I quickly proceed to the security checkpoint and face one of the struggles that comes with the freedom I get to enjoy with the mobility I acquired.

“Good morning, ma’am. Please may I see your passport?”

“Good morning. Sure.”

I timidly pull out my green passport from my travel handbag, placing it in this man’s hands. Subconsciously, I am aware that my passport, with its hue that resembles greenery, sets me apart from the typical traveler who passes through this interrogative checkpoint. What is more is that it will even set me further apart from my own when it fully exposes who I am. This is what it means to be a free bird who dares to soar away from a cage that other beautiful creatures can easily fit into.

“I see you are traveling with a minor. Could I also have your own passport?”

A minor? Well, this is a first. Who would have thought someone would consider me capable of being responsible for a child, something that I possibly will not experience in this life? I chuckle internally at this man’s statement. I do not blame you for assuming so, given that the picture on that piece of identification resembles a long-lost version of myself. How old was he? 14 or 15? Regardless, that little boy was not remotely aware of who she would transform into. Anyways…

“No, I am not traveling with a minor. That is my passport.”

“Oh,” confusion pitches itself all over his face, and his eyes dart back and forth between the passport and my face.

“My sincerest apologies, ma’am.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

He quietly scans the passport and asks me to look into the camera. Standard procedure, but it has become the norm for me that I can confidently predict that we are going to repeat the same process three times before I can proceed.

“Let me try again.” Told you so…

“Again. I am so sorry for this.”

The scanning fails again. I think about how riled up I used to be at these machines for failing to recognize me as I was. Anyone with two functioning eyes could tell that the difference between the photo and my gorgeous face was the passage of time, but the camera begged to differ. It is as if it, like many other people in my life, did not want to say, “I see you.”

“Do you mind stepping aside so I can attend to other passengers? Another officer will be here to assist me. Sorry again for the inconvenience.” The apologies have become excessive, so I feel bad for just being myself because someone else who has nothing to do with this situation finds themselves between a rock and a hard place, all thanks to this damn paper.

The passengers who lined up behind me proceeded easily through the security checkpoints, with their pristine blue or red passports, unscathed by the relentless monster that refuses to acknowledge me. Although I do not meet their eyes, I can sense the curiosity dancing in their eyes as some of them wonder why a Black person like me cannot pass through conveniently, as they do. At times, I can see the realization of who I am dawn on their face, and the judging glances that follow.

“Sorry for the wait. Could I please have your passport and boarding pass?”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

A few beeps, and then, “You are all good to go. Next!”

You would think that this is the end. Baby, you gotta wait for the real trouble to set in because it gets worse from here.

“You do not need to use a bin for your bag. Place them as they are. Do not take out your electronic devices. Take off your hoodies, and empty ALL your pockets, please. No need to take off your shoes, ma’am,” one of the TSA officers dishes out orders like hot buns to the passengers passing through the second part of the security checkpoint. I deposit everything on me into one of the bins, and put my bags on the rollers. I know everything is alright, so I am assured that I will not have to open my bags.

I wait expectantly on the other side of the scanning belt, as a white man stands inside, his palms placed behind the back of his head and his legs spread apart.

“Okay, you are all set. Ma’am, please step into the machine.”

I silently nod and step into the machine, positioning myself the way I am expected to. I also make sure not to flinch at all during the process. This takes me back to the first time I came to this country, and I redid this check twice because I was not still, and the TSA officers were exasperated at me for holding back the line. Where were we rushing to? I do not know, but she did and expected me to know. Then comes the loud beep from the scanning belt.

I instinctively turn my head behind to look at the screen and see the red square around my crotch. “Just as I thought,” I say to myself as I internally laugh because it is always the same area that goes red during the scan. At first, I used to find it weird, but now that I think of it, it feels like this is the machine’s way of clocking my T. I had the urge to ask a few of my friends if this happens to them, but never did because a gigantic wave of embarrassment swallowed me whole when I tried to bring my mouth to utter that question.

“Please step aside for a pat-down. Also, please take off your shoes so that they can be scanned. You will get them from this officer after the pat-down,” the TSA officer informs me as her male colleague steps to the front. Experience has taught me that this would be a normal occurrence in my travels, so I now walk around with a pair of outside shoes at the airport for the security checkpoint.

“We are gonna have to do a pat-down to check if you have on you anything that is prohibited, or any metal objects. Do you have anything that is on you?”

“No, I do not.”

“Alright. For the pat-down, who would you prefer to do the pat-down for you: my male colleague or me? Would you also wanna do it in the open or in a private room?” The two TSA officers hold their gaze on me, waiting for a response. I am lucky I get the choice because in previous situations, I never got the question. The only thing I remember is a male officer coming up to me and frisking me like a detainee without asking if I was comfortable with him checking me or if I would have loved a private room.

“I would rather it be you, and a private room,” I answered, with a curt smile. I cannot hold my facial expression, so my face twists into a frown, mad at myself for being in this situation for the umpteenth time.

“Alright, ma’am. Please step aside while I wait for another female officer, then we can proceed to the room for your pat-down.”

“Okay.”

The other officer comes over, and we proceed to the room on the side of the bag scanners. They close the door behind me and proceed to explain the procedure. I am so familiar with it that I can unconsciously recite it in sync with them. The first officer demonstrates the standing positions she wants me to stand in for the pat-down, while the second officer quietly observes the process unfold. I mimic the postures, and the first officer moves her hand along my thighs to check for prohibited items that could be tethered to my body.

“I found nothing, so you are free to go. You will find your items at the end of the bag scanner. Thank you.” The first officer leaves, while the other officer waits for me to put on my shoes.

I head towards the bag scanner, collect my belongings, check for my passport, and walk towards my boarding gate. I sigh now that the security check is done, and I guess I survived another one. I think to myself how life would be easy if the circumstances were different: if my passport picture matched my face, if my body affirmed my identity, and if my passport were of a different color altogether. How convenient things would be if I had the privileges that other people are born with, if the machines and security personnel did not have to question the credibility of their identification documents. I also find myself wondering if more women like me go through the same thing, or if it is just me and a system that is out to tell me I am not who I think I am. All these thoughts are familiar to me, but they invade my mind every time I come here with a renewed vigor. It is as if my body signals to me that I have never been through this, but my mind whispers that nothing unfolding in this moment is new.

I finally find my boarding gate and get a seat close to the window that gives me a view of the airplane I am supposed to be boarding. I try to distract my haphazard thoughts with a book, try to pen this whole experience down as it is still fresh, but the words escape me. There is a lot more to this than what meets the eye. I have a plethora of feelings and experiences to release that link back to the abstract space we all call the airport, but no amount of words is sufficient to encapsulate what I carry on my chest.

I wreck my brain to find the right words, the right approach, and the right mode of expression that can validate my experiences, but I am met with nothingness. Like the baggage I get to pack or leave behind, I sit back and lodge whatever just happened in the back of my mind and simply move along, as if this all did not happen.

One thing I am certain of is that I will be back and there will be more to add to this…