Hugging TSA

I traveled last week from Atlanta to LA. The usual routine: getting to the airport, checking in my bag, getting to security.  Normal.   But for some reason that day, the blue uniforms of the TSA officers are a blur of blue and badges.  Police. This is a police state. I felt slightly sick.  I step to the front of the line. The TSA officer taking my passport is a big bear of a man, gray haired, African-American, a grandfather.  He is the kind of man whose voice makes you feel there is order in the Universe. The harsh florescent lights glint off his gold rimmed glasses when he turns to check my face against my passport picture. "How are you doing today?" he asks with concern.  I don't know what to say.  I've been through this line hundreds of times.  It's certainly not the first time I've made the comparison between this line and documents checked at the border for my parents escaping Communist Russia after the war.  Each time I've repeated some variation of "it's how things are," "nothing you can do," "it's ok. I can't explain why it's different this time, why it doesn't feel theoretical.  I am deeply aware that the efficiency of this behemoth border guard could turn against its citizens.  My parents were citizens.  The State turned on them.  "You need a hug?" he asks.  I only hesitate for a second.  He's the old guard.  He's the one who would question cruel orders.  It's the next generation of TSA officers who might not know the difference between a free state and a totalitarian one.  "Yes," I say. He opens his arms.  My heart swells with gratitude, as I lay my cheek against the cold metal of his badge.