How I Was Treated As A Trans Person At TSA Airport Security

It’s no surprise that my coming out as a trans woman two years ago at age 63 drastically reshaped my view of the world. For instance, now I plan my days based entirely on what shoes I want to wear and the relative pain they will cause. Even more significant, though, is that I think I’m starting to believe in the devil.

I grew up going to Sunday School, but I only went because I idolized all of the cute high school girls who taught there. Well, that and my certainty that God would turn me into an arthritic dung beetle if I didn’t go.

Gradually, though, I came to believe there is no heavenly attendance chart. Go to church. Don’t go to church. Either way, there was no smite in sight, so I stopped worrying about pleasing God or avoiding the devil.

However, since I began to openly live the life I’ve always wanted to live, I’ve been convinced that Satan does actually exist. Who else could make people so deliberately hateful toward a group they won’t even bother to speak to or try to get to know?

As a trans woman, my life is now a haunted house. I know demons and ghouls are constantly coming for me — I just don’t know when or how they’ll appear.

I recently flew to San Francisco for the vocal feminization surgery I wanted in order to get customer service reps to stop calling me “sir.” When I got to front of the security line at Newark Airport, I walked through the TSA scanner and expected to head to my gate.

Instead, the TSA agent stopped me and asked me what I was hiding in my, um, “groin area.” Apparently, as you step into their scanner, an agent pushes a button based on your perceived gender. If the agent marks you as a female and a red dot appears on their screen near your crotch, you get stopped.

The TSA agent explained she needed to pat me down to make sure I wasn’t carrying anything dangerous. (This was, by the way, the first and only time my … “situation” has ever been accused of being dangerous.)

Our conversation went exactly like this:

Me: Just so you know, I’m not hiding anything. I’m trans.

TSA agent (Looking like she was just forced to watch ”Madame Web”… twice): I still have to pat you down. This is gonna be way worse for me than it is for you.

Me: I highly doubt that.

TSA agent: You think I enjoy this?

Me: I hope not.

TSA agent: I told you. This is way worse for me than it is for you.

Me: I assure you that’s absolutely not true.

TSA agent: There’s two sides to this. Respect mine.

After stewing about this for my entire six-hour flight, I finally made it to San Francisco. When I exited the subway at Union Square, I walked past a seriously tattooed, jacked-up dude who immediately began ranting at me with his bullhorn.

“How dare you blaspheme the Lord with your appearance!” he screamed while his two buddies/bodyguards and a handful of passersby stopped to laugh (although not at him).

“You were not meant to remove parts of you your body that the Lord designed just for you, so you could go forth and procreate!”

I started to argue that he was thinking of the wrong body part I planned on losing in San Francisco, but that was a trans rookie mistake. Never engage.

He launched into the classic, “only mentally ill people don’t know the difference between men and women” tirade as I slipped away. However, that was when a woman asked me for change. I politely declined and kept moving, only to be serenaded by her piercing, “You fuckin’ trannies! You can’t fool me! You should be ashamed!”

After all that, I kind of was ashamed.

At the airline check-in counter on my way home to New York City, an employee sized up my best Stevie Nicks look — flowy skirt, tank top, denim jacket, sandals, dangly earrings, more hair than you can shake a curling iron at — and asked, “How can I help you, sir?”

I explained that I was not a “sir.” Without changing any facial expression, she said, “Sorry about that, sir. So did you need help with something?”

Two weeks later, on my way back to San Francisco for a post-op appointment, another TSA agent stopped me when I stepped from the scanner, pointed to that dreaded red dot on my crotch, and asked me what I was hiding “down there.”

I was under orders to not use my newly surgically altered voice, but I still tried to rasp that I was a pre-op trans woman. She told I was giving her “attitude” and called her boss over to complain about me. That woman proceeded to pat me down in front of the world, and when she got to my “situation,” immediately stepped back upon realizing what I was packing in my panties.

For the rest of that trip, all I thought about was getting back to my lovely little trans bubble, aka Manhattan. It’s not perfect here either, but then again, it’s New York. Odds are there’s a guy two subway seats away taking his underwear off over his head while while trying to convince his fellow passengers that Han Solo really did shoot first.

So, seeing this forgotten fifth Golden Girl isn’t that interesting.

Still, even New York City can’t always save me from the pain so many love to inflict on trans people. Often that pain is courtesy of the very individuals who are elected to lead and protect us. I’ve pretty much given up on the fact-averse Republican Party, which is constantly vowing to literally eradicate our existence, but even the Democrats — allegedly our strongest allies in the government — were recently happy to approve a military spending bill that banned funding for gender-affirming care for minors. (Bear in mind that less than 0.1% of American youth are receiving gender-affirming medications.)

I realize how whiny this may all sound, but I promise you I’m not bringing up these transphobic moments just to seek sympathy. I’m also aware that other trans folk have had experiences immensely worse than mine. I’m just trying to make it clear what a minefield being trans currently is, in hopes people who know little to nothing about us might (re)consider their thoughts and feelings about us.

It’s been particularly mind-bending for me because I never expected all the common courtesies and benefit-of-the-doubt-ing I used to get as a white adult male would vanish. I guess that was naive, and that’s often how privilege works — you don’t see it or understand it until you don’t have it. Still, I don’t necessarily miss it. If the tradeoff is I get to be Caragh — my true self — then losing my privilege is beyond worth it.

I’m desperately clinging to that belief as I trudge cautiously through the aforementioned haunted house. The new head hobgoblin, Donald Trump, recently sent my community the first of what will surely be many jump scares by starting our extinction with an executive order stating that there are only two sexes (he actually said “genders,” which proves how little he understands about any of this). Even worse, too many others from across the political spectrum responded with a hearty, “Too bad … sucks for them.”

Look, I get it. Trans people are the latest in a long line of “others” that smug politicians, comedians and podcast hosts love to punch down at. (Perhaps you know us by our other name, the “less thans.”) We’re the perfect target since we clearly don’t fit in the neat little boxes they like to shove people into, and we work beautifully as scapegoats for all the problems folks in this country are facing. Plus, we only make up 0.6% of the U.S. adult population, so we don’t have the numbers to effectively fight back or stir up much cultural support. Hence, the need for allies.

I grew up camouflaging this secret inside of me because it brought me nothing but bushels of shame instead of allowing me to celebrate who I truly am. It was way easier to hide than go public, so I adjusted to living closed off with my walls up. I spent the majority of my life feeling alone and having no way to find acceptance — from others or myself. I was ashamed and afraid, and I didn’t think anything could or would ever change that.

Until I came out at 63 because, at that point, my desire to be free overcame my fear. Since then, as you’ve already read, my life hasn’t magically transformed into a Hallmark movie complete with me skipping off to a wonderful existence in a surprisingly liberal small town where, for some reason, it’s always Christmastime. Still, I’m finally on a path I always knew I wanted to walk. Despite popular opinion, this isn’t a choice any of us make. It’s us following our destiny.

Unfortunately, not all of us make it to the point I have. In fact, too many of us don’t. Countless trans people don’t have the financial means or emotional support or physical safety to come out. If they do, they could lose their jobs, their families, or even their lives. Many of us have faced violence or even death simply for being who we are and more than 40% of trans people in the U.S. have attempted suicide. Trans youth and their families are routinely bullied and more and more states are making it impossible to get gender-affirming care, so these kids never get to express their true gender identity. That’s an American tragedy — and an unforgivable betrayal of our innate humanity.

I have no idea where we go from here. I have no idea which bathroom I’ll be allowed to use next year or how many Godzilla-sized monster trucks flying Trump flags might try to run me down. I’m guessing it’ll be “none” and “even one is too many” based on how this country feels at the moment. But here’s the thing: I’ve created this new, wonderful identity that I always wanted and I’m learning to love it more every single day. It will always be better than living the identity I was mistakenly handed at birth.

So, like the real me or hate her. That’s your business. But before you judge me for being trans, how about talking to one of us about our lives, our struggles, our hopes, our fears, and our joys. My bet is you’ll discover we aren’t at all what Donald Trump has convinced you we are. Trust me. And given the terrifying things lurking in that haunted house we’re forced to creep through each day, we need as many voices of support as we can get to help keep us safe.

A few weeks ago I flew back to San Francisco to see how my voice was recovering from surgery. To do that, I had to run the TSA gauntlet yet again. Upon exiting the security scanner and being asked to stop, I made peace with the humiliating pat-down that I knew was coming. As the TSA agent pointed to the screen and said she’d have to search me, I said, “Let’s cut to the chase. Do what you have to do but yes, it’s a penis.”

I was surprised when she smiled and grabbed my hand instead of my, you know, other parts.

“Dear, I’m the proud mom of a trans son. I understand. You’re beautiful. Have a safe trip!” she told me before sending me on my way.

Walking to my gate, I cried, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence since I came out two years ago. But this time, the tears were the happy kind. I think I may have to start believing in angels.

Caragh Donley is no longer hiding her age, so it’s safe to reveal she’s been at this writing thing a long time, working for outlets including People Magazine, TV Guide, The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Boston Globe, Emmy Magazine and Vanity Fair. She’s the author of “The Can’t-idates: Running for President When Nobody Knows Your Name.” In addition to her print work, she’s worked as a producer on shows including VH1’s “Behind the Music,” “The Queen Latifah Show” and “The Martin Short Show.” She is currently a four-time Emmy-winning senior producer with “The Kelly Clarkson Show” and the star of the new one-woman show “He Said, She Says,” which will make its world premiere in April at the New York City Fringe Festival.

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