How a Surprising Power-Play at the Airport Traumatized Me for Life

Was he being a total jerk or enjoying a new kind of fun?

This manilla envelope cannot be opened under any circumstances — got it!

She must have repeated herself ten times before she actually handed me my paperwork. The envelope was heavy and reminded me that it had taken two long years to pull this together.

The prim Ms. Smith stood from behind her desk, and with a stiff professional smile, wished me good luck.

My flight from Toronto to Florida the next day was on time, and I’d arrived at the airport three hours prior as instructed.

Unfortunately, I had to go through a special security line per Ms. Smith. Feeling impatient, I stood for a moment contemplating which officer was moving his line along the fastest.

I decided on an older gentleman with a cheery smile and took my spot in line. My manilla envelope clutched tightly to my chest; I struggled with my knapsack and kicked my wheeled baggage along in front of me.

Twenty minutes later, that cheery face of his went sour as I announced the contents of my envelope.

“I’m moving to Florida,” I explained in my excitement. “These are my immigration papers from the US Embassy in Montreal.”

He stared without a word as I handed him the weighted envelope.

Then in one swift, dramatic move, he tore it open, dropping its contents all over the desk. With a stern look, he asked, “why did you break the seal on your envelope?”

Still oblivious to what his intentions were, I laughed and said, “I didn’t; you did!”

He glared, unsmiling; he wasn’t playing.

Then he fired questions about where I planned to live and my mother’s maiden name. After reciting my previous addresses as quickly as possible, he accused me of lying and raised his voice to the point of drawing an audience.

It was quite the show.

Stunned into silence, I watched as he slammed the “enter” key repeatedly on his keyboard while slinging more accusations about what he saw on his computer screen. I could see that it was blank from where I stood — so what was he doing — was this just a power play?

“All my paperwork is in order, sir; it took me two years and more than $1000 to get this done correctly. I even hired an immigration lawyer to be sure I didn’t miss anything!”

My words only seemed to infuriate him further. In a flurry, he gathered all the strewn papers, which included my passport, and barked, “follow me!”

Under the weight of my luggage, and without a choice, I scrambled past the crowd. Desperate to keep up with the gentleman racing away with all of my credentials, I had to break into a light jog.

I saw him swing a heavy metal door open, and he disappeared inside without so much as a glance to see if I’d followed.

Unsure if I should go in, I stood by the door and waited for him to reappear. Empty-handed, he swung the door open again and muttered something about getting my lying ass inside.

He marched back the way we’d come and left me in his wake staring in disbelief — WTF just happened?

Fumbling with my luggage through the heavy door was probably entertaining to watch, but I was angry and officially panicked!

A hard wooden bench awaited me as I avoided eye contact with the only other person in the room. Anxious to find out what the hell was going on, I squirmed in my seat.

The ticking clock on the wall, echoing in the silence, confirmed that I’d probably be missing my flight.

Fifteen minutes in, without so much as a clue as to why I’d been detained, a heavy barrel-chested US immigration officer entered the room in all his glory.

He barked my name and motioned with his index finger that I was to follow him down the long hall he’d appeared from. When I reached for my luggage, he insisted I leave it behind.

My heart in my throat, I obeyed.

Eventually, we reached an open office door, and with a thrust of his clean-shaven chin, it was obvious he wanted me in the chair opposite his.

With flushed cheeks and bile in my throat, I complied once again.

The small office and the intensely bright, white light directly above my head alluded to an intense interrogation.

He rummaged through my manilla envelope and flipped open my passport without a word. Each time I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, I was shushed into silence.

After answering another barrage of silly questions and defending myself against false accusations, he stood abruptly, “go back to the bench!”

“Think about what you’ve done; you’re not leaving until you’re ready to tell me the truth!”

Back to the room with the annoying ticking clock, I swore out loud, “I’m going to miss my f#*@ing flight for nothing!”

The same guy who’d been waiting there when I entered looked over casually and asked, “what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent, and they haven’t even told me what they think I did!”

“Ya, I know the feeling. They’re accusing me of smuggling drugs. Maybe you should tell the truth and get this over with.”

Was this guy crazy or planted there on purpose?

At that same moment, a flood of cool air moved into the room as the main door flew open. Another airport employee shouting my name, entered in a fuss, “are these your bags?”

“Yes, but!”

I didn’t have a chance to finish as he grabbed my suitcases and exclaimed that I was about to miss my flight.

“No shit Sherlock, do you have any idea why?” I called after him.

“No, ma’am, I don’t,” he replied as he raced back out the door. “I’ll take these; you run to the gate as soon as they let you go.”

Stunned once again, I watched him race away, wondering if I’d ever get on that plane.

Tears filled my eyes, and my throat constricted as I realized they’d taken my luggage and all of my identification papers without so much as a proper greeting.

It was insane, and somehow I was at their mercy.

Still standing, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down the small of my back. What was happening here? The drug dealer guy gave me a half-hearted smirk and said with a chuckle, “they’ll let you go soon.”

That’s when “Mr. Interrogator” came back down the hall to bark more instructions.

My manilla envelope tucked under his arm; he motioned me toward a small desk in the corner of the room. Pulling items I didn’t recognize from one of the drawers, he began fingerprinting me!

I’d never been so scared.

His hands were rough and unforgiving as he rolled each finger in black ink.

“Am I going to jail?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Where did you take my bags?” I mumbled through my now steady flow of tears.

Relief flooded through to my feet with his astonishing next words, “you’re free to go, Miss.”

I didn’t dare say another word but grabbed the envelope he shoved back toward me and literally ran from that hot, horrible office.

Blinded with fresh tears, I raced towards the gate, hearing the last call for my flight to Tampa. As I approached, an agent stood by the entrance motioning me to hurry.

“We’ve been holding the plane for ten minutes; your boarding pass, please — and quickly!”

“Did my bags make it on?” I asked, wiping my cheeks.

“Yes, dear, you’re all set; we were notified that immigration agents had detained you.”

And that was it.

I made my way past all the glaring stares of the waiting passengers looking for my seat number. Pushing past a gentleman to the window without apologizing, I dropped my head in my hands and let the tears flow freely out of frustration and disbelief.

Thirty minutes later, with a hot tea and a headache, I told the stranger next to me my story. We found some laughs in my details, and he said, “young lady, you’ll look back on this one day and realize you’re stronger than you know.”

I’ve told the story many times since, and when my father heard it, he was ready to call the authorities on my behalf. I talked him out of it, but to this day, I’m a nervous wreck every time I go through security — anywhere!

I still have no idea why I was treated that way.

I did find out later that fingerprinting is standard procedure when you immigrate to another country, but boy, the guy could have told me that.

I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket, so all I can assume is that it was a power trip, and they were having — a new kind of fun!

If you enjoyed that, here’s another true story…

I’m Liz, the self-empowered, red wine & coffee lovin’, personal growth fanatic behind this article. I’ve stopped shrinking into places I’ve outgrown, and I’m a fan of straight talk and practical solutions. That’s why I’m here to Empower, Educate and Entertain.