October, 2001 – Logan International Airport, Boston, MA.
I had never been a nervous flier, yet my right leg shook with anxiety: smoke still rose from the void in New York. My wandering gaze stopped. I gasped silently. My stomach turned. These would be my final moments.
To my right sat a man, only slightly older than me. His facial hair didn’t hide his anxiety, and his brown skin glistened with sweat. He looked around nervously. Probably for his partners. Today would be round two. They weren’t done.
My hand reached for my chin as I wondered if I should leave the airport, sound the alarm, or just accept my demise. A whisker poked my finger and I stopped. I looked down at my own brown skin. At my own shaking leg. I felt my own facial hair as it slowly turned to a smile. And I wondered if he was saying his private farewells while staring at me.
When we can hold biases toward even our own reflection, we can rest assured that no one is safe from our perception.
Acknowledge. Accept. Adapt.
