If my bra is a threat to national security, we're in big trouble

By Paula Simons, The Edmonton Journal
Nov. 21, 2007

"Bleeep!"

The airport metal detector makes that ear-zapping, high-pitched squeal.

I don't usually set off airport metal detectors. Most women don't. It's men who tend to make those door frames squeak. Men, with their metal belt buckles, their heavy watch straps, their pockets full of keys and loose change. I can't remember the last time I set off an airport scanner -- at least not in Canada.

But then again, I'm not in a Canadian airport. I'm on my way home from an American vacation, my first in more than a decade -- my first since 9/11.

In Canada, when you set off the scanner, a guard usually has you empty your pockets while waving the metal-detecting wand around you. Not in my case. Instead, the officer pulls out his radio.

"I need a female officer for a special search."

This doesn't sound good. I take off my watch and hand it over, attempting to head things off at the pass. I still buzz. And the squealing gets louder when the wand nears my bust.

"I'll bet it's my underwire bra," I grin, in what I hope is a disarming fashion. It's never set off a metal detector before, but I guess anything's possible.

The guard doesn't crack a smile. Instead, he beckons a lean, hard-faced woman with greying blond hair held back in a high pony tail. Next thing I know, I've been pulled out of the line, away from my family and escorted into a little low-walled room for a more intimate encounter. I stand there, a bit flustered, but still smiling.

"I think it's just my bra," I say, trying to strike up a friendly girl-to-girl rapport. She's having none of that. She escorts me to a special chair and runs the wand carefully over every bit of me. Then, she has me stand on a pair of footprints, outlined in white. She wands me again, and again, my torso sets the thing buzzing like an angry mosquito.

She eyes my bosom suspiciously. It's not the kind of ogling I'm used to.

I'm a robust 34 FF. That's the kind of full-figure that needs support akin to a good bridge truss. Over the years, my breasts have attracted their share of attention. Back when they were still perky enough to stand up all by themselves, they were generally considered quite distracting by the men of my acquaintance. But that was 20 years and 50 pounds ago. These days, I look more like a centrefold for National Geographic than Playboy, and my underwire is a wardrobe essential. Still, I never imagined my plunging cleavage could be viewed as a threat to homeland security. The guard puts down the wand and starts a thorough manual search. She doesn't ask me to take off my shirt -- though I'd almost rather she did.

Instead, she slowly, methodically palpates every millimetre of my underwire, starting with the poky bits under my armpits, making her way around to my sternum, feeling carefully, one presumes, for suspicious lumps or gaps. Next, she takes my two breasts, one in each hand, and weighs them carefully, like a shopper trying to choose the right mangoes.

"Balanced," she mutters. "Nice balance."

As if I might have been hiding a knife or bullets or plastic explosives in there, somewhere, to throw my avoirdupois out of alignment.

I want to say, "Oh well, at least I won't have to do my breast exam this month." I want to tell her that I've had mammograms that were less uncomfortable. I want to say, "Nice pair of bazookas, eh?" But I have the feeling such levity in this situation won't help.

I'm not a person with a lot of body modesty "issues." Maybe it's because I grew up with a German mother, with a very no-nonsense European attitude about nakedness. Maybe it's because I breast-fed my daughter for three years. Maybe it's just because I've been on the beach in a bathing suit for the last two weeks. Whatever the reason, I'm more amused than embarrassed by this ludicrous lingerie inspection. Still, I can imagine a lot of other women might find it intrusive and offensive to be felt up this way by an airport security agent.

Still, now that I've passed inspection, the guard's manner changes abruptly. She smiles and waves me cheerfully on my way. Meanwhile, her colleagues have identified a new potential threat: My two-year-old nephew's little light-up shoes, the kind that emit a colourful glow with every treacherous toddler step. (Oh please, keep us safe from the spectre of exploding Stride Rites!)

My story is nothing special. It doesn't involve border security holding up firefighters from Quebec on their way to put out a fire at a historic New York State hotel or a zealous American guard stopping a Windsor ambulance attempting to rush a dangerously ill man to a Detroit hospital. It's just another small example of the way our culture of fear has eroded common sense and civility. The danger of a zero tolerance mentality is that we lose the intellectual flexibility to exercise sound human judgment. When we blindly follow rules, when we waste time and energy defending ourselves from imaginary enemies, we actually create the potential for real threats to overtake us.

Still, I've decided to take my airport underwear adventure in good spirit. It's been awhile since a stranger told me I had a killer body. Go figure ...

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