Sharon

At Los Angeles International Airport last Friday night, I was with a woman named Sharon. She, like most of the women I have met from Cameroon, has a story that goes far beyond what my privileged white background can begin to imagine. She is twenty-four-years-old yet seems much younger. She talked with a soft voice and as we spent our final moments together, two big tears fell down her face as she whispered, “Thank you for coming here to see me on my way, Mom-Julie”.
I knew she didn’t feel well. I wished she was leaving under better circumstances.
I was thrilled when the United Airlines employee waved Sharon through to the gold line so she didn’t have to wait. Once she got to TSA it was a different story. She was flagged by the agent and had to wait to have her bag inspected, her papers inspected and her body frisked.  
I was separated from Sharon because she had a ticket and I didn’t. 
She was in a zone I couldn’t get into so it felt as if I was no longer eligible to advocate for her. A ticketed man came through the line and I said to him, “Excuse me, will you tap her shoulder so she can see I am trying to talk to her.”

He was happy to help and when she turned and came closer I told her, “I will not leave until you are through.”
I could tell she was feeling worse and worse physically as she waited by the XRay machine. I saw her stumble a bit, almost fainting. I saw the TSA staff get her into a wheelchair. I saw her head hanging down. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was discouraged or if she had lost the strength to hold it up.
I noticed a staff person with CLEAR, an agency that accepts a fee that allows people to get through TSA quickly and easily, was watching us. Her work station was immediately adjacent to the TSA staff in a place I couldn’t access.  “Excuse me,” I said to her, “Will you please get one of the TSA’s attention? I am with that girl, the one in the wheelchair – I think she might be having a problem.”
“Do you want to come up here?” she said, pointing to the rope between me and the TSA where only ticketed passengers usually stand. 

“Yes,” I said, “But can I?” 
“I’m saying you can,” she said, calling out “Hey, TSA guy, this lady needs your help.”
The TSA man looked at me, curiosity in his eyes. “That girl, in the wheelchair,” I said, “Can you get her water or juice or something? She isn’t feeling well.” 
The TSA agent was a young man, he said “I think she passed out, I don’t know what to do,” and he called out to his colleagues who were closer to Sharon. “This lady is with that girl, is she ok?” 
He turned back to me, “I don’t think she is conscious.” 
My fear reared up and I shouted, “Call her by name. Her name is Sharon, call her by name!” 
I yelled “Sharon!” and a chorus of “Sharons” rang out. I said Sharon and at least four TSA agents followed suit. Immediately Sharon jumped up and turned to me. “Mom!” she said and waved, weak and smiling.
“Drink water, please, when you get back there.”
“Get her a wheelchair attendant!” yelled the Clear employee who had become an advocate as well.
Sharon got up and walked through the XRay machine. They frisked her on the other side and put her luggage back together and she was, indeed, awarded a helper in the guise of a wheelchair attendant. 
She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. 
“Call her by name,” I whispered to no one and everyone. “Her name is Sharon.”
Sharon called me yesterday from her new home in San Antonio. She was meeting other members of the Cameroonian community and settling into her new life where I trust from now on she will be known as Sharon, Friend, Sister, Auntie, Beloved and perhaps someday, Mommy.