About a decade ago, I spent the year traveling. I saw over 25 countries. I witnessed true poverty, true faith, true colors I’d never imagined. I did everything imaginable to keep my identity quiet — an American woman traveling alone made my family cringe. Not the woman part; not the traveling part; but the American part.

During my travels I found myself racially profiled again and again. My EuroRail pass notwithstanding, I found myself open to scrutiny and double-checks where other travelers barely flashed their passports at a passing train conductor. Even in western Europe I was racially profiled, which I found not the least bit funny. Moving east, it got progressively more serious and at times, I was afraid of being a traveling American.

Now, life was different then. I spent about a month in the in the mid-East. I was trying to get from Istambul to Jordan when the USS Cole was bombed in Yemen. I was encouraged to detour to Egypt instead. When I got off the plane in Cairo, an American-looking agent stood inside the security area calling my name over and over. He gave me his card and asked me if I knew any Americans. I just nodded my head. Hell if I was going to answer to a stranger in barely pre-September 11 mid-east. Hellno.

Everywhere I went there was racial profiling. On airplanes I was double-screened. People asked if I was American or Canadian. After getting called out on a fake Australian accent, I told people I was Canadian. I learned that my backpack needed to be completely nondescript and I worked to keep it without any kind of symbolism at all. In Abu Simba,  I bought the Eye of Horace and kept it on my backpack the rest of the trip. As the Egyptian symbol for safe travels, it was the only personal identifier I kept on me at all times. In some cafes there was a price for Americans and a price for Europeans. I used Spanish as my primary language, even in the mid-east where its not often spoken. I figured that was better than English any day. Once I caught on to being racially profiled, I prepared for it. I knew I’d be asked for my passport twice if others were asked once. I knew my backpack would be subject to search and more than a half-dozen times, I’d find my pack was rifled-through between the time I put it on the plane and picked it up at the next destination.

At first the racial profiling pissed me off. What the heck? And, how did they know I was an American? I never wore tennis shoes (the clear sign of an American); I didn’t travel with jeans (too heavy and too western, although I made friends with a slew of Turks that lived in their Levis and drove Chevys). I wore no jewelery. I read Somerset’s The Razor’s Edge which can hardly be known as an American favorite. I suppose it doesn’t matter just how they knew to double-screen me at every pass, but it never ceased to surprise me that I got screened every time. Eventually, after watching and learning and living the dangers of the world during the horribly embarrassing presidential election of George Bush, I began to screen Americans myself. Loud, overwhelming, stomping creatures full of entitilitis and fat guts.

I am reminded again during this latest surge of securing air travel that racial profiling is unavoidable. It happened to me because I looked different, smelled different (some people in Asia told me I smelled like rotten milk) and, no matter what I did to blend in, was different. That’s what’s happening in American air travel this week. The media is displaying this as a violation of rights, of being racist, being paranoid. Women in headscarves are complaining about being stopped over and over. Men wearing traditional Muslim garb are getting double-checked at every transportation port. I can’t help but shake my head at the double-standard. Well, friends, this is what happens when we have someone of a certain religious profile try to blow up airplanes: you get a little leery of this racial profile.

I finished my travels just before September 11, 2001. I had a hard time transitioning back to American culture and I found myself suspicious of our country. Don’t get my wrong, when I landed in Los Angeles for the first time, I got on my hands and knees and kissed the ground. I cried. I adore my country. But I didn’t adore what I saw some over zealous Americans do in their travels internationally or in the obvious (from where I was, at least) corrupt election process we had in the name of democracy. This week, I am empathetic toward the people who are being racially profiled because of one insane dude, but it’s what any responsible country would do. It happens. It happened to me.  It can make you mad if you like, or you can understand that it’s not personal. Because really, it’s not.