TSA Agent | Checkpoint of the Heart

“I‘m just doing my job, ma’am.”

Custodial versus Janitorial Leadership

Names have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals in this story, but it is based on true events.

Leadership is a topic everyone seems to have an opinion about, especially here and around the world. Regardless of those opinions or our differences in beliefs, core human qualities—empathy, responsibility, and dedication—remain at the heart of effective leadership. Often, these qualities are most visible in everyday situations and interactions, not just in high-profile roles.

Recently, despite alarming news headlines, I made my way to the airport for a much-needed family vacation and some time for reflection. I often do this around the anniversaries of my son’s and mother’s deaths. Warned of long TSA lines and layoffs, I left my house, just ten minutes from the airport, planning to allow extra time for potential delays.

What I saw matched the reports from other eyewitnesses online: no delays, plenty of TSA agents, and just a handful of tired travelers waiting in a typical gate line for an Easter Monday morning during Spring Break.

While I won’t share the airport location to protect the subject, for context, several Bay Area airports have faced negative press reports of violence, long lines, and staff shortages. Having traveled through two of these airports twice last quarter, I can confirm the news often exaggerates reality.

What I expected to be a routine trip through the TSA screening line quickly took an unexpected turn—literally to my left.

My family and I have been traveling for years now. And I thought we had traveling down to a science; however, lately, with my husband, my business, my ministry, and a possible promotion at work, I've found we’ve been running ourselves a little ragged. That is why, though we are pros at traveling, we’ve traveled more in the past four months than ever before, since I have two high-level leadership roles at two different companies at the same time. What I mean is we’ve been on major trips of 3-4 days or more every month for the last 4 months, and at least one was while school was in session.

I’m not worried; we have extremely bright children. I’ve been very blessed. However, they were excited but tired this morning, and though we were pros at packing, traveling, and leaving in the blink of an eye. This morning, the struggle was really getting to us. The youngest forgot her toothbrush, and the oldest left her computer mouse. We doubled back, up and down the stairs at least twice each, while trying to leave for a trip that was ten minutes from our house. We had had it worse before: a laptop left on a desk, toiletries in a bag on the kitchen table, a trip to the airport one hour and fifteen minutes late because we didn’t account for traffic. But this morning, with fewer obstacles and more time on our hands, we found ourselves just making it to the airport, slightly in a bad mood, less excited, and more tired than on most trips.

At the TSA line, we made our way through to the friendly official, “ID, ma’am?” He said with a smile and upbeat voice. “Oh, where are we going today?” He continued, now addressing my two daughters in tow behind me. “Hawaii!” The youngest exclaimed, perking up and lifting her chin. It had been a hard season for her too, braces, the creeping up of her teenage years, and the first year of middle school had caught her off guard this year. She needed this vacation as a morale boost and to boost her personality. If she had a “spirit animal,” it would be a first-class plane ticket and a nice hotel. And though I warn my children about escapism, I couldn’t help but want to let them “fall in” this time. What more does a mother want for her child to be at peace with themselves and the world around them, even if it's one they create and isn't real?

We made it through IDs. The friendly TSA agent wished us well and allowed us through. Family intact. Passports in hand. And I recently learned that without a California REAL ID or a valid passport, you cannot travel through our airports. Shocking, but we have been fortunate to have all four of our passports for several years now, and we always keep our cards handy.

We have now reached the tough part: making it through the conveyor belt line. Rushed and yet waiting, we were on the defensive. What could we take off, take out, lay aside, throw away, or get rid of before we go to the dreaded scanning machine? The line was short but slow, we had time to think about it, yell at each other a bit, and then push all the heavier items to my husband while walking over to the family screening line to go through the metal detector and avoid the scarier “Total Recall” looking machine. Blessed. #blessed. I thought. And so far, outside of the sisterly fights I had to break up earlier, we were rolling.

At the TSA line, because we didn’t have to take off our shoes, we could go as a family and relied on each other; we breezed through. I had decided at the last minute to wear a breezy but layered outfit, a no-pocket dress, a thick short-sleeve sweater, and shoes without laces, just in case I had to take something off, a comfortable but stylish look. And for that reason, confident in my wardrobe choice, I went first. Clear.

Now, my oldest, who had just discovered she was beautiful, had a skin and hair routine she was learning to travel with. Of course, she forgot her bonnet and a pen in her jacket pocket. “Delay!” I thought. “Oh no! Why?” She had been rushing out just like the rest of us, and though she had a sizable piece of luggage, she forgot to pack what she had been wearing the previous night. Thoughtful but engaged, my oldest was a huge advocate, ignoring appearance and not judging a book by its cover, up until prom, which I found out about just two days before it was to happen last month. She was generally uninterested in her appearance, skin, hair, or body routine. A sharp departure from her pre-teen years, where everything was princess culture. And I found that all of her “glow-up” this year was a long time coming, as now the princess inside matches what we’ve all seen for years on the outside. But here we were, vanity of vanities holding up the TSA check out line, and I couldn’t wait to get to my vacation, sand under my toes, sun on my face, and some great memories to make.

We were all through. My husband collected our stuff, and I tossed the bins onto the ground under the conveyor belt to save time, not to cause a delay or to stop the line. “The bins don’t go under the conveyor belt, ma’am.” A small, very direct TSA agent said loudly enough for the four of us to hear while picking up our bins off the floor. Here we were, on our way to this vacation, trying to speed up the process, take initiative, and organize the line, and we had no clue about the order of things. That one moment seemed almost too intentional. My first thought: “Hope we don’t have to interact with her, she seems mad, I was just trying to help.”

And then I saw it. A suitcase covered in polka-dots that looks strangely familiar to my youngest's carry-on. “Oh no!” I thought, “Another delay!” We had just barely gotten through to the gate, and at the moment had no clue how far the gate was from clearance. With one person in front of us, I wanted to see if we would get a kind TSA agent, one who looked like the man checking our IDs and passports. But that would not be our fate.

The same TSA agent woman, who didn’t like our help earlier, was coming slowly to the deep-dive section of the conveyor belt line with another man’s bag, and she was in no rush. She grabbed his bag, shimmied onto the table, and spoke with him with the same enthusiasm one has for a checkout line where a card keeps being declined. This woman, though short and beautiful, looked as weird as I felt, but she had a job to do. I was going on vacation.

Here she stood, seemingly unaware of the business around her and the anxiousness of each passenger, and she thoroughly checked this man’s belongings. Our family found a bench nearby and sat down. It was going to be a while. Where I normally see TSA agents quickly run through their jobs, lately, some who are unpaid have even less enthusiasm and motivation to do such a thorough job. That was not the case for her; she was on a mission, and that mission involved Ethan Hawke attempting to diffuse an internet disruptor and a rogue AI bot determined to take over the world.

Her job was to protect and serve. And in a way, many people expect TSA agents to put on a show and make exceptions, not this woman; she was going to hold the line. It was her house, and while she was not making the rules, by God, you were going to follow the rules, or you could forget your trip and leave the airport.

I’m old enough to remember 9/11. At the time, I lived in DC and was just starting out in my final years of school when the first planes hit the section of the Pentagon, where my father should have been working that day, but went home earlier with a bad stomachache. It was one of the worst days of my life up until that time; cell phones went down, and my father was unreachable for some hours. I had already lost a mother, and I believed I had been orphaned, one of my worst nightmares. My dad ended up being fine, but with the experience, I remember the silence over DC for the first time in my life, and I remember traveling through the airports after that suddenly felt more like going through prison gates than it did a precursor to a cool resort.

And so there I was on the bench, looking at her polka-dot bag, wondering what could possibly be in there, when my oldest said, “Her water bottle.” She said in a type of deadpan tone that seemed to make her feel like her spats with her sister earlier were somehow justified.

Our bag was next; we were at the mercy of the TSA woman, and she looked like she was doing everything by the book. And it made me just a little bit more nervous now because minor delays I could handle, but she looked like she welcomed conversation, was not in a rush, and had no plane to catch.

I was not confident that this interaction would end in my favor.

She found it. A kid-sized, blue metallic water bottle with a little over eight ounces in it. It sloshed around in the canister as this TSA agent explained our options.

“You can throw it away, check your bag, or go outside, dump it, and then go back through the line, but I'll have to escort you out.” She said in a straightforward, pleasant but serious tone that let me know she was serious. My first thought was, “Do I look like a terrorist?” And my second was “We should have just got ‘Clear’ or at least Pre-check”, but then I thought “what is it with this woman? She can’t be serious!” So, of course, I opted for option three, which seemed the least ridiculous, and she proceeded to give suggestions for how we could do it, which I ignored because, for me, it seemed difficult to imagine that, though she didn’t want me to tell her how to organize her stuff, she would explain to me how to organize mine.

And so I left my belongings with my family and quietly and peacefully left with the TSA agent. And while I was leaving, I heard her say, “Okay, Herb, I’m going to walk her out and then take my break.” And I thought “Ahhh?!?” She was even going on break after this. She is in no rush. Is she getting pleasure out of this? We paid good money for these plane tickets! If I can’t get back in, I’m most definitely going to get the manager!!!” And then just like that, we were at the exit doors. Before leaving, she said, “Here’s your bottle, sorry about that.” The doors opened, and a robotic voice said, “One way. Keep forward, do not go back!” And the first door that separated me from my family closed, then another, then the last set of doors closed, and I was back in the airport lobby.

Zero displacement. I had been on a chute, and later, it left me wondering how unfair that process was. But in the midst of that, I had a second thought. What if I cut in line, jumped ahead? I had no bags, I had no family, I’d show her. She didn’t phase me. I’d get in her line and act unbothered.

And then I saw how fast the line was going, and I decided to take a beat. The morning had been rushed, and I would get there, just not in my own time. I got up to the front, new agent, new people. She was nowhere to be found. I was disappointed.

It was that second time around that, though I stayed in line, one young man let me cut in. And another agent would not let me put my three items in a smaller bin because, in a tired expression, he said, “That is in the other line; if you need smaller bins, that’s over there; we can’t move them over here; you have to go there.” And just as I was about to leave, another man stopped me. “You can put your stuff in my bin if you want.” I had never even looked this Caucasian, strange man in the face when I heard myself say, “Yes, thank you! How kind of you!” And I put my only wallet, Passport ID, cellphone, and the water bottle in which I had been ejected the first time in this kind of strangers' bin. And then do you know what I did? Turned my back on him, the conveyor belt, and the entire scene behind me.

No family, now I had to go through the Total Recall machine, and at the risk of protesting and being kicked out again, I willingly submitted to a subsequent frisk by another TSA agent who believed I was hiding metal in my two-item outfit.

I essentially walked through, but this time, with every delay, there was a kind stranger willing to have mercy. And I’m thankful for all those little mercies.

Walking away from the frisk, I saw the kind man who let me use his bin standing far back, looking at his luggage and smiling. It was clear to me that he was standing back, delaying his travel, so that I could see that I was safe. And that put a smile on my face. I thanked the man, and he was happy to come to my rescue. I left him and his family feeling good about the trip.

I was rounding the corner when I saw her. The TSA agent was sitting there on her break, just outside the clearance area. And there she sat, slumped over her phone, having a snack and alone. And for a moment, I thought I could just walk past her and get to my plan. They should be boarding soon.  But I thought she took the time to do her job. What could I possibly lose by having a conversation with her?

And so I walked up to her. “Excuse me,” I said with a gentle voice, to let her know I came in peace. And she said, “Yes?” And I said in return, “ You were the agent who escorted me out, right?” Bracing herself, she lowered her phone and said, “Yes, and I’m really sorry, it's just that…” And I cut her off and said, “Oh no no no… I just wanted to talk to you for a bit, if that is okay. It’s your break, right?” And to my surprise, she seemed to welcome the conversation.

“Do people get mad at you often?” I asked. To that, she replied, “Sometimes. They can get nasty, and I’m just trying to do my job, you know.” So I asked, “How does that make you feel?” And she responded, “It’s alright, I guess, it’s just part of the job, you know, but sometimes it’s hard because I already work two jobs.” In which I exclaimed, “What?” “You work two jobs?” “And you do it so well.” She said, “Thanks!” And I replied, “No, thank you!” And she said, “What me?” And I said, “Yes, you! Two jobs and you still served me that well.” And she said, “Well, no one has ever come back and said thank you before.” And I said, “That is hard to believe.” But she started to tell me, “Actually, sometimes people can be really rude, and some of my co-workers go and do it for people, but we are really not supposed to do that.” To which I replied, “Well, do you mind if I ask why you’re working so many jobs and why you grind so hard?” What she said next shocked me, and it began to make her cry, to which I’m forever grateful that she opened up like that to me.

“I have a son, Steve, who is 17 and going to Stanford this fall. Super smart, made a computer at 13, and I want to give him everything that I can, you know?” Then I told her, “So you are that good at your job, and you are a super mom? I’m in awe of you!” And I am still. So many people are in service to others, and that is visible only for personal use, but they are not seen.

She said she had been grinding alone for Steve since he was 18 months old, and she wants the very best for him, but the boy’s father was not in the picture.

And I, with shame, thought of all my selfishness that morning, and could barely look at her beautiful face. She had softened somehow and looked even more beautiful. I saw her, someone who wanted to keep herself and hers safe and yet shared a concern for others, my safety, and my family, and I stopped seeing her as human but merely someone in my way. I couldn’t help but hear her passion for Steve, her hopes for his future, and the way she had given up herself, her dreams, and her passion to boost him in a way that most moms with a husband, a full-time executive job, two children, and a housekeeper couldn’t manage.

I said, “I’m Hadiyah. What’s your name?” To which she said, “Iris, nice to meet you.” And we shared a moment.

One real one to someone who is learning to be kind, resolute, and hold the line in this world. A real custodian, not just a janitor, Iris is kind, stern, true, and sacrificial, and we are all better off because of her. I’m sure Steve already knows, but he is really fortunate to have a mom like Iris. Iris single-handedly raised a young man of color to be a contributing member of society, to attend an Ivy League school to nurture his gifts and passions, and to be whoever God called him to be. She is used to completing little missions every day, and though I saw a soldier at first, I realized that, regardless of her title, she is a general, and if we had more people like her in power, there would be no wars to fight. She would quickly end them.

People like Iris aren’t making announcements over the PA system at airports telling you where you are and what is going on. People like Iris are running it to make sure nothing other than “Iris” from the Goo Goo Dolls is playing softly in the background of our lives. A silent general on the watch. Protecting our families and cities from senseless acts of terror. And making sure she can look herself in the face every night between shifts, and kissing Steve good night.

And though you may see her in the background, and to some she is an obstacle, Iris is a hero. Hero to Steve, hero to me, and to you, the reader.

And in my best Goo Goo Dolls voice: “When everything is made to be broken. I just want you to know who I am.”

Thanks for the delay, Iris. I’m glad I slowed down to meet you.

May we meet again? Until then, I’m praying God reward your labor.