My Love-Love Relationship with the TSA

I love the TSA. Illogical as this may sound, the Transportation Security Administration — the men and women in blue; the safety organization that catches only 30 percent of weapons stowed in carry-ons and crevices; the fiends who confiscate my pepper spray, my shampoo, and my dignity — holds a special place in my heart.

Most people hate the TSA. Detection systems are ineffective, wait times only seem to increase, and hundreds of people accidentally bypass TSA every year simply by walking the wrong way through exit lines. It’s no wonder many believe that the TSA is simply disruptive security theater designed only to comfort passengers and not provide real safety.

And while I once shared this belief, I’ve recently come to appreciate the TSA for all its quirks and flaws. Traveling more frequently for college and study abroad, I’ve spent hours in lines, dumped gallons of perfectly good water, and, most importantly, looked into the souls of hundreds of TSA agents. Where I once saw passive aggression and mutual disdain, I now see a community that is merely misunderstood.

Like most, I was predisposed to hate the TSA. They created the endless line between me and a flight leaving in ten minutes. They were the bureaucrats ordering me to remove my shoes, place my liquids in plastic bags, and lift my arms for an X-ray machine that revealed parts of me I didn’t know existed. (Notably, TSA scanners produced images like this until 2013.)

But this preconceived resentment blinded me to the upsides of the TSA. You see, the TSA doesn’t like to show off. It merely hides its charms for those willing to give it a chance. Laying down my arms (metaphorical arms, see deck), I’ve found much more to love than hate. For one, the line is often shorter than expected, even if this mainly happens when I’m a good four hours early for my flight. Additionally, even though I can’t playfully wrestle the bomb-sniffing dog, I can smile at the GOOD BOYS and GOOD GIRLS and buy a TSA Canine Calendar. And perhaps most wholesome, I’ve recently discovered the TSA’s witty and endearing social media accounts on X, YouTube, and Instagram. They predominantly post videos of Moo Deng, the adorable pygmy hippo from Thailand, and are clearly attempting to salvage the TSA’s reputation, but it’s not entirely a lost effort. There’s something beautiful in such humility.

And yes, there are still overt problems within the TSA. Technological failures lead to racially motivated pat-downs. People can pay for TSA PreCheck and CLEAR, line shortcuts that commodify time at the expense of efficiency for others. And again, the TSA only catches 30 percent of weapons people try to bring on flights, according to a House Homeland Security Committee hearing. But that’s actually an improvement: In 2015, that number was 5 percent.

But it’s not fair to place the entire blame on the TSA or its agents. In my travels, I’ve focused instead on what is in my power to change. Love isn’t easy. In turning inward, I’ve learned to forgive and even find creative solutions to common gripes about the TSA:

• Irrational metal detector worries? You don’t have a bomb in your backpack if you didn’t put a bomb in your backpack.

• Belittled by a grown man for forgetting to remove your belt? Try crying silently to yourself.

• $200 family heirloom confiscated? Consider buying it at Duty-Free for $199!

• Coming face to face with a 10-year-old passport photo? Try therapy. Or Botox.

• Forced to chug your water and need to pee 2.5 hours later while disembarking from the plane? Try making a premature transition to adult diapers.

With these simple solutions, the TSA security check can go from a resentful hour of seething in a slow-moving line to a celebration of human connection. There’s no love greater than the one that changes you for the better. I walk with confidence, put my biases aside and my arms up, and even ask the TSA agent about their day. Life is too short to run after closing gates and to resent someone who is only a small part of a complex government bureaucracy.

Those metal detector follies and transportation anxieties are usually my fault anyway. I get to the airport 20 minutes before my flight, leave a rotting banana in my backpack, and prematurely judge a group of people who don’t want to be at the airport—let alone their job—at 6 a.m. any more than I do. They’ve seen my belongings, seen my literal interiors, and seen me cry because I forgot my ticket and believed adult tears would get me through to my gate. Their job is to know me, and, for too long, I resented them for it. But maybe all they want is to be known in return. In giving them that chance, I found joy in the seemingly joyless, and I learned to love the TSA.