I have never had reason to believe that any parts of my privacy have ever been invaded via the use of technology, as in the tapping of my telephone. However, I am now in a position to tell you that I have had my private parts invaded by the use of technology.It happened on Friday morning at Boston’s Logan International Airport as two grands and I were making our way to board a flight to Miami to hook up with another to Barbados. Getting back home was never so urgent as I had had my fill of a week of murderous 100°F days, which brought back dehydrating memories of visits to the Dead Sea in Israel and Las Vegas in the Nevada Desert where the average temperature at this time of the year is more than 102 degrees.Having collected my boarding pass, I entered the Customs area for the necessary security checks that come before being allowed into the departure area. I have been in those parts quite a few times since 9/11, so I am accustomed to the routine. While that’s happening, an officer invites you to walk through the other scanner that sends off an alarm if it detects any metal on your body.Friday morning was quite different. For when I thought I was being directed to the usual scanner that detects any metal in your clothing or on your body, a tall, thin security man who brought to mind Shakespeare’s immortal line in Julius Caesar – “Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look” ordered me to take everything out of my pockets including money and paper. That baffled me because I had never known money or paper to be considered dangerous objects.With all the contents clutched in my hand, “Cassius” directed me to something I had never seen before in an airport – a mat on which three sets of feet were imprinted. Two were in the normal direction while the third was at a right angle to the left. I had to stand in the first set, then step forward into the second and then into the third until I was almost touching a sheet of dark material in front of me. There, another officer told me to stand erect, place both hands touching above my head and “don’t move”.It was only at this point that, like a bolt out of the blue, it hit me: I was actually inside one of those new, controversial airport full-body scanners which scan right through your clothing and produce an image of your entire naked body in 3-D to screening officers on the other side.I, therefore, half hoped mine was a female screening officer, for the thought of a man examining my naked private parts for explosives and other dangerous items sent the blood to my head. That was unfortunate because I so badly wanted it to head in the other direction in order to rise up the African in me and make that officer feel ashamed of his own extra little finger.But the more humiliated, frustrated and angry I became as I stood there, the more the African in me turned into nothing but a little pygmy until I could all but hear those screening officers laughing their heads off at this black man who appeared rather Chinese privately.Twelve hours later at Grantley Adams International, another Cassius of a Customs officer ordered my Red Cap to an examination position where the female officer was replaced by a male stretching white rubber gloves over his hands. Fortunately, it was only to rummage through the contents of the bags.
Al Gilkes heads a public relations firm.
