A Profiling Experience

A Profiling Experience:

As I laid in bed, a single ray of sunlight broke through my bedroom window revealing the dust particles floating in the air. Outside my apartment building, a construction crew had been using a jackhammer to break the sidewalk early that morning. The vibrations were forceful enough to make me feel like I was sleeping in one of those cheap motels, with a fancy coin operated bed. I thought to myself that there should be a law against using a jackhammer this early in the morning. Normally, on a Sunday morning, I would not be out of bed until one or two in the afternoon. Since, usually, Saturday nights are reserved for binge drinking. However, with the construction crew working diligently all morning I found it hard to fall back to sleep. I got up and opened the refrigerator door. There were no eggs, no ham, and no orange juice. It was milk and cereal for the second straight morning. Coming from the living room I heard a chiming sound, it was the sound of my e-mail. It was my brother, the e-mail said that our father was sick, bed ridden, and that I should come. It had been almost six years since I had seen my father or any member of my family for that matter. They do not approve of my life style. They believe that I should stop partying and hanging out with loose women. Instead, I should get married, settle-down with a nice Muslim girl, pray every day, act, and dress like a respectable Muslim man, my father told me. He always said that I looked and acted like an American.

Rodriguez 2

I respect my father, but he was born back in the old country, with old beliefs and old ways of doing things. I always told my father that this was a good country, with good people. I was born in the Bronx. Now I live in San Francisco, California, one of the most progressive cities in the country. I guess, by being the youngest of six siblings and the only one born in the U.S., I was destined to be a thorn in my father's side.

Nevertheless, I have always loved my father. I could not live with myself if he was to die and I did not make an effort to go see him in New York. I wasted no time, hopped in a taxi and bought my plane ticket via my phone on the way to the airport. I arrived with plenty of time to spare. I was certain that I would need the extra time since 9/11 was so fresh in everyone's minds and I was sure to be "randomly" selected for screening.

As I waited in line to get through security I could not help but wonder what the people around me were thinking about me. Did they think that I was a terrorist? That I had a bomb on my satchel? Were they scared of me? Little did they know I am just like them. I go to work and hate my boss, drink beer in the afternoons, hang out with my friends and watch the 49ers religiously every Sunday. Security went through my satchel carefully like it

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