My voyage through the Denver International Airport took me through a mighty sea of white, travel-weary faces. In waters such as these the tide roars at the mere mention of an upcoming 50% off Patagonia jacket deal, or if you hum the first three bars of any Mt. Joy song.
I lived in Boulder, Colorado, where nearly 80% of the city’s population is white. I step up to the security check in point, and notice the man checking my ID is black. The awareness of my awareness of this sentiment makes me feel a particular kind of self-loathing that is more productive than self-hatred for the sake of the self alone.
I don’t listen to Mt. Joy, I think. Shit. I’ve been listening to a lot of Caamp.
I hand him my ID and in doing so, disclose to him a heinous memory of six years past; a haunting photo of an 18-year-old me wearing a tan turtleneck with my brown hair strangled into a low bun.
“How’re you?” I say in an attempt to feign nonchalance as I hand over a touchstone of my low self-esteem to him. The man either fails to hear me, or chooses not to respond as he examines my ID.
My confidence is either too low of my 18 year old self, or too high of myself now, because every time someone checks my ID I can’t help but wonder, “will they even believe that this is my real ID?” This thought comes to mind because I’ve had the college glow-up girls dream about, not because I’m a 24 year-old with a vertical driver’s license.
Sometimes while I’m in line at airports I dream about how security will determine my ID is a fake, and detain me. In this fantasy I miss my first class flight to an all-expenses paid trip to Bali with my husband Hugh Grant, but there’s no doubt that I’m now drop-dead gorgeous.
“Who’s your favorite rapper?” the man asks, without taking his eyes off of my ID.
I freeze. Mac Miller is my favorite rapper. I know the answer immediately, and the name tickles my lips. I offer up a wide eyed stare for a second that feels like 30. This glazed over gaze masks my inner turmoil, which whispers, you won’t like what I have to say and I know it.
In a state of predominantly white people, such as Colorado, I as a white person am about to tell this black man that out of all of the incredibly talented black rappers that have graced the radio waves, I’ve chosen a very, very white one as my favorite? Self awareness tugs at my tongue. Don’t say it.
“Mac Miller,” I hear myself blurt out. I wince, and I hope it comes off as a facial tic so he thinks I have tourettes.
“Well,” he stares blankly off into the distance. “He’s dead, so.”
The man hands me back my ID. Apparently, today’s not the day I’m so beautiful I’m suspected of identity fraud.
“Thank you!” I respond, and drop my chin to my chest as I pass through to security, and re-enter the waves of white people who are also still as ugly as their six-year-old drivers license photo.
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