The New Witch Hunt

When the System makes you feel like you’re not even an American citizen and have no protections.

“They will call you mad for refusing the script. That’s how you know you’re finally speaking your own lines.” ~ Tree of Wampus Council

I was wearing pink tennis shoes. That got a lot of comments online, as if I had shown up that day intending to cause a scene and disrupt the rest of my life. My history of protesting certainly made this realistic, but that day, all I was looking for was a little peace.

My travel outfit was on point. Light cardigan, flowy dress. Sunglasses and one carry-on bag. I used to be a college sports team travel agent, so I’ve traipsed through 25 countries already and am a pro at packing light.

I’d found one of the few rooms left in Savannah after mandatory evacuations had invited all of Tampa to have a hurricane party in the Garden of Good and Evil. The hotel’s massive tub was a godsend after a 30-hour whirlwind trip to get my mom out of Daytona Beach, for fear she’d have to go through what we had in Western North Carolina the last two weeks.

I walked into that airport with a plan: get to Iceland. Let my nervous system reset in the cold quiet of the Blue Lagoon–one of my long-marked bucket list destinations. Enjoy some Silver Medallion perks. Gorge on movies. Heal myself before jumping back into supporting the recovery in Asheville from Hurricane Helene and running a supply network.

Instead, I got tackled.

By the time the cops had their hands on me, someone had their phone out. That’s the new emergency protocol for injustice — forget calling 911. Just pray someone hits record before your story gets swallowed.

And within days—13 million people had seen the footage. 

“Sign her to the NFL!”

“How dumb is this bitch?” 

I became a spectacle, a meme, a punchline. My 44-year old white lady body on the floor, my voice cut from the story. They didn’t know my name. They didn’t know why I was there, or what I’d survived. They didn’t know what I was running from—or toward.

But they called me crazy anyway. Because it’s easier than asking: “What was her side? What happened? Why was she so scared?”

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COSMIC CLARITY SIDEBAR: The Passport Card Was Valid. The Threat Was Manufactured.

I brought my U.S. Passport Card to the airport that day. Not to break a rule. Not to get away with anything. But because I was double hurricane evacuee. Because communications were still unstable. Because I didn’t know how long I’d be gone—and it was the only ID I had with me.

So I did what anyone trying to do the right thing would do: I arrived early. I asked calmly to speak to someone. I said, “This is what I have—can it work in my situation?”

WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED:

In any emergency or natural disaster scenario, especially after a hurricane, airline staff are trained to:

• De-escalate and assist evacuees with grace

• Review ID flexibility and consult TSA if needed

• Explain clearly what documentation is required and offer support

• Provide alternate routing options (e.g. land/sea exits for passport card holders)

• Not call the police on someone asking a legitimate travel question

But that’s not what happened.

WHAT THEY DID:

• They flagged me without explanation.

• They did not offer support, options, or clarification.

• They called the police—not because I posed a threat, but because I asked a question they didn’t want to deal with.

TSA SAYS:

“TSA accepts all REAL ID–compliant cards, including: U.S. driver’s licenses, U.S. passport books, U.S. passport cards”

Source: tsa.gov/travel/security-screening/identification

DELTA SAYS:

“For domestic travel, acceptable forms of ID include: U.S. Driver’s License, U.S. Passport Card, U.S. Military ID, Permanent Resident Card”

Source: delta.com/us/en/check-in-security/identification-requirements

WHY THIS MATTERS:

The passport card is real. The ID was valid. The procedure was clear. But instead of offering help, they escalated a calm inquiry into a security threat.

I asked a question. They called the cops. The card was valid—but I wasn’t.

This is how women get erased in real time.

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At first, I wasn’t loud. I wasn’t violent. I wasn’t breaking down. I tried to check in at Delta, stating I was a hurricane evacuee and only had my passport card. I’d come super early in case I needed to talk to someone or get an expedited passport or whatever the protocol was in an evacuation situation. Yet, with my 400,000 Skymiles status and the passport card–newly purchased and touted as an acceptable substitute in certain situations–I was confident it wouldn’t be a big deal. I knew I might have a couple extra hoops to jump through, but floating in the Blue Lagoon in Iceland was going to be worth any extra hassle.

But little did I know, I was being watched. The counter woman’s jaw dropped as she attempted to check me in, mumbling something about not being able to help me, no eye contact. I immediately turned to a female security guard and asked if she could get me someone to talk to someone since I was a hurricane evacuee and had a legitimate flight, hotel booked, and my passport card and ID.

She threw up her hands and started backing away from me, saying, “I can’t help with that.” In that moment, I saw them. 8 cops circling like a pack of hyenas behind her, before I’d even raised my voice. That’s when primal instincts took over, and my body went into fight or flight. Something in my ancient code activated, propelling me to get loud and visible as fuck.

I jumped onto the baggage carousel, and stated my case to the small crowd while the fluorescent lights hummed like a bored jury. “I am a double hurricane evacuee. I just left Asheville to evacuate my mother from Florida. I have a passport card and a legitimate flight and hotel reserved in Iceland. I have been to 25 countries.” I wasn’t trying to cause a scene–I was trying not to get erased quietly. The cops still stalked me, so I kept telling my story.

About how bad things were in Asheville, and how little help and support we were getting. The three day blackout. The militarized cops everywhere. The constant helicopters. Living in a war zone in the middle of North Carolina. I refused to shut up as they chased me around the check-in counter, because something in my body knew that they’d been expecting me. That they’d already decided I wasn’t getting on that flight the moment I booked it. That’s the part they never say. 

“This didn’t start with the viral video. That was just the explosion. The burn had been building for weeks, years…probably decades.”

Storms, silencing, secrets, survival. This story starts years ago, when I realized— they weren’t going to save us, and they don’t really give a shit about us. So I did what every woman with ancient instincts and pink sneakers would do:

I ran.

Chapter 2 Spotify Playlist: Rodman Rebound Ritual (Class of ‘99 Warm-Up Edition)

Chapter 3: The Underbelly of the NCAA Patriarchy on Substack