Identity: How I Lost Mine and Found a Better One

I lost my identity recently as I completed the first leg of my flight out of Charlottesville, VA, traveling to attend the Stories from the Heart IX conference for women writers. In Atlanta’s stopover, I charged my phone at a kiosk during a flight delay. Suddenly an announcement told those of us connecting to Austin to go to a new gate. Another plane  was leaving imminently.

I slid my phone and charger into my computer bag, firmly attached to my wheeled suitcase and rushed into the human stream hurrying five gates ahead. Soon I boarded, stowed my suitcase overhead and my computer bag beneath the seat ahead. Relaxing briefly, I reached down to slide my book from my computer bag. It wasn’t there. Nor, when I poked around further with rising fear, was my wallet that contained every piece of identity I possessed. Horrified, I rushed to the stewardess in front and told her I’d left them on the kiosk. She beckoned another employee to go with me to search, emphasizing they were ready to take off.

He and I returned to the plane empty-handed and I dropped into my seat, stunned. I tried to decide whether to return home or go ahead to beautiful Austin. Paralysis gripped my brain as it ticked off my problems: no credit card, no cash, no checkbook, no social security card or medical cards, and most worrisome, no ID to board my return flight home.

My best friend had sent me a meditative poem before I left that morning: when traveling, exhale all within to make space for the new experiences that wait to help you grow. Certainly, I’d anticipated nothing like this monumental problem. But here it was and I was alone with it. Breathing deeply, I tried to open.

Somehow I fell asleep. When I woke, my fear had dissipated and my mystery lover’s mind began trying to figure out a solution to my immediate problem: checking in to my hotel. I decided I’d call my daughter to ask to use her credit card to cover my stay. Of course, she said, deeply concerned.

The plane landed in Austin. I gathered my carry-on luggage and walked into a bustling airport, confused where to go for shuttle transportation. A man stood outside a restaurant talking on his phone. When he finished, I walked over to him and asked for directions. My eyes must have glazed over as his words couldn’t enter my brain. “Are you okay?” he asked. I told him I’d lost all my identification. Immediately, his brows furrowed, “Oh my gosh, are you thirsty? You must be hungry. I run this restaurant. Come on in and let me feed you.” He touched my arm as if to guide me.

His generosity awed me, I told him, as I declined with the same kindness he was extending. I was anxious and wanted to get to my hotel to overcome my first hurdle. “I need to get to transportation so I can call my hotel shuttle.” Then realizing I could not tip the driver, my stomach knotted.

“If you’re sure you don’t need water or anything, come with me. I’ll take you there.” My exhale was filled with deep relief. We walked together, talking, and then through a door to the outside. Now he would have to use credentials to re-enter terminal. At least he had some. “Thank you,” I said, simply, looking sincerely into his dark eyes.

My phone was dead again and I asked a Delta Airlines employee for help, which he graciously gave immediately. I called my hotel for a shuttle, which soon arrived and discovered when two other women got in, they also were heading for our conference. They asked how they could help. I declined, with gratitude, their offer of kindness, yet when we arrived, one of them slipped a bill into my hand for my tip. I thanked her and gave it to our driver, Jesus. As he unloaded my luggage, Jesus told me to wait, that he would help me get through any problems checking in at the desk. My government’s present attitude toward people of Jesus’ ethnicity flashed into my mind and again reminded me how our immigrants are often finer citizens than most of us.

My daughter’s credit card and Jesus’ supports got me checked in, a profound relief. Now I could put my food and other costs on my room charges.

I entered into the conference activities, discovering during the four days that unfolded, more than a hundred people extended kindness in every conceivable varied, rich way. Each gesture humbled me.

The day I was to return home, my Austin publicist drove me to the airport and took me, after coffee and conversation about my book, directly to TSA. How would a woman with nothing to prove identity be able to board a plane? I wondered. I’d called my airline and TSA, who both advised I come in two hours early. They gave no promises, but would see what they could do.

An hour later, a TSA man approached and beckoned me to his desk. He called another person on a cell phone, who gave him a series of questions for me to answer. If all my answers were correct, I could board the plane. He listened to the questions, one at a time, from the man on the phone. What is your address? I answered and he relayed the answer. A pause. The next question: How long have you lived there? We continued on: Where did you live before your present address? Do you have children? What is the name and birth date of one of them?

There must be a database in the sky for all of us that holds our personal information, I thought as I answered, and began to relax more as I answered each question to his satisfaction. Finally, he smiled and said, “Now we’ll do a body pat-down and thorough search all your luggage.” After those, he told me I could board my plane, minus my spritzer hair spray container, a few ounces over their limit. Small price, I decided.

Reflecting later, at home, I dug into deeper layers of losing one’s identity. First I realized that my identity of being a writer had grown significantly through my conference activities. (That is another story.) I discerned also that my seemingly terrible loss of papers that supported my identity had drawn me to look more deeply into the multitude of unknown faces everywhere. Stripped of all my identity, I found my loss of identification opened a deep renewal in my heart of my profound belief in human kindness.