The Identity Check

Yesterday, I was back in the airport after being in one of my favorite places in the world, yes, Chicago.

I barely had enough time to take it in. Just enough time to breathe the air, feel what seemed like a crisp spring morning, and catch the quiet sound of birds somewhere nearby. It’s interesting because I do not remember Chicago ever being quiet. Not the trains, not the traffic, not the people moving through the city like they all have somewhere important to be.

Chicago has always felt loud to me, but not in a bad way. Loud like ambition. Loud like survival. Loud like people trying to make something out of what they were handed.

But yesterday morning, for a moment, it felt calm.

Then reality kicked in.

I was running late from the shuttle to gate 20, and of course, I still had to get through security. I have CLEAR, so I thought, this should not take long. The line barely had anybody in it. I walked up to the kiosk, took off my glasses, and prepared to confirm my identity, something I have done countless times.

Except this time, it did not work.

The screen told me to wait for an attendant to confirm my identity.

Then it told me again.

Finally, a TSA employee asked for my ID and walked me over to another officer. He was a Black man, sitting down, calm, focused, and clearly locked into his job. I handed him my ID. He asked me to step in front of the camera.

Naturally, I started to bend down.

Without making a big deal out of it, he said, “Stand up, Black man.”

I paused.

Then he said, “That’s the biggest lesson in life, never lower yourself.”

Wait.

What?

Put a pin in that.

We went back and forth trying to get the photo to match my identity. Again and again, I stood there while the system tried to decide if I was really me. Isn’t that what CLEAR is supposed to do? Isn’t that the point of the technology, to make all of this easier?

But somehow, I was not focused on the delay anymore.

I was focused on what he said.

Stand up, Black man.

Never lower yourself.

It felt like nobody else heard it but me.

After a few more tries, he said they were going to have to call a supervisor. Then I remembered I had my passport in my duffle bag. That is a different story, because that passport was not even supposed to be in that bag, but for whatever reason, it was there.

I handed it to him.

He looked at it and said, “See, you got the same problem as me. You real dark-skinned and you show up.”

Now, I had to laugh to myself because I was thinking, wait, is that beautiful tree that comes from the Lord having its side effects on me after that advertised 50-minute activation time?

But he scanned the passport, handed everything back, told me to have safe travels, and reminded me one more time to never lower myself in this world.

Damn.

He got me good.

I needed that. Bad.

Because that moment was not just about an airport.

It was about identity.

Who are we?

How do we show up?

And who gets to decide if that is really us?

That machine could not recognize me, and I know that sounds small, but it felt bigger than that. Because so much of life already feels like one long identity check.

We are constantly trying to prove we are qualified enough, stable enough, professional enough, healed enough, successful enough, Black enough, polished enough, humble enough, confident enough, but not too confident, different enough, but not too different.

And I think that is part of the struggle of this generation.

A lot of us are exhausted from being asked to prove who we are while also being pressured to become somebody else just to survive.

When you were young, you absorbed messages like, be strong. Do not make trouble. Do not cry. Be successful. Do not embarrass us. Make something of yourself. Be better than where you came from. Carry the family name well. Do not give people a reason to talk.

You did not choose those expectations.

You inherited them.

Some came from parents. Some came from church. Some came from school. Some came from being Black in rooms where you knew you were being watched a little closer. Some came from poverty. Some came from survival. Some came from people who loved you, but only knew how to prepare you for a world that had not always been kind to them.

And by adulthood, many of us are not even asking, “Who am I?”

We are asking, “Am I being the version of me everyone expected me to become?”

That is a heavy way to live.

Because then life becomes less about being and more about performing.

You perform strength. You perform success. You perform peace. You perform confidence. You perform healing. You perform professionalism. You perform happiness. You perform like you are not tired. You perform like you are not questioning everything.

And when you are not performing, you are defending.

Defending your choices. Defending your growth. Defending your boundaries. Defending why you changed. Defending why you left. Defending why you stayed. Defending why you are not the same person people remember.

And the cost of all that performing and defending is that you can go years without actually being.

Just being.

Not proving. Not explaining. Not shrinking. Not becoming more acceptable. Just being the person God, pain, time, love, failure, and survival have shaped you into.

That is why those words hit me so hard.

“Stand up, Black man.”

Because maybe I had been bending longer than I realized.

Not just in that airport. Not just in front of that camera. But in life.

How many times have we lowered ourselves to keep peace?

Lowered our standards to keep people?

Lowered our voices to keep opportunities?

Lowered our expectations so we would not be disappointed?

Lowered our dreams so they would sound more realistic to people who were never going to understand them anyway?

Lowered who we are just to be accepted by people who still could not see us clearly?

And the truth is, some of us have been bending for so long that standing up feels unnatural.

That is the quiet crisis a lot of us are living through.

It is not just burnout. It is not just anxiety. It is not just adulthood being hard. It is the fear that somewhere along the way, we became really good at being what people needed, but forgot how to be who we are.

And the world does not make that easier.

Groceries cost too much. Rent is disrespectful. Gas feels personal. Careers are unstable. Relationships are complicated. Friendships are harder to maintain. Everybody is trying to heal from something while also trying to pay bills, stay employed, respond to messages, keep up with family, drink enough water, get enough sleep, and not completely lose their minds.

Then here come Outlook, Teams, Slack, SharePoint, group chats, calendar invites, unread emails, follow-ups, deadlines, and folders somebody swore were important.

And yes, I am tired of the notifications too.

But still, we are blessed.

Some of us have stability. A car to drive. A roof over our heads. A job to complain about. Food in the refrigerator. People who love us. Health insurance, which is a very adult thing to be thankful for, but here we are.

That does not mean life is not heavy.

It just means that even in the middle of the heaviness, we still have something to stand up for.

Maybe that is the lesson.

Our identity is not tied to the stage of life we are in. It is tied to the state we are in.

Stages change. Jobs change. Cities change. Friendships change. Money changes. Plans change. Confidence changes.

The version of you that once felt sure can become the version of you standing in an airport, rushing, sweating, being questioned by a machine, waiting on something outside of you to confirm what you already know.

But your state matters more.

Are you present?

Are you grounded?

Are you still able to recognize yourself?

Are you still willing to stand tall when life gives you every reason to shrink?

That TSA officer did not know me. He did not know what I had been carrying. He did not know what kind of season I was in. He did not know how badly I needed that reminder.

But sometimes the message finds you in the most ordinary places.

Not in a sermon. Not in a book. Not in some big emotional breakthrough.

Sometimes it finds you at airport security, with boarding already started, your glasses in your hand, your ID being questioned, and a Black man sitting behind a desk reminding you not to bend.

So maybe that is the word for us right now.

Stand up.

Not because everything is fixed.

Not because you feel confident every day.

Not because every room will see you clearly.

Stand up because lowering yourself was never supposed to be the cost of becoming who you are.

Stand up because you can be different without disappearing.

Stand up because growth should not require self-erasure.

Stand up because your identity is not up for debate.

And in a world that keeps asking us to prove, perform, explain, adjust, code-switch, and verify who we are, maybe the most radical thing we can do is remember for ourselves.

Not bend.

Not shrink.

Not disappear.