Eight Black men were removed from an American Airlines flight because of a complaint about body odour — but it had nothing to do with their hygiene.
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This past week, I had an uncomfortable flashback to something that happened to me more than a decade ago (on January 19, 2010, to be exact) while I was living in Buenos Aires. The memory was sparked by a story about a recent American Airlines flight that was delayed when a flight attendant complained about someone who was stinking up the plane.
The story also reminded me a conversation I once had with a White friend who insisted that Black men and White men smell different. That comment reminded me of what Thomas Jefferson had to say about the smell of Black people as a race.
I’m sure if President Jefferson had been on that American Airlines flight, he would have applauded what happened next. In a stunningly egregious case of racial profiling, after the complaint about body odour was made, the airline removed eight Black male passengers from the aircraft — none of them were seated together, and none of them knew each other — and gave them a sniff test.
When they all passed, they were all allowed to return to their seats on the plane. I’m not sure being forced to re-board the same flight — apparently, no other American Airlines flights were available from Phoenix to New York City that day — wasn’t worse than being removed from the flight in the first place. I can’t even begin to imagine the humiliation and rage they must have felt sitting through that entire flight and possibly being served by the White male flight attendant who had made the B.O. complaint in the first place.
Three of the men have filed a discrimination suit, and I hope American Airlines has to pay dearly. According to the lawsuit filed by the three plaintiffs, “(O)nce they reached the jet bridge, they saw that several other Black men were also being removed from the plane. In fact, it appeared to Plaintiffs that American had ordered all of the Black male passengers on Flight 832 off the plane.”
As a Black man living in a world that alternately despises, fears, and sexualizes Black men, I know it could happen to me.
It has happened to me. The circumstances were different, and at the time, I didn’t think it had anything to do with my race, though when I told friends and family about the incident, many of them were certain that it did. Even if it had, in fact, been just about body odor, they insisted the situation would have been handled differently — or maybe it wouldn’t have been handled at all — if I were White.
To be completely honest, I can’t say what happened to me that day in Buenos Aires surprised me. You see, I’m a sweater. I can break out in a sweat while walking a couple of New York City blocks on a cold winter day. My husband — who is White and from Australia, a country that can sizzle when it wants to — overheats even worse than I do; it’s just one of the many ways in which he gets me.
I’ve been self-conscious about it my entire life. Although I’ve only received one complaint about my body odour to date (on January 19, 2010 in Buenos Aires), my tendency to sweat up a storm is one of the reasons why I’m almost obsessively careful and vigilant about my hygiene.
The first and thankfully last (to date) complaint about my body odour happened one morning before my Pilates class at Megatlon Pilates. Claudio, who worked at the studio’s reception desk, and I found ourselves with a few moments alone. He said he had to talk to me about something, but he didn’t want to offend me.
Obviously, this wasn’t going to be good.
I told him to go for it. He started beating a very slow path around the bush. He talked about how being guys, sometimes when we work out in the gym we sweat like pigs. But it’s normal there, and gyms — at least decent ones — are wide open spaces. I knew where he was going.
“Yes, I know, I have a problem,” I said, feeling as if we were mid-intervention. I’ve always been a sweater, and sometimes it got a little out of control, thanks to the intense pilates regimen of Pamela, my excellent instructor. It was embarrassing, so before each class, I loaded up on paper towels to keep myself as dry as possible. It didn’t help that the classes were full of women who always seemed to be cold no matter how hot it was outside. And when the AC went off, my sweat glands rushed into overdrive.
But alas, my sweat wasn’t the only problem, according to Claudio. It was also the alleged body odour that went along with it. And more than one person had complained, he said.
I handled the conversation gracefully. I didn’t get flustered. I didn’t even get embarrassed. In the back of my mind, I sort of knew this day might come. I had been showering before each class, using extra deodorant, and putting on a clean shirt, hoping to ease the potential discomfort of everyone in my vicinity during my classes. In fact, on that particular day, I smelled so good walking into the studio that I almost invited Claudio to see for himself.
But I didn’t. I think I took it all in stride partly because, despite the uncomfortable nature of the conversation, Claudio was so nice and diplomatic about it. I didn’t know many — any! — people who can almost charm your track pants off while telling you that you might have a stinking problem.
What if you’re just a guy sitting in coach on a crowded flight, minding your own business and being, well, Black?
I wasn’t sure where to go from there. Would I have to start piling on cologne or start wearing a brand-new t-shirt to every class as a precautionary measure? I decided to cancel my membership. That was one flight I had no intention of re-boarding.
Claudio was sad to see me go. But he understood. A guy’s got a right to sweat like a pig and perhaps even stink like one, too — at least when he’s working out.
But what if you’re not sweating and not stinking? What if you’re just a guy sitting in coach on a crowded flight, minding your own business and being, well, Black?
After reading about what happened to those eight Black men on American Airlines flight 832, I’m not sure if I’ll ever again feel completely comfortable on an airplane — in my seat or in my own skin.