Landing in New York

"Come on, facha, we are landing," Leire said, getting up from her seat to grab her hand luggage.

"Don't call me that, roja," You answer, annoyed. "There is no rush. Just because you get up early, we won't be able to exit until they open the gates."

She has the habit of mocking you, calling you facha, a diminutive of fascista, fascist in Spanish. When you do that, you usually answer back by calling her roja, red in Spanish, to mock her left-wing, even communist, tendencies.

"It is what you are, Iker," she insists, shrugging his shoulders. "But as your sister, I won't stop until I convince you you are wrong."

Sometimes, she is a bit annoying with her woke speeches. And you have no way to escape while the plane gates remain closed.

"Look, Sis," you tell her a few minutes later, pointing to the gates finally opening. "We can leave, at least."

"Where should we go now?" She asks.

"We need to take another plane to LA. But it is a national flight, so we must do immigration and security checks first."

You exit the plane with your sister.

After a few minutes of walking through the airport hallways, both of you arrive at the immigration check. A queue forms with all the passengers who have left the plane.

Still, unlike any other one that you have seen on your many travels, the security personnel seems to separate people into two queues based on race, with both of you in the queue with other white people. The other queue has mostly Black, Asian, and Latino people. For some reason, you don't know why; there are some white women also in that other queue.

"It is weird," your sister says, intrigued by the race separation.

"I suppose Americans are always obsessed with race," you indicate, downplaying the importance.

The queue progressed slowly. During that time, both of you pick the typical immigration form that everyone must fill upon entering a country. The ones with questions ask you if you are a terrorist or if you are committing crimes. Those questions that no one ever answers yes.

But this form has some other weird questions. In the parts related to luggage, no less.

The form contains a list of items that you can carry in your luggage. The form lists items such as clothes, food, money, electronic devices, etc.

The last one is weird.

Persons belonging to a minority.

After that, a note that reads:

Any person traveling with you belonging to a minority should be treated as part of your luggage. Only persons from the white race, with straight sexual orientation and a Christian faith, are not considered a minority.

If you bring a minority with you, please indicate the following information: Name, Age, Race, Sexual Orientation, and Religion.

Any unclaimed minority person, including those traveling with you that you fail to notice will be declared 'lost luggage' and confiscated. You have a month to reclaim any 'lost luggage' that you legally own. After that period, any 'lost luggage' will be publicly auctioned."

"What racist, homophobic nonsense is this?" Your sister cursed, reading the form.

"I don't know, Leire. I never see something like that," you answer, filling out the form with your sister's information.

"Ey!" She stops you, grabbing your hand. "What are you doing? I'm not a piece of luggage!"

"I know, Sis," you tried to calm her. "But you know it is best to always tell the truth in those forms, even if it sounds absurd. You have read many stories of people answering these forms with jokes like 'I want to plant a bomb,' but the airport security doesn't take these things as a joke."

You calm her down with your response so you can complete the form.

"Anyways, none of this is false, right?" You ask her, pointing at the form where you have written: Leire Urrutia, 27, White, Lesbian, Catholic.

"There is one thing wrong", she complains.

"What? You have finally become straight?" You laugh.

"That is what Mom would wish. No. It is the religion. I am agnostic."

"Don't be pedantic, Sis. We are from a catholic family."

She is about to argue about this, but you notice you are finally the next one in line, so it is time to pass the immigration check.

"Next!" The security guard