Toronto Pearson International: A revolving city, 100,000 strong, re-peopled daily.
But where are the people? Not here. Not in the A Gates in Terminal 3.
A for abandoned.
A for animus.
A for America first.
No need to queue for security. I am the queue. The only one in line, unpacking my laptop, undoing my belt, throwing my shoes into a plastic bin for a bored security agent. As I hike up my sweatshirt to refasten my belt, two travelers trickle in behind me.
Next up: pre-clearance for the United States. I feel like a lone challenger being thrown to the gladiators, outnumbered 10 to 1. The person in charge of crowd control simply tells me that I’m free to go up to any of the agents. I’ve got my pick, but by instinct, I stand and wait, scanning through border patrol agents, waiting to see who makes eye contact, who will wave me forward.
I fumble through my passport. No questions, no smiles. Just a wave through. On my way into a corridor full of Toblerone and leaf-shaped maple syrup bottles, I note two people, two limboed passengers, awaiting further questioning in a detention area. Shaken by my own experience of this just weeks ago, I hurry through before anyone can call me over to a side room and snatch my passport and pick through my notebooks.
Here are all the ghosts of ordinary life: overpriced bars and burger joints, departure screens, and slices of stale pizza. It’s tempting to forget what you’ve just seen. I’m a quiet soul, and I want to believe this is a normal time rather than one of crisis. Global capitalism is, after all, in some way still functioning the way it should. Flights are on time, a sandwich and Canadian Dry cost $20 CAD—hell, the sun’s even shining.
Look again. Watch the shopkeepers cleaning spotless, untread floors. Bartenders leaning back against the counter. Workers seated in the passenger lounge, watching TikToks, comparing notes on relatives who live in the UK. When I try to pay for a sandwich, the attendants seem surprised to see me as I glance past a “Till Closed” sign for anyone who will take my money.
Who is here?
Besides the workless workers, it’s businessmen. Overwhelmingly so, and overwhelmingly men. The captains of capitalism off to parts unknown to make sure the wheels on the bus keep moving—tariffs or no. They sit one to a table. No need to share. Each one is between 40 and 60, in some state of business casual, somber, sat behind laptops. Halfway across the concourse, a group of women look after half a dozen small children. The segregation of the sexes isn’t intentional, surely, but it’s somewhere between odd and disconcerting.
Where is everyone else? Where are the young people on school trips? The families on vacation? The conference attendees? And, my god, where are the women? The mix is mostly white, though a decent number of the businessmen and airport workers are Asian. I’ve spotted just a handful of Black travelers, but no one I can visibly identify as Latino or Middle Eastern or Arab or Indigenous—or queer.
I ponder something to eat, but I don’t know if I’m hungry, or just sorry for the people standing around, waiting. I’ve got $10 in my pocket. Maybe enough for a beer, so I head for a bar near my gate. There’s a man in his late 20s or early 30s—American, white, with unbridled enthusiasm in his voice and a camo backpack at his feet.
“The last time conditions lined up like this, we had some really exciting economic growth opportunities,” he says. “I think we’re heading for that now.”
I almost walk away. He’s loud, and the bar is small. But I remember what a CBP agent told me three weeks ago in Atlanta as he went through my notebooks, one page at a time: “I’m sorry about all this, but we need to know what people are saying.” So I sit down. I want to know what he’s saying. I order my beer. The talk passes from the economy to the bartender’s experience at a Patriots game and her amazement that she could drink at the tailgate without any trouble from the cops.
“Oh yeah, I’m a Bears fan, but a friend of mine got me into the Patriots about 10 years ago.”
I struggle to understand the border of the bartenders’ patience and her own fascination. The conversation devolves into receipt copies and business reports. I move on.
At my gate, a bald man my age eagerly checks in with me to make sure I’m not waiting for the flight to Miami.
“They just moved the gate.”
In the background, another homme d’affaires is screaming into his phone.
“Look, I’m a straight shooter, so I’m gonna tell you like I see it, and—let me tell you what—they don’t have a fucking clue what they’re doing.”
He’s pacing around the far corner, with the animated drama of his business dealings fading in and out of earshot. I remember the male aspirants from high school and undergrad, mansplaining women’s emotions and how menstrual cycles precluded them from leadership.
Are they feminists now? Or just hypocrites?
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