TERRORIZED: (opposite) MIT sophomore Star Simpson, 19, leaves court after her arraignment Sept. 21, 2007, on charges of disturbing the peace and possessing a hoax device, after being arrested at gunpoint at Logan International Airport while wearing a circuit board and wiring in plain view over a black hooded sweatshirt (above).

to the terminal. I look around — no Tim. Check the baggage claim — no Tim there, either.

It’s almost 7: 45. I consider walking to nearby terminals, in case his plane made a gate change at the last minute. I spot an information desk. Aha! Information! Exactly what I need.

I ask the woman behind the counter if she knows anything about a change to Tim’s flight.

She looks up at me and starts saying things

I don’t understand. She doesn’t speak English as a first language, making communication difficult.

“What is that? You can’t have that.” She gestures at my shirt.

What? Am I supposed to give her my clothes? I start to answer her first question, about my shirt decoration. I point at it and hold it out for her.

“It’s a bunch of lights, see? Decorations? I made it.”

“You can’t have that, what is that, you can’t have that,” she repeats.

Photograph by Jordan Bunker

“It’s art, just a bunch of lights.” I’m not sure how to properly explain, so I’m trying to do so in simple terms. “Can you tell me about a flight? It came in this morning from Oakland.”

She’s getting frantic, hysterical. For some reason, she isn’t hearing what I’m saying. She appears to be completely glazed over with fear. “You can’t have that. No. No, you can’t have that. I’m calling the police.”

I really don’t understand, but I realize that nothing I say will help this woman comprehend. I’m frustrated, tired, and just really want to see Tim, so I translate “I’m calling the police” to mean “please

go away,” and I turn and walk from her desk while unplugging the battery to make the lights turn off. I make one more pass through the baggage claim and decide I must have missed Tim. Depressed, and with the weight of my problem sets to finish, I walk to the traffic island to catch the next MBTA shuttle so I can go back to school.

While I’m in baggage claim, a man dressed in black walks by me. He looks at my eyes. He looks at my sweatshirt, and continues to walk past. I watch him because he doesn’t look like a passenger. The back of his shirt has “State Police” written in tall, white letters. I think, she didn’t really call the police, did she? Maybe the police make regular patrols around here. I’m on the traffic island when someone grabs my wrists. Suddenly, shouting is coming from every direction. I feel my arms get wrenched up over my head. People in black uniforms are all over me, yelling and forcing my arms into uncomfortable positions.

Some dam of stress breaks. I burst into tears. What’s going on? I’m trying to go home and finish some crucial homework I probably won’t be able to complete before it’s due. I’ve missed my friend at the airport because I overslept. And now I’m getting mobbed by a gang wielding guns. It seems like 40 people are surrounding me. Some of them are holding pieces of metal that I initially mistake for giant camera tripods. They turn out to be German MP5 submachine guns.

“I’m an MIT student!” I shout.

“Empty your pockets! Slowly!” they shout back. “Does she have a lighter on her?” one sergeant shouts to another, hoping, I later realize, to bolster their “hoax device” argument with the idea that the flower in my hand could be a blob of plastic explosive. For the next hour, I’m an “alleged” MIT student, until someone at my school can confirm it. Which MIT does, by issuing a press statement disowning me, based on the trickle of lies fed by early news reports. “As reported to us by authorities, Ms. Simpson’s actions were reckless and understandably created alarm at the airport,” reports my school’s news office. Their statement doesn’t help me feel any better.

“What is this?” an officer shouts, holding up the metal U-lock clipped to my bag.

“That’s a bike lock,” I respond.

“Why would you bring a bike lock to an airport?”

In the post-9/11 era, everything is suspect. I supply a reason for carrying a bike lock: “I bike.”

Within a few minutes of surrounding me and demanding I remove my sweatshirt for their inspection, the police and bomb squad realize my sweatshirt

Make: 47