I am in the Atlanta airport waiting for my plane to board. I have just dashed through the airport, wanting to make it to my flight from the international terminal where I had had an uneventful run through immigration and customs. My daughter and I have come off of a 14 hour flight, and we have just about 3 more hours to go until we reach Texas. I give my daughter a plastic baggie filled with chick-peas to chomp on while we are waiting. I have also just purchased a cinnamon bun from Cinnabon, some bottled water, and a carton of milk. My daughter decides to throw all of the chickpeas on the floor at the gate waiting area. I scoop them up in my hand and look around for a trash can in the vicinity. No such luck. For some reason, there is not a trash can near to the gate. I don’t want to have to pick up all of our stuff, the diaper bag, the stroller, the carry-on and go too far to look for a trashcan. I go up to the man at the gate counter and ask him if he has a waste basket. “My daughter has just thrown her snack all over the floor,” I say. He looks at me, registering my hijab. He silently picks up the trash can and holds it out to me. I think he is handing it to me. I am kind of grossed out by touching a trash can, but I grab hold of it and try to walk away. “NO! NO! NO MA’AM! Don’t do that!” He shouts, grabbing my wrist and squeezing it tightly. I let go of the trash can and toss some chick peas inside. Women in hijab are too much of a security risk to be trusted with a little waste basket, I guess. I am just a petite little pregnant lady. Very dangerous looking, I can only imagine. I ignore his rudeness and say, “My daughter made a mess over there. I just need to throw some chick-peas away.” He looks through me and says sternly, “Don’t worry about it, a janitor will clean it up.” Um, okay. I walk back to where my daughter is stationed in her stroller. I open the Cinnabon bun box and we share a few bites of the giant sweet roll with some sips of water and milk. The plane is boarding now. I scoop up my things and roll my daughter towards the gate, sheepishly leaving the chickpeas, half eaten Cinnabon bun, milk, and water where we were sitting. I feel really embarrassed about the pile I am leaving. I imagine all of the other passengers are thinking “Dirty Arabian lady,” because of the mound of trash on the floor. I hate these kinds of incidents. I want to look at them and say, “There is no trash can! That man told me to leave my trash on the floor!” I just avoid their eyes. It is always the worst at the aiport, I tell myself. At least no one picked on you in immigration or customs this time. We have to walk down a flight of stairs and walk on pavement outside for a while to reach the plane. Two kindly men offer to help with my carry-on piece and stroller. Thank god not everyone is a freakin’ jackass!