Carryon knives: thwarting kindness at a checkpoint near you

I touched down in Cincinnati, finally, after 24 hours in the air and 6 on the ground for a sleepy Paris layover. Unbelievably, the last security checkpoint nearly kept me from home. Northern Kentucky/Covington Airport (CVG) does not differentiate between passengers who are arriving in Cincinnati and those who are catching connecting flights; we all go through the same security. After scanning my luggage for containers of liquid for at least the third time, I stepped up to the x-ray machine.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes,” I responded, still unsteady speaking in English.
“Is this your bag?” she asked, tired as I was and certainly more peevish.
She rummaged through my purse, a small carryon that had gone through security once in Nouakchott and twice in Charles de Gaulle. What she was looking for was beyond my guess.
“Is this your knife?”
I was speechless. One of the many knives I usually carry in Atar was hanging from her gloved fingers. I hadn’t found it when packing for the states, neither had three rounds of security checkpoints and guards. I stammered out an apology and explained that I was arriving in Cincinnati after a day of travel, could we just pass the knife through and I could go home no problem?

Anger better intended for negligent security across the ocean lashed out: she was furious I had “smuggled” a weapon onto two flights. “You wanna keep this?” she spat. I had to backtrack to customs, miraculously find my checked luggage before they sent it to baggage claim, and ask a guard to place the knife inside. Inside a bag that would travel 30 feet on a conveyor belt and immediately back into my possession. I could see baggage claim through the glass doors. I imagined my mother standing on the other side of those doors, waiting. I petitioned again, to no avail. I looked at the small pocket knife, a beautiful, compact blade that had weathered bush taxis and desert hiking and Mauritanian cooking and then looked back at the glass doors. The promise of a shower and a nap was too strong. “Just keep it,” I sighed, gathering the scattered contents of my bag. “It’s just not worth the hassle.”

The security agent should have been pleased that the system worked. Here was an unsuspecting passenger robbed of her unintentionally packed weapon, too tired to protest. Instead, she looked all the more perturbed that I wasn’t willing to endure the system 20 minutes longer to keep my knife. She seemed defeated, unable to (further) impede my progress through the maze of airport security. I slipped my toes into Mauritanian shower sandals and stepped through the glass doors, in search of my mom, her air conditioned car, and a nap between crisp sheets.