I was on the connecting flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles.
Normally, you would find me going with the herd of humanistic cattle, that is, following delicately in line, taking my seat, turning on my
ipod, and focusing all my attentive thoughts on the challenging task of catching some shut eye (undoubtedly due to the lack of leg room and apparent deficiency of foam padding). However, seat 20B called for an atypical experience instead.
As I'm waiting patiently in line, offering a smile to those along side me, I happen to make the regretful yet
indispensable realization that this flight is going to be four hours of complete and utter spacial penetration. Immediately I look to the ground. After a few moments of self-governing the possible routes of the emotional spectrum I could enact due to this sudden
comprehension, I chose to see this as an opportunity to attempt the art of plane-slumber (thank the instilled
generational virtue of optimism). We begin boarding. It's always interesting when you walk through the first class section of the plane, noticing the individuals comfortably sitting in their over-sized futons, with drink and
complementary pretzels already in hand. This short pillage seems as if the engineers of the air craft purposely and
scrupulously enjoy to torment the 'others' - those who have to walk out of the curtained area only to rub shoulders and to carry the torches of awkward
conversations.
As I make my way to my seat, I find that I am undoubtedly the lucky middle man, that is, and none of my other air-born companions had arrived yet. Then I hear the universal pragmatic use of
communicative constitutive rules. Almost everyone has surely experienced this. The sound begins with a bit of a mumbling, and the obvious verbal tic.
Jujuan speaks.
"Um, ... um. Uh..."
I look up. He
understandably was trying to convey that I needed to move, as he was the jammy man to be seated next to the window. As I'm sitting in my seemingly 3 year old car seat, many thoughts begin to deluge my mind. Why had I immediately felt bitter towards a man whom I've never met, just trying to simply take his seat next to me?
Inconvenience - it has to be it. I stare at him, thinking to myself, preparing my mind and body for the next 4 hours of inept closeness. I was not
particularly in the mood to
systematically converse with any individual over the course of the flight, let alone a man whose linguistic performance could use a boost. Finally, as I notice down the line of hasty travelers waiting for
Jujuan to kindly take his seat, I respond.
"Oh, here, sorry."
With a mild distaste for the closeness of the seats, I clamber over 20C and pull myself out into the aisle. I try to watch my non-verbal cues, struggling to maintain an ounce of enthusiasm and positivism as well as controlling the obvious desire for the next 4 hours to hurriedly conclude, after all,
Jujuan, like any other traveler, would probably like to simply get to his destination as well.
We introduce ourselves, and as we get to talking I begin to see that it will be rather impossible to stop due to his inquisitive nature. My replies to his questions are
structurally short, hoping to indicate the lack of desire for
interrogations. While he's describing his current position in the work force, I notice Jose sit down on my right, yet purposely choose to not even glance in his direction. I laxly rub my eyes, and rest my head back on the seat.
Jujuan is still talking. We prepare for take off.
"What do you do - do you work?"
I begin to engage, after all, it's the least I could do. I look at
Jujuan and tell him my situation, and find out that he has never been to the west coast before, and Los Angeles seems like some sort of imaginative location, brimming with
possibilities. I let the notion sink in. All my life LA has been in the background, purposely placed out of the foreground due to its unappealing and obtuse nature. Sometimes I take things for granted, and
Jujuan made me realize that the county I live in is one entity that I've presumed trivial. The more we converse, I
unpredictably declare the need for every individual to visit it at least once, and draw their own conclusions of the area, rather than a dogmatic and epitome opinion of a somewhat
cantankerous passenger seated in 20B. He laughs, and the dialogue ensues.
The flight attendants have come by twice by this time, as we both enjoyed a couple of cups of
joe. Coffee, in its most rudimentary form, whether you petition black, iced, or with a touch of creamer and
Splenda, continues to
unpretentiously uphold it's remedial conventions concerning any situation. As a unique gift born amongst the Ethiopians, I amorously and
entertainingly cherish the tactic
undertakings it brings daily to its followers. Simply stated, coffee is seemingly the enchanted gateway to
interpersonal relations.
Jujuan asks me another question.
"What profession do you respect?"
I look at him kind of puzzled, confused at the violation of discursive
expectations. I had liberally shared the fact that I do not know what I'm going to do with my life, let alone, what I should be doing tomorrow. I expressed my desires for travel, and the hopes of one day having a family, but no real
occupational plan. He stared at me, raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner, and asked the question again. I look away and respond
mechanically how I respect all careers, because it takes a dedicated and hard working individual to keep their employment.
Jujuan is not satisfied. He begins to ask if I respect the bouncers at the club, or the women dancing on poles. I look at him and can't help but smile. This guy's good, and can easily see right through my rhetorical ploys.
"Once you find a profession that you honest to goodness respect, you'll know what you want to do."
He smiled and went on to read his book, as I clicked the play button on my
ipod and looked to the ceiling. I thought hard about the entities of respect.
I
surprisingly drone in and out of
consciousness while listening to the methodical
rhythms of Blue October. At this point, two hours had gone by, and my in-flight experience had changed drastically from my initial perceptions. I take out my ear buds, and let out a sigh of complacency. Jose seemed to notice. He looks straight ahead in an introverted manner, juxtaposing that of
Jujuan, and
unexpectedly strikes up a
conversation. With his hands folded in his lap, he questions me.
"So I heard you are a
Communication major?"
I look at him, and let out a
lighthearted remark overflowing with sarcasm relating to the act of
eavesdropping. Come to find out, Jose enlisted in the Marines, and has currently been all over central Europe and has not been home in 5 years. I cringe at the thought, after all, 5 years is a very, very long time to be away from someone. Jose has never gone to college, but described his desire to attend after his military service completion. Ironically enough, he was born and raised in the same town that I am currently living in, and once we engaged in the rhetorical similarity strategy, I noticed Jose begin to relax, and the
conversation flowed freely.
We began talking politics. Jose obviously did not know how strongly opinionated I am, nor to what extent I was
knowledgeable with current economic and worldly affairs. Somehow we got onto the topic of country dependence, and I was arguing the need for self-reliance and autonomy for the United States. I get incredibly riled up, so to speak, especially when debating topics where I have
legitimized supporting evidence and can make the varying claims. I'm sure passengers in at least row 11 could hear my boisterous
outbursts and assertions.
Jujuan was still reading his book. Jose decided to throw some ideas back.
"If we become more independent, don't you think there will be more land fills?"
I couldn't help but laugh. I questioned him back, asking if he could explain the correlation or immediate relevance that land fills had with the current state of affairs in regards to our country's economic enslavement. He talked in circles, and at that moment I had appreciated all that my professors had taught me thus far, and the ability to listen, interpret, and understand what an individual is saying - something I believe a vast majority of people tend to overlook. Jose finished his cyclical speech,
interjecting the issue of global warming as well as new
Toyota's, and I accepted this form of jargon for what it was. He finished, and concluded with a single statement.
"It would just be really hard."
My smile grew. I looked at him, and
instinctively thought to myself and let out a laugh.
"That's what she said."
Another hour had past.
Jujuan had set aside his book, Jose was offering myself some
complimentary cookies, and I was happily accepting. The three of us sat there, shoulder to shoulder, and loudly conversed over the planes
intrusional noises throughout the remainder of the flight. We covered topics on life and love and the struggles they bring.
Jujuan had found his soul mate, but had made some substandard decisions in his life that seemed to keep her just out of reach. He was traveling all the way to Los Angeles to tell her how he feels. Jose, on the other hand, had a broken family, and was returning home on leave to make sure everything was
satisfactory. He is only 21. I couldn't help but sit back and
relinquish in the fact that I had genuinely made two friends. I can't figure out why its so hard for me to create a desire for bonds in California, be it the acceptance of the current relations I have, or the lack of time available, I seem to just simply, not fit in. Yet, somehow, 38,000 feet above the ground, on flight 50, seat 20B, I was able to connect.
I looked out the window out into the dusk with the differing hues cast upon the clouds in an artistic manner. There was a
thunderstorm occurring in the distance, a sight I had never witnessed above the clouds, to say the least, even if it came a day too late. The pilot had issued over the speakers that we would be preparing for landing soon, and the flight attendants hurried their trash carts down the aisle. We all fastened our seat belts. I grabbed a napkin, and pulled out a pen.
Jujuan handed us his
business card, as Jose and I scribbled our information down on the 4 x 4 serviette.
We landed. The three of us stood and waited to get our luggage like old friends, and I
inadvertently felt a touch of
desolution once I saw my suitcase. I grabbed it, said good luck to both of the men, and walked outside the terminal to the busy and
exasperating lifestyle that LA brings.
One thing for sure, is the fact that I am thankful. The life that I'm living may not be exactly what I want nor expect, yet somehow I find contentment in the mere thought itself. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know where I belong. What I do know, though, is in the midst of this
undetermined existence, individuals continue to give me hope, reminding me to be
appreciative of the moment.
Psalm 39:7,
CourtReplies
An old book lies to my right, and bare shelves harbor me overhead. Post-it notes reflecting archaic remembrances lie in the most uncanny and remote residencies. Like an unkempt garden, dried flowers still seem to maintain their enchantment and romanticism as I carefully pack them away into an over-sized shoe box. I gently pick up a leaf that elegantly fell to the floor. I hold on to it desperately and shut my eyes tight, hoping some paranormal event will transpire. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel much of anything.
