As I boarded the plane I looked down at 17E, a middle seat, on a fully booked flight and sighed with dismay. To the left of me sat a seemingly mute Native American, at first I guessed Navajo but later decided he was obviously from Mayan decent thus his flight to Phoenix. I thought about that class I took sophomore year, Native American Literature. Was there anything interesting I could somehow recall to impress this man? No. Surely he would know I was a friend to the Indians after I pulled out my National Geographic. Instead I opted for the US Weekly so I could see what was happening in the world of Brangelina.
On my right sat a Mexican mother with her little daughter (my guess 1 and a half) who was propped on her lap. Shortly after take off the baby became livelier. She began to tug at my magazine. After some back and forth I finally gave it to her and smiled as she ripped Fergie in half and tossed her to the floor, yikes. I then decided that if the plane were to crash I would raise this young baby as my own. She was cute enough and we obviously had a connection. What would I name her? Leah Jr? Her mother smiled at me and I nodded back feeling sorry that she would not survive the crash nor raise Leah Jr. whom she clearly adored.
The duration of the flight was short and soon we began to descend from the sky. It was right about this time that the baby took what I can only assume was the largest diaper filler of the century. The gagging smell accosted my nostrils and I think I saw the mute Native American wince. I looked pleadingly at the mother who only continued to bounce the now crying baby on her lap. It was obvious that her mother was not going to get up and change the girl’s diaper but she did nothing to quiet the distressed thing. It was at this time that I decided I would not rescue and raise this child if the plane were to crash. It would be up to old Squanto to do the honors.
I left that plane and wandered the Phoenix airport with nostalgic memories of my original flight to LA. I sat at that very stool, chatting with strangers excitedly about palm trees and ocean. LA was wonderful, wasn’t it? And to think I was leaving it all behind… How did I come to this decision so quickly? Was it the horror of real life working? Surely not, after all I had worked forty to fifty hour weeks in Spain. I had tried to be creative, hadn’t I? What could I do that would allow me some meager financial stability, keep me out of corporate land and give me ridiculous amounts of vacation time to travel? Yes, yes, a travel writing job would be marvelous… but financial stability did not live within said occupation. Am I crazy to be going back to school? Will I make a good teacher? Where will I go after? Isn’t life wonderful! Change.
Humility lives in my mother’s basement, where consequently I now call home.