Field Notes of an Airplane Cabin by TJ Kallaher

Under siege of eyes, I waited my turn to be placed, neatly tucked into this flying filing cabinet. I felt them all watch, peeling back my clothes, scanning my shoes for scuffs; a girl glanced at my watch and the skunk that lives inside of it: a memoir to my mother’s heritage. All the way down to my skin, I was assessed. Growing out of adolescence has been useful in that, now, I can control when my honed apathy should be in use. However, what of the souls who never learned my trick? Fuck them! What happens to me when I’m feeling vulnerable? Perhaps, and only perhaps, as a form of argument, I am being paranoid. To assume that the populace perceives their peers before them on a stand, a pedestal of judgement, is overzealous and dramatic. I mock that numbed optimism, or, better yet, ignorant opinion.

As I settled and blended, their averted attentions were quickly placed on monotonous, menial tasks: organizing electronics, scanning the in-flight safety tips for the thousandth time; like bees in a hive, working towards a specific goal: ascent. I watched everyone and thought of the diversity of personality lost in passenger’s embrace of the technological era. It seems as though one can see the individuality emit from all of these consumers’ skins when they exit the Apple store, or the local Verizon Wireless traps. The material possessions push us together; they threaten to even place us as equals. However, this Boeing possessed divine knowledge to which I seemed oblivious. These harbored apostles saw the souls and intentions of their fellow ship mates.  Once my rucksack of goodies was stored under the seat in front of me, I begrudgingly adjusted my pathetic safety belt, and camouflaged myself among them. It hadn”t occurred to me until now that Peter himself had scanned my ticket at Hartsfield Jackson Airport’s very own gate A30, shimmering with pearls as it was.

There weren’t any terrorists, drug dealers, or rapists on board. At least, none of them were blatantly advertising it. My aisle seat made sure of it. I was hall monitor. The straight shot view gave me a perched sniper position to easily spot anybody deranged heading for coach. Waiting and watching, I grew bored and stared at a mom and her daughter a few rows ahead. The toddler was maybe two years of age. She bobbed up and down floppily, like a lone buoy in a sea unfit for the most hearty of sailors. Pulled closer momentarily, her relentless raging sea of knee bobbing halted, then resumed as a figure passed. How could I have fallen down on my duties? I had let down the fate of the plane. We were all headed for the nearest Twin Towers. My eyes flicked up to catch a man wearing a crisp new Nike shirt, pressed and colorful, a flat-billed Atlanta Braves hat, and baggy-styled jeans. He was casually inching his way down the rows of seats, checking between his e-ticket and the seat numbers, awaiting the “comfort” of his seat.

A false alarm, I wasn’t going to lose my self-appointed badge. The mother had lost a great deal of my respect, however, and she may have lost a tooth, too, if the estranged man would have seen the reaction that his presence generated among the demigod passengers that looked upon him with disdain. Two steps back for humanity. Three points deducted from Apple, you were close… but no cigar. You’re just going to have to do better than the iPhone. Apparently, black people are not allowed to own them.

The engines roared deceitfully, as they taxied us. We rolled and sputtered around the runway, everyone now seated and my position now relaxed, at a stand still. I prepared for my favorite part of the trip: takeoff. My eyes watered, my ears popped, my stomach dropped, and I cracked a smile. G-force is my guilty pleasure. I could live on a roller-coaster. I joined the troops and slid out my mp3 player once we were cruising and comfortable, or the captain was. The turbulence rocked me to numbness. Another easy flight.

Near the bathroom, diligently, I approved the attendee’s hall passes, and watched them run to relief at five thousand feet. Mid-flight, I watched a man arise, like Gandhi, his every move so carefully noted. His beard taken in like a sermon for Seventh Day Adventists. Like clockwork, the heads of the onlookers turned away, embarrassed, as he shuffled to the water closet. A wave of tension came with the averted eyes. It swelled and ran past him. Our very own emotional tsunami. It was judgment day again as he came back. This time, the veteran eyes of the plane couldn’t fear the rear of him. The retinas stayed glued, tracing him like he was physically impaired. Searching his traditional Muslim attire. Were they really taking him as a threat? Four steps back for humanity. Five more minutes until landing. Six more hours until my Audio Theory homework was due. A century of integration, and still no signs of equality.