I’ve always liked flying in airplanes. I can still remember wearing those plastic wings flight attendants would give me when I was very young. It’s strange, then, that I’ve woken up twice recently in a cold sweat from a dream in which I was in an airplane crash. Now, when there are those moments of turbulence as the plane is taking off, I’m scared. Logically, I know I shouldn’t be, but those nightmares have left me with just enough fear that being in the air hasn’t been the same for me since.
Airports are strange places. I’ve always thought of flight as a monument to human genius — some lift here and thrust there and poof, flying metal objects. The airport, conversely, is the fine print of flying. Somewhere in between the security lines and recycled air, the romance fades, complimentary pretzels be damned.
The best part about flying, though, is spatial. Closing one’s eyes for an hour or two and then waking up to an unfamiliar skyline is as close as we will ever get to magic. Having someone you love waiting on the other end is even better.
In my book, the dean of writing has a name: John McPhee. He thinks, in so many words, the art of writing comes down to omission and writing about what interests you. The funny part of being a columnist is that I can write about a broad range of topics on a given afternoon. Sometimes it’s a tough decision. Do I include anecdotes about my family Thanksgiving soccer game or running into my friend Herbie at the airport? Are those things important to anyone besides me? No, but at least you know I’m only sort-of afraid of flying sometimes. The qualifiers, by the way, are for me, not you.
You are now probably asking yourself why I have wasted time writing about airplanes when I want to use this space for reflections on the meaning of Thanksgiving. Fair enough.
Airplanes are not only semi-magical objects — they are also constant reminders of thankfulness and luck. I am not only thankful I can take a flight home to visit my family, I am lucky I was born in a time and place where such convenience exists. The even crazier thing is that I’m both grateful and lucky to even be able to write a few measly paragraphs about flying at all. Think about it: those paragraphs, written on a computer, in a first world country, are themselves a manifestation of privilege. It’s the little things and the big things. I am even luckier to have a family who loves me in the first place. Even the brief flash of fear I feel while flying can be crushed by rationality and logic, tools I have earned and been given in various ways throughout my development.
I think about this a lot, what it means to be lucky in the undeniable sense everyone who reads this is. One response is the collective shrug: life has more in common with the lottery than any of us care to admit, but that’s life, or so the trope goes. The unfairness of this placates some people and offends others. I am in the latter camp. The second response, which is more difficult, is to admit we owe something to the less fortunate simply because we are not them. This isn’t quite a moral imperative, but it comes close.
It’s standard to say Thanksgiving is about family, which is true. But I prefer to think of Thanksgiving as being about those who don’t have family or good fortune in an equal sense.
For Thanksgiving, my family donated food. It was a small gesture and it was not enough. But, it was a start. So, as the holiday season rolls along, it’s easy to be thankful for friends and family. But even things like stress from school, or a fear of flying, are in strange ways things to be thankful for. Happy Holidays.
Drew’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. He can be reached at d.ricciardone@cavalierdaily.com.
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