“Where would you fly if you could?” she asked.
“What do you mean, If I could? I can! I can fly anywhere I want. I’ve done it. Hundreds of times,” I reply.
Yeah, yeah. So, what if I can only fly when I’m sleeping, when I’m dreaming? It sure as hell feels real for me every time. When I soar in my dreams, I’m unencumbered by things as hefty, as ungainly, as the enormous shell of an airplane wrapped around me, all metal and plastic, engines roaring a never-ending din. When I’m flying in my dreams I’m not buckled into a seat that’s too small for my shapely body. There’s not a seatbelt extender in sight.
I’m not squeezed in with hordes of others, crammed like chickens in overstuffed cages, all destined to arrive at the same place, only to deplane and scatter, to frantically try to catch their connecting flights, hoping not to miss them, perseverating in advance, wondering what they’ll do if they don’t make that next flight. The meeting they’ll miss, or damn, their grandmother’s funeral! They berate themselves for booking connecting flights with no extra time to get to that gate that feels like it’s miles away. They hover anxiously at baggage pickup, praying that their luggage arrived when they did. They look for the hot pink ID tag that separates their suitcase from the others…it doesn’t hurt that the suitcase is bright orange as well. All those people, trying to get cabs/Ubers/Lyfts/limos, searching for their rides. Their drivers are tired-looking people holding bent pieces of cardboard with a last name scrawled in big black block letters, or on more tech-savvy iPads, waiting to take them to the place where they’ll be staying. The cars are ordered in advance, a courtesy from the tech company they have an interview with in 17 minutes, when they’re 43 minutes away, and only if there are no sudden accidents on the highway to make them even later. Or they’re searching the crowd for their great uncle Max, who’s 88 years old. He’s come to pick them up, even though he really shouldn’t be driving anymore, he’s got terrible cataracts that he refuses to have removed because he’s afraid the doctor will slip and blind him. No one has the heart to tell him he’s already almost there. And his reflexes? They’re not what they used to be…the whole family agrees. But no one’s brave enough to take his keys away.
Nope, mine is a solo flight. No jetway to walk down to get to the flight attendants greeting me at the plane’s door, “Hello, thank you for flying Jet Black. We’re so glad you’re with us today!” No, they’re not. They’re paid to say that. How can they do that job? It seems so boring and bleak, yet dangerous at the same time. I could never do it. My flight has no bulkheads, no carts in the aisle bringing me substandard food and tiny bottles of vodka, though I must admit, the peanuts are still weirdly satisfying.
I don’t have to sit through life vest demonstrations, even though we won’t be flying over any bodies of water on this particular flight. I don’t have to listen to the “Put the oxygen mask on you first, before you help the child sitting next to you” lecture. I know I’d screw that up. Because if bad things happen on a flight, I’ll fall apart, I’ll cry and scream, pee myself, and probably pass out. I’ll be of no use to anyone. I know this for a fact. That kid sitting next to me will be shit out of luck.
On my solo flight, I am fearless. I’m completely brave. It never occurs to me to be afraid. I am absolutely fine, but not arrogant about it. I’m completely in my body. Expansive. Not shoehorned into a seat that feels 4 sizes too small for me. Or claustrophobic in the lavatory, bouncing off the walls, jostled in a fit of turbulence. I’d fall off the toilet if it weren’t so tight in there, the walls closing in. I think of the mile-high club, wondering how anyone could imagine that was a great place for a covert fuck. Too freaking kinky for me, any day of the week, and so completely unsanitary, it makes my skin crawl.
There is no baggage stowed above me or under the seat in front of me. There’s no seat at all. There are no snacks and drinks on my flight, no worrying that the guy sitting three rows ahead of me might be a drunken MAGA dude with a concealed weapon that somehow got through security, looking for a fight with some big city snowflake lefty, or the guy muttering to himself who might be a hijacker. I don’t have to think of things like that at all on my solo flights. No tray tables to place in their upright and locked positions prior to landing.
While I’m soaring, arms held by my sides, or one arm out in front of me, doing my best Captain Marvel impersonation, I dip down low to fly over trees, and the house I grew up in, or the apartment building where my grandmother lived in Brooklyn when I was a little girl. I fly through the classrooms of my childhood, with precision and speed. There are no obstacles on my flights. I’m a nimble navigator, Amelia Earhart without the mechanical trappings of all that machinery. I don’t take a plunge into the Bermuda Triangle
I make hairpin turns, stopping short in midair, and I hover like a hummingbird or the Golden Snitch. I can do anything, stop and start, zoom up to the clouds, and race down to earth, coming to a halt just centimeters, no, millimeters from the ground. I can change directions and zip back up, bursting through low-hanging clouds, the air cool and thin. I am utterly powerful, completely invincible.
And all the time, through every flight, the underlying thought is always: “This is real, right? I’m really doing this. I know I am.” But beneath those dream thoughts is my waking mind, longing for this gift to linger, if I can just reach out and grab hold of it and keep it close. It feels so real…but I know I’m sleeping. Please let it be real. I think if I wish hard enough, this magical, transcendent ability will follow me into my day. In those moments just after waking I believe with all my heart that I can fly whenever and wherever I want.
As I come to full consciousness, I know that although embodied flight is only possible in my dreams, the gift of flight is within me. I can soar and feel powerful and free. I can accomplish feats that I once thought impossible. I am, in fact, very capable of conjuring that magic and wonder in my daily life, when I stay awake to those moments and possibilities.
With thanks to Abigail Thomas for her two-page writing exercises in Thinking About Memoir, a genius of a book that is sadly out of print right now, but hopefully not forever… Look for used copies online!
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Watching your solo flight in real life has been conjuring magic in mine. I love flying next to you.
What a beautiful essay. You are the real deal.