Somewhere above Ohio.
It’s December 22nd, 2022. I’m sitting in the airport as I write this. Specifically, I’m seated at my gate as I await my flight home for the holidays. My laptop’s charging on the seat next to me. My black Bob Evans coffee cools on the windowsill behind me, gazing longingly onto the tarmac. Composition notebook resting on my lap, the spine bent backward and pulled taut by my other hand, I’m writing using my new Pilot Metropolitan fountain pen, a recent splurge for myself on account of the season. In my carry-on you may find three pairs of pants, some shirts, more underwear than I could ever conceive of wearing in five days’ time, and gifts for my mother, father, and sister—yet to be wrapped. I just ate an egg and cheese bagel. It was $6 or $7—I can’t remember exactly—and I was disappointed by how small and bland it was. Yet, I feel myself wanting another. People contain multitudes.
I was supposed to fly out on the 23rd, but was presented the opportunity to change my flight on account of Winter Storm Elliott (I don’t like that they gave it a name; it makes it seem more dangerous that way), so I took them up on it. I’ll be flying out just ahead of time to beat the storm—or so I thought. Though skies remain clear here in sunny, tropical Ohio, my mother has informed me that the snow has already begun back home in Illinois. I’ve been outsmarted once again.
There’s something rather embarrassing about coming home for the first time after moving away and starting a new chapter of your life. It’s just so unsubtle, even by my standards, and I’m about as subtle as that one Macklemore song about the Seattle Mariners:
My city, my city
Childhood, my life
That's right under those lights
It's my city, my city
Childhood, my life
Etc., etc.
Here I am, re-entering God Emperor Pritzker’s domain in my Cleveland Guardians hat and thrifted Westerville North High School varsity jacket, bearing gifts that consist solely of Ohio State merchandise—two shirts, a pillow and throw set, a couple boxes of Buckeye chocolates (yes, that school has officially licensed confectionery). I feel like a bad screenwriter’s attempt at establishing a character as Ohioan.
I’m on the plane now, surrounded by strangers as so often happens on planes. There’s something I love about being in transit. Not the logistical aspect of planning and executing travel; as someone still working on establishing object permanence, it’s always pretty overwhelming for me. I’m no globetrotter. Nor am I talking about enjoying the destination, though I’m fortunate enough to have enjoyed a solid 90% of the places I’ve been to. I’m talking about the love of transit as a status; of being transited, and existing in transitory places.
My fountain pen ran out of ink, and I don’t want to replace the cartridge right now, as I would surely make a mess, and I don’t have anywhere to throw the empty cartridge away. I’ve had to downgrade to a gel pen. A Pilot G-2—an old high school favorite. At least it’s not a ballpoint. And we’re almost to Chicago already, barely fifty minutes in. This trip would’ve taken seven hours driving at least. Technology—always impressive. Did you know the Thai word for airplane, เครื่องบิน, translates literally to “flying machine?” And the word for socks to “feet bags?” And the word for heart to “soul-head?” Beautiful—my kind of language. I sure would like some soul-head. Anyway.
I love to be in transit and to inhabit transit-related spaces. Flying and airports least of all, because flying is expensive and hurts my ears. But they’re still great fun. Long distance buses and associated depots and stops are better; the extreme inconvenience of all aspects of sustained bus travel is, to me, outweighed by the farcical nature of it all. But like any good socialist, I like trains and train stations best. From crossing the Mississippi River at sunset to head into St. Louis the summer after high school (my first time traveling alone); to seeing my first real mountains as we cut through Appalachia on the Amtrak from D.C. to Chicago two summers ago; to all those times I sat in Union Station and watched what seemed to be the entire population of the universe pass by my bench; to drunkenly wandering the streets of my college down on dead winter nights, the freight cars’ endless wailing piercing me from a distance . . . I have no shortage of fond memories involving trains.
If the floors in these places were any cleaner, I would like to press my hands against them, and feel the residue of all the lives that have passed through them, and trace the sub-elements of all those lives—all the hope, the worry, the anticipation, the love, the fear that people experienced as they marched toward whoever or whatever awaited them. These places are possessed of an energy that cannot be replicated anywhere else. Life doesn’t so often spoon-feed you such easy opportunities to appreciate its ephemerality and universality.
We’ve landed at O’Hare. Land of Lincoln, your prodigal son has returned. Legalized recreational marijuana, abortion rights, sportsbetting—how I’ve missed you. Although sportsbetting will be legal in Ohio starting next month. The other two will be a harder sell for that state, I think. I’m going to take a little break before I get on the bus home.
So many lives have passed through this airport. Lives in their beginning, middle, or end. It was in this airport itself—separately—that my mother and father became Americans. They were both born and raised in Bangkok in the ‘60’s, but didn’t meet until they were living in Chicago in the ‘90s. Two people who grew up miles away from one another, only to meet decades later in a distant city on the other side of the Earth. And when they met, they married and had children. A beautiful story, yet I imagine there are millions of Americans with stories just like ours. Even if you limited it to just those stories where O’Hare Airport played a role.
It’s incredible being in a place like this. I wish I could communicate that in some way to the people around me without making it weird. I can’t exactly turn to the woman sitting next to me and go, “Hello, I just wanted to say, I’ve been thinking about this airport, and how it makes me feel so connected to everybody who has ever passed through here. I’m so grateful to be able to sit here and watch all these people come and go.” But I can’t do that, because then she would think I was strange, and travel is stressful enough without having to deal with strange people.
On the bus now. The driver has the thickest Sconnie accent I’ve ever heard, and it warms my heart. I never thought I could be nostalgic for nasally vowels.
And I’m home. The first time I’ve been home in four months and some change. Things are a little different, though mostly the same. I imagine I am too. My mother, father, and sister are as well as capitalism permits them to be. The dog is still blind and still old, but has plenty of love left to give. His fur’s gotten so long; he looks like a mad scientist. The most significant development in the household is that they have a minifridge now. It was gifted to them by a cousin graduating college. Good for them. I don’t know what kind of revelation I was expecting coming home. I suppose life is lived in increments like that. A winter storm blows in; your son visits from out-of-state; you procure a minifridge.
We watched Elvis to end the night. A pretty crazy movie. My mom liked it, and my father stayed awake the entire runtime, which he almost never does with movies. About the closest he ever gets to saying he enjoyed something is staying awake for the duration.
I’ll leave you now. Thank you for allowing me to post my meandering, unformed ramblings and call it content. Or, in case this is the post that finally gets you to unsubscribe, I want you to know that I understand, and I hope you use your freed-up reading time well. Like by reading more Le Guin, for example. I’m sorry this is not the more focused kind of writing that you’re used to seeing from me, and of course for being so late. I had finals! My very first law school finals! They were pretty stressful, if you can believe it.
I’ll be back in regular form in January. I’m not sure what to write about yet. I started working on a piece about Springsteen, but didn’t get far. A friend let me borrow their Disney Plus log-in to watch Andor. If I actually get around to seeing it, I might write about Star Wars, if you can stomach that. Otherwise, let me know what you’d like to see from me.
For now, get warm, stay safe, and have a happy holiday. May you find the right people, places, and things to give you shelter from the storm. I hope you eat some delicious food, although it won’t be half as good as my mother’s.
P.S. — I know the holiday season is an intensely difficult time for many people. If you feel yourself needing it, don’t stop yourself from reaching out for help. You can speak with a crisis counselor by texting HOME to 741741 or dialing 988.
Image credit:
By Ty Zhang - Own work, Public Domain.