I had my sunglasses on and my hood up. The moment the plane’s ascent ended, I opened my laptop, put on my headphones, and played a Yale lecture on De-con-struc-tion, which I’m certainly no expert on. I saw no need/ interest in the pudgy man I was sharing the cramped space of two economy class seats with.
Paul Fry was recapping “the relationship between synchrony and diachrony and the pivotal importance of this concept, not only for semiotics but for its aftermath in structuralism.” I needed the definitions for synchrony and diachrony.
I opened my dictionary program but I had no Internet and decided early on it was a waste of money. As the jolly Yale lecturer spoke on, the list of words I didn’t understand grew.
The man, in the meantime, pulled out his Ipad. Next to it, my huge, heavy Macbook with its dented corner and missing #7 key looked like an embarrassing old relic.
When the power died, I began to work on a paper: a psychoanalytic, postcolonial critique on Prospero of the Tempest, which was ultimately as precious as it sounds. Prospero was a trauma victim but he also had access to resources and more advanced technology than the inhabitants of the island he was marooned on. I wanted to suggest that Ariel and Caliban could be understood as being like nanotechnology whose individual histories were being superceded by Prospero’s narrative… only I got tired and I was bothered by the list of words which had no definition and I was just pissed that the Internet cost so much. Also, I couldn’t determine of my refusal to pay for it meant that I was being cheap or just living within my means.
“Did you ever find the meaning of diachronic?”
Paul, as it turns out, taught Latin for 14 years. He was born in New York City but lived with his girlfriend and her 4 year old son. He had two dogs and a big, sunny backyard. He was writing a memoir about the time he spent in Romania doing volunteering with orphan children. He showed me pictures of all this on his brand new iPhone. Whenever conversation lulled, I’d return to my paper. He gave me the invaluable etymology of “Miranda.” The name’s a gerundive Shakespeare coined. In connotes wonder, bewilderment, spectacle, and, of course, the kicker, the all important gaze.
I was moved by his excitement. His wife was going to pick him up from the airport in Los Angeles. They had made plans to stop by the hardware store on the way home to buy paint and make their already picturesque home even more beautiful. I took it as a good sign and a beautiful omen. At this point, I didn’t need the dictionary. He conveniently gave me definitions complete with etymologies and along with with anecdotes about his travels and hobbies.
We exchanged sandwich halves. He asked me about school. He asked me about my parents and I told him about their disapproval of my studies which had, over the past few years, become a silent resignation. And, of course, he told me that he thought I was brave and courageous for my commitment to my passion. He was really so good at stirring up my ego. At this, I felt a little bit like an impostor. I was just looking forward to landing, getting picked up by my boyfriend, and going to a concert. I thought of this man, Paul, whose overpriced shirt was now covered in crumbs from the sandwich I made at home that morning, as a good omen. At this point we had established the sort of intimacy that only comes from the knowledge that this would be our only meeting.
He asked me where I came from. I told him I was born in the Philippines. He prefaced his response with a warning that he wasn’t racist. After all, he had complimented my intellect. Paul explained to me that just as height is more attractive on a man, some qualities are just more attractive on a woman: red hair, shortness, and being Asian. But he told me with this with the safeguard of that intimacy and I had mocked his yuppie attire and gadgets so, in a way, he had earned the right to be a little offensive because he was just being provocative. Or something. I told him that I didn’t think this was true but didn’t argue more than that.
I returned to my paper and developed an outline. We had about two hours left on the flight and the tension of his slip was somewhat forgotten. I talked about the reasons for my trip. A move to San Francisco seemed perfect. I shared the fantasy I had of it: living in a small but well lit apartment with some birds and a dog near good coffee, the bay, cheap books, commodified Beat culture, my dream school, and my boyfriend. This trip was one of the first steps towards making this scenario a reality. We talked about his life some more, about how he dealt with problematic students by trying to incorporate them into his classroom rather than punishing them and how his girlfriend wasn’t fond of heavy food in the morning. I was charmed by the story of his life. The image of him was a good omen. I wanted so badly for it to be a good omen for my future.
As the plane began it’s descent, I told him I was nervous. The window faced the plane’s wings and there was something sort of threatening about their flaps. As childish as it may sound, I wanted reassurance and affirmation about the future from this stranger. So when he put his hand on my leg, I was crushed. I thought of his girlfriend, his dogs, his students. Then I looked at his gadgets and his yuppie shirt stained from the airplane’s terrible coffee. He didn’t respond when I asked him what he was doing but he took his hand away. I couldn’t look at him again and, in a combination of cowardice and disappointment, I couldn’t muster up a greater display of my offense.
We gathered our things and exited the plane together. At the airport, we shook hands. He wished me luck on my bright future and I knew it meant nothing at all.
