Airports

I sit with Doña Helena and her cheery 5-year-old daughter from Managua to Atlanta. Helena, a native Nicaraguan tells me of her 20 years of life as an immigrant in Tennessee and her Mexican husband who works construction. She’s stressed about his current lack of work, and speaks of the US economy in its downward spiral towards crisis. Helena explains the division between Hispanics and whites in her town, choosing her words carefully. Her daughter, a native US citizen, only speaks a few words of English. The bubbly little one informs me that she can fly airplanes, and gives me a sly corner-of-the-mouth grin as she points to groups of people in the advertisements of Sky Magazine. “These aren’t my friends” she states, referring to an ad of white bikini-clad models sitting on a floating dock. I'd venture that "irony" is not on her short list of English vocabulary words.

Focused in tunnel vision in a brisk clip along a moving walkway, travelers move in herds through the Atlanta airport. I walk for twenty minutes, sauntering down the corridor and they pass me like water over a boulder. I don’t make eye contact with a single person. The sterile fluorescent lit air feels fabricated and stifling. A stars-and-stripes banner welcomes me to the glory of the United States of America and I am shooed through customs without a second glance.

My second flight finds me with Ron, a 50-some-year-old electrical engineer who talks of the six years he spent during his twenties teaching English in Thailand, Taiwan, China, and Japan. He believes in the importance of young people getting out in the world and the understanding of other cultures. I am warmed by his encouragement.

Everyone here whines about gas prices and debates continuously about the upcoming election.

I want a turkey sandwich but can’t stomach paying $7 for a few slabs of bread.

I will see my mom and Cece in four hours!!