I was seated on an uncomfortable chair typical of airports at the John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York City for the first time during the summer I became a rising senior in high school, which only seems like yesterday. My pregnant backpack is on the seat to my right-hand side, while my dripping wet umbrella is drowned in its own puddle on the carpet just adjacent to my left foot. In many ways, NYC was like Berkeley; the constant hustle and bustle of crowds, the stock exchange of decaying numbers (akin to fluctuating student GPAs), and the endless pursuit-minded goal-oriented culture of the city all mimicked Berkeley in a sense that only Cal students can relate to. Flying solo was beautiful, but for now, it was break time. Two rows in front of me were five aircraft crew-members, three of which were male pilots, and three of which were slim-and-trim female flight attendants. One pilot, on the right corner of the row, had attracted my utmost attention. He also happened to sit closest to my line of sight.
He reminded me of someone in middle school, in almost all aspects. As I stared rudely at him to trace his exact features, I found that he had vanished from his leather seat, leaving just his dark navy coat hanging on his carry-on luggage. He returned soon after with a Starbucks venti beverage in his hand. He had dazzling chocolate hair – not the kind doused with hair gel, but the kind that deserved its own native atmosphere – and he walked with a mild sense of authority that didn’t detract from his general personality as a …. civilian citizen. Did this description make sense? It did – to me because I was there in the fullness of that moment, experiencing the existence of his very presence. It didn’t seem apparent that this individual had been trained to operate planes and handle so vital a job as flying a device that carries more than hundreds of souls. But then again, every career does not carry a mental uniform. Aside from his awe-inspiring gait, he had a medium height – just perfect. His face was shaped like that of a squirrel’s – the popular creatures that epitomize the UC Berkeley student experience – and he lacked an Adam’s Apple. Still, his cheekbones shone through. He didn’t embody athleticism – at least not at the time. His face, his thoughts – the window to his inner mind – looked shadowed with preoccupation. Undoubtedly, he was fatigued. His eyes did not possess any gray granite bags like mine had begun to, but his eyes were so dark a color, or perhaps his chocolate hair created such an opaque shadow on top of his eyes, that I thought that they were as brown as mine – so dark, they appeared to look black. It was as if two drops of coffee had descended into a black abyss of darkness. I looked away twice, always finding myself curious enough to dare look up again. He never met my gaze the entire time I perceived him.
To this day, I’m still endeavoring to figure out whether that represented a humiliating loss or a wishful victory. In this case, time will never tell.