Listen!

Strangers Waiting For a Plane

I used to like to fly. I spent a good portion of my life flying for the Air Force, but since 9/11 flying has ceased to be fun. I realize the importance of security, but I fail to understand body searches for old grey-haired Viet Nam veterans whose artificial knees set off metal detectors.  I have had several background checks for security clearances over the years, I even had a pass into the national war room, but I still need to take off my suspenders when I fly. I went through the required indignities, trying to hold up my pants, the last time I flew home from Seattle. When I was finally past the check point, I discovered that my plane had maintenance problems and was still on the ground in Spokane. With few other options, I paid way too much for a sandwich, retrieved my notebook from my backpack, and looked for an available table. 

            They were all occupied, but one had a man sitting alone poking at his phone. He had a wheel chair parked next to him, and I assumed he was on call to transport the old and infirm between gates. I asked if I could sit, and I took his grunt as an affirmative response. I sat and opened my notebook. I had the beginnings of a song running around in my head. Sometimes they come together right away; and some, like this one, are quite elusive. I began working on it, when another man with another wheel chair came and joined us. He asked if I was writing a book. I told him I didn’t write books, only songs, poems, and opinion essays for newspapers. Then he asked how he could get a book published if he wrote one. I told him he needed a literary agent. Then he began to tell me his story.

            He immigrated from Somalia because of the tribal wars. He had been a construction worker, and his Muslim faith made his family a target for radicals from different religions. I was tempted to tell the story of my ancestors’ struggle after the Jacobite war, but he didn’t stop for breath, so I had no choice but to shut up and listen. He stopped only when a cute young girl, also with a wheel chair, joined us. I tried to get her to send her phone number to my grandson, but she was too shy. I asked why she wasn’t in school, and she said she was in high school. That didn’t answer my question, but she didn’t volunteer any more information. Shortly afterward, the public address system said my flight was boarding, so I thanked them for sharing their table and went on my way.

            I am glad I heard at least part of the gentleman’s story. I’m glad I deviated from my normal habit of trying to tell my story instead of listening. We all have stories. Looking back, I wish I had the time to hear his entire tale. Everyone has a story. I normally have trouble listening because I am more interested in mine. I would like to have heard the story of the man who just played with his phone and never spoke. I would like to hear the story of the young girl. I would like to know what it is like to wear a hijab in an American high school. I can’t listen, however, if I am too busy telling my story.