Embracing the Skies

[Melissa1031]

Dreaming about your future is a euphoric exercise; making it happen tests you to the core of your being. Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard gave a name to the action of a person faced with a choice that can’t be rationally justified: they take a leap of faith. Dreaming of being an author when you’re too busy to breathe, requires such a leap. Still believing you can find your great love when you’ve been hurt too many times, requires such a leap. In my case, I inadvertently chose to fly instead of jump.

“Ms. Gregory, here’s your seat,” the flight attendant said, motioning with both hands as she presented the aisle chair in front of the last row in first class. “Can I assist you in getting settled?”

Looking around at the spaciousness of the cabin, I couldn’t help but compare it to my usual stuff-them-in-like- cattle seating. It felt surreal.

“Thank you, I’m good,” I responded. “And please, call me Meg.”

She nodded and gracefully turned to assist the next passenger.

I sat and fastened my seatbelt on the Korean Air flight from JFK to Incheon Airport, with a laughable flight time of 12 PM to 5 PM. If only it weren’t for the 13-hour time difference making East Asia a day ahead of my North American Eastern Time zone. As the realization of the trip hit me, my insides rippled like ginger ale poured into an ice-filled glass.

Korean passengers surrounded me, all speaking their lyrical language. The use of the suffix honorifics -yo and -nida, among others, combined with many words ending in vowels, makes the language soft and musical. Yet, a litany of Anglo swear-words telling someone off is nothing compared to an angry Korean honorifically, ironically, and eloquently, berating someone who was owed respect: …nida. …Nida. … NIDA!

I started watching Korean TV programs, or K-Dramas – the historical, fantasy, and rom coms being my favorites – during the COVID pandemic lockdown. The need for something… anything… new during this time was a healing tonic and I grabbed onto them like a teased child finally retrieving their precious item from a callous game of keep away. As someone with untreated ADHD (‘That’s not a real condition,’ my parents scoffed), the desire to experience anything unique was overwhelming. As I wrote in my article, there were times when watching a few K-dramas in the evening got me through another day without a meltdown.  

If someone confessed their love for a seatmate, I’d understand at least part of it, having absorbed a few words and phrases based on repetition and reading the English subtitles. Otherwise, it was going to be a lonely and long flight. That was alright though. I had the outline of a novel I was eager to work on. I'd wanted to be an author since reading my first Harry Potter book, and I'd been writing stories ever since. I also brought a book to read. I suspected I’d mostly worry about the upcoming television interview about the article I wrote. As I waited for takeoff, I ruminated on the reason I was sitting on this flight.

“There is an age-old argument amongst people of European descent, whether French, Spanish, or Italian is the language of love. I put forth another candidate for consideration – Korean.” So began the opening statement to my article, “Korean: The Language of Love.” I wrote the article to better understand my fascination with Korean television: a bit of scholarly and celebrity research, combined with self-examination. Pleased with the results, I pitched it to several lifestyle magazines.

To my great amazement and joy, Vogue magazine accepted the article, and upon publication, it took on a life of its own. Soon Vogue-Korea had translated and published it, followed by a Korean tv cultural news report. However, I was unprepared when English language channel ROKBC-TV reached out and offered to bring me there for an interview, which included an expense-paid two-week vacation as my reward. My initial reaction was disbelief, followed by hesitation. I’m a small-town girl. The fashion and entertainment industry always felt distant from the reality of my life. What would I possibly talk about? However, international recognition was not something to pass up. Naively I hoped it would jumpstart my writing career and allow me some breathing space to follow my life-long dream. Besides, their offer of an expense-paid, two-week vacation excited me, and that would be mine alone to enjoy. How wrong I was.

“What can I get you to drink?” a flight attendant asked.

“Water’s fine,” I assured her. I’d have a glass of wine with my dinner, hoping a drink would help me sleep. How I’d get myself onto Korean time before the dreaded interview I wasn’t sure. I’d have one full day to get used to the time difference and realistically I knew that wasn’t enough. Come to think of it, I’d have two drinks with dinner.

Suddenly the voices behind me grew louder, and the tone of one of the speakers was filled with vitriol. My stomach began to churn. I suddenly wished that ginger ale illustrating my excitement had been flat.

‘You have to learn to deal with conflict,’ I heard my sister Hannah chiding me. Two years older, she was the me I wished to be. Competent, organized, and confident, she held an important position with the state. She’d know how to handle an interview and even direct its focus. She was the daughter my parents were proud of; I was the ‘Oh Meg, when will you ever learn?’ one.

As young children, my sister and I were frequently left to our own devices. Indeed, Hannah and I joked we were feral kids. Our next-door grandparents often fed us, and we slept there regularly. As we got older, we got little parental advice. Whether it was a boyfriend or a college major, the choices were ours to make, and then live with the consequences. They weren’t unloving parents; they were just more involved in their own lives than in ours. Amazingly Hannah turned out to be organized and focused, while I seemingly drifted from one bad decision to the next. One might be excused for wondering if we were raised by the same couple.

“So, I told that American asshole to stick it!” An audible sigh. “They all suck!” This was spoken in perfect, albeit East Asian accented, English. His tone shook with the intensity of his indignation. Oddly, the voice also seemed familiar. Suddenly, I felt the jolt and heard the thud of something hitting the back of my seat, followed by the reverberation of the impact.

What the ….? Wow! Not only is this guy technically insulting me, but he’s smacking the back of my chair! One would think he’d use his own language at least. But then again, I was the only non-Asian in first class, so maybe he didn’t want others to understand.

Also, I was sitting in front of him. My 5 foot nothing stature made me barely visible during ordinary circumstances and the seatbacks were high. Invisibility was my superpower. I employed it liberally as a teenager, however, as an adult, I’d found it problematic. One had to be noticed to achieve success, and it’s especially difficult if that one was short and a bit of an introvert. I wasn’t the type who evaded others, indeed I liked working collaboratively. But interactions with strangers were uncomfortable for me, and I rarely initiated them. That was why my reaction to this encounter was so out of character for me. I turned and looked back at the two men sitting behind me.

“I think you’ve painted us with too broad a stroke.”