The woman beside me in seat 27D stared with no sense of intrusion at my book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, as I underlined a line I quite liked concerning tea and the ability of small, simple things to create large, transcendental moments. As I underlined these four lines, her head tilted more to one side and leaned in a bit, as though I had invited her to do this. Invite her I had not, and we hadn't even spoken, but I'm not one to interrupt a bit of meddling, and so I went on reading. Sometimes, her dark eyes would be shooting right angles into the side of my head as she blatantly stared at my profile.
Within moments of taking off (this particular plane's landing gear was shrill and loud, like a giant fly rod under far too much pressure, some behemoth running away and maxing out the drag) the red-eyed flight attendants handed us the necessary paperwork to enter Ecuador. Do you have more than 10,000 in goods? Are you carrying any livestock, plants, or other organic materials? I personally had two chickens and a bonsai tree, plus $10,001 in dollar bills. Customs was a nightmare.
Anyway, back to my curious, voyeuristic neighbor, who I had deduced must have some affinity for gringos in fisherman pants who read new-philosphy. I realized after a few minutes of filling in my passport number, my date of birth, my length of stay, etc., that neither of my neighbors were filling anything out. The attendants hadn't given anyone a pen, but anyone who knows me also knows that I carry 6 or 7 at all times. I hand one to the man on my right, at the window, who was quite upset that his tv monitor wasn't working. He took it and with a gracias. Madame Miradora, however, did not take the pen I offered her. Instead, in somewhat broken Spanish, she told me that she "didn't know". Didn't know that she had to fill it out? Didn't know that she needed a pen?
She didn't know how read.
I offered to fill out her information for her, and she humbly (far more humbly than I wish she had to) assented. I asked for her passport and began filling out the three forms - all of which ask mostly the same questions. Her Haitian passport gave me all I needed to fill it out, and when asking her if she too was carrying chickens and a bonsai tree, I tried to be quiet so as to not draw the attention of anyone arround us. After a few minutes, I marked an X on each spot she needed to sign, and she slowly and methodically traced Floresno Michou.
I didn't like the rest of the flight after that. She seemed uncomfortable and quit staring at me, which I would have preferred to the way she sunk into herself. It occurred to me all at once that I - as well as anyone reading this - ought to thank every star above (and by star I mean mothers, fathers, teachers, siblings, neighbors, or Mr. Frickin' Rogers) for our ability to maneuver in a world where letters open doors - sometimes doors to other countries. I have plenty of family who didn't read, or still doesn't read, and they're far smarter than I am in many, many ways. The pleasure and solace that I find, however, in stories, histories, and narratives is far too valuable to take for granted. This experience further cemented my desire to teach letters, literature, and writing. As well as my desire to write.
I bid Madame Michou adieu, and hope that she, too, enjoys her time in this new place - and that there might be someone beside her on her return flight for her to stare at, who might help her fill in the necessary blanks.
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