i'm not afraid of planes
a memoir by rage (a member of the old site)

Boarding a plane could be either a pleasant experience, but that all depends on where you know you're going: your mental state of mind, or, as in my case, something you rather not do in your lifetime.

The last thing I remember before boarding the plane was my mother, sister, and John, my younger brother, and me sitting outside in the fresh cool air of the tropics for time to pass until we were ready to go. And only I hated this moment so much. I was the only one to be left in our destination permanently (the thing I feared so much). I made a sacrifice: I let my father, who already resided in the U.S., tell me what to do. I was young anyway (sixteen is not the age you make major decisions like whether you go to school or not in my family, or in any family for the 'matter of fact' reasoning). Unfortunately, and, perhaps, fortunately, is father is a dictator. It does have its bad and good side. And the 'dictator' said "YOU HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL TO MAKE A LIVING". He has a deep voice, which I've learned not to be afraid of anymore.

Every time I ever saw him I was afraid. He never has anything completely good to say and every time he calls you, you wish god would save your ass; he never does.

"rage!"
"…" (Pause in fear and shock)
"rage"
"Yes sir?"

And whatever comes after, any of his children hope for the 'best of the worst'.

I was never afraid of planes; in fact, excitement was what overcame me the first and second times I flew. What a nauseating experience, but the mere fact of knowing that I was thousands of feet above the earth's surface, above everyone, was enough to eliminate all the bad things that went on in my stomach. "And besides," I thought, "if you're to die you're going to die, it's very simple". My destination was what scared me. I've visited the U.S. before, it was ok, however, there's a difference in atmosphere when you visit a foreign place for vacation, and knowing that your destination will soon enough be your permanent home. In fact, the third and last time I boarded a plane that was exactly the major thought I had in mind. "Life," I kept imagining "couldn't get any worse." And knowing how life is… surely enough, it did.

Early in the morning, 6:00 am to be exact, I arrived at the airport of the country where I belong, waiting for the worst to become. Everything now is a fazed memory of that forever lasting night, or morning (depending on how you look at it) and it had a tropical chill soon to be overcome by the tender warmth of the Guyanese sun. That sun which I have never again felt up to now, but just saw through the window of the plane which I boarded. Crying was useless.

Peering through the thick, foggy lens of a very large, empty plane (fifteen people on board… including crew members) all I saw were distant hands waving madly for what seemed to be useless. No one from my point of view could figure out who was waving at what. But we waved back anyways. "Inane." I kept thinking looking at everyone waving "This makes absolutely no sense." But I waved anyway…

A five-hour trip is exhausting, even though you sit on your ass doing nothing, you never can find a comfortable position on a plane.

I spent about half an hour trying to settle myself: making sure that I had everything (passport, boarding passes, luggage, keys, etc.), but that's not what took the time up: I kept making sure that everything was there like it's some kind of temporary obsessive compulsive disorder. The rest of time was either spent closing my eyes convincing myself that I was asleep, or keeping myself busy by looking at the pictures on the 'emergency instructions booklet'. And I kept wondering if crashing in a river and having to use the life rafts and jackets would be better than sitting here staring at the useless clouds blocking the sky I so much wanted to see.

Looking at the sky from a plane is one of the most exhilarating scenes I thought someone could view. "But on the other hand," I thought (as I kept thinking through out my life changing journey across the Atlantic) "I must be extremely bored!"…This thought came about after looking at the sky for what seemed to be a good ten to fifteen minutes straight. There was absolutely nothing up there that takes our breath away… and you see as far as your eyes can perceive. Nothing blocks you except for that foggy window and I saw into infinity, soon to be blocked by tall concrete buildings and smoke…

I kept speaking to myself throughout the plane ride, occasionally wandering to some far off place in my imagination: memories are nice until you realise that you're gaining pleasure of your former self who, I think, is someone completely different. This, indeed, is hard to admit, even to myself.

When you're afraid thoughts rush through your mind like a hurricane, everything is a blur and you try to calm yourself, which is useless. Time takes it away, only time. But for the time range you're in that state-of-mind nothing, absolutely nothing makes sense. For the first time I got a taste of what it was like going somewhere you didn't want to go. I'm not talking about some birthday party you don't want to go to because some pretty girl/boy you like will be there, or to some one of your parent's friends house because you and their dog have a very 'fond' relationship, no. I imagined I was like a prisoner, who, when he/she was a child, visited a prison for fun, and somewhere along the line they screwed up… and now it will become their home! I felt sorry for prisoners for the first time in my entire life (they, like me, didn't want to go to where they were heading) and, now, I had joined the crew!

Reality kicked me in the face and it hurt so much, it still does. I wondered and still do, "why the hell is life so hard: if there was a god… why did he make life so hard? And if there isn't… why is life so hard at all? We weren't born to suffer" the thoughts came again "we are not born to die… but to live, and enjoy, not slave away, rot alive, beg, scavenge, while others live in a 'paradise on earth'." I wondered why there were people on earth who suffered and are continuing to suffer on all parts of the globe. Africa, Somalia… why is there so much evil? It's amazing but that is one of the memories that actually stand out the most. I always wondered why people suffer while others live the 'high life'. And they are so self absorbed in their own greed and wealth that they hardly, if ever, consider, or think about the human beings like themselves who suffer while they go on expensive cruises, which give them selfish personal satisfaction.

And the voices in my head made my subconscious-- conscious "The thing is that the people at the top never look down and I guessed that was because they might be horrified at what they see: it's like when people say "WHAT EVER YOU DO... DON'T LOOK DOWN!" Well, sometimes you have to make exceptions. But you can't look down in scorn, but guilt, because the rich should help the poor, give them a chance because they can afford it and give it rather than squander it on 'unnecessary luxuries'."

It made me fell good to actually be thinking this way. I felt like a good person. But something told me "you're an unrealistic idiot!" I tried to ignore that.

I believe now, that everyone has a purpose in life, a very important role to play. Because the great men don't just become great… there are the people and events which make their path, influence them, and create these men… and they are to be praised, too.

But this was the emptiest I have ever felt-there was no purpose to my life (as everyone feels every now and then) then. I was and still am owned by my parents and the others (whom I know now) control my life. And too many people find it hard to understand the way I think, but I could care less at the moment. Soon, hopefully, they will. As I've said, I'm not afraid of planes, just my destination.

When we approached the J.F.K. Airport I looked down. The streets were busy. The place was magnificent just because it was different. 'The industrialised world'. And the place was under construction… again! And I saw less and less trees. Then I thought about the futuristic movies that you see: 'Back to the Future', 'The Fifth Element', where you see flying cars and cities in the air, humans who are robots, or robots which are human (what/who ever it is), but when I thought about it this time, it didn't appeal to me like it once did, when I was younger. Earlier a flying car or a talking robot would be glory, awesome, "WOAH", but now, when I thought about it questions arose in my mind. Taunting questions, questions to which I knew the answers, which were not good. "What will happen to the human race? Are we to live on as machines? Our creations? What will happen to the flora and fauna? What will happen to feelings? Love? Hate? Hurt? Anger? Everything that makes us 'human'? Will we and all life just deteriorate: 'ashes to ashes-dust to dust'?" and my conclusion: 'we will'. I hoped I died before it happened. I hoped I died before the world ended, like the radical religionists do.

I'm sure if I go back to Guyana now, which I will during the summer, I will think the same thing (how magnificent the place is), only this time, with joy and happiness. Seeing the miles and miles of green rain forests is enough to make your heart sing. And you're proud to say "that is my land, that is my country, that is where I was born, and there is no where else like it on the face of this earth! And I don't give a shit what anyone else says!" I know it isn't in the best state of condition right now, but a patriot never gives up, he never leaves his country in times of need, and that is why guilt burns me up inside, eating me away like a cancer.

At that time of my journey the idea never even entered my mind the slightest bit; otherwise, I wouldn't be here. But, as I've said, I was sixteen, just going with the flow.

When we landed, I can't remember clearly, but all went well. My father picked us up, we went 'home'. I couldn't sleep; I was up for more than two days. Everything seemed unreal; I had to be dreaming.

"I've got to be dreaming. This is just a terrible, terrible nightmare. Maybe if I go to sleep I'll wake up in Guyana, in my bed, in my house, in my land, in my briefs, under my roof, smelling my breeze, smelling my mother's food steaming downstairs, hearing the trucks passing, hearing the snow cone man's bell ringing, hearing the busy people doing their business, feeling at home, in my home."

I had found a place, physical or emotional, I know not which, where a true nightmare was respiring. I remember once when I was about three or four, I had the same feeling, I was asleep and it felt so real, I was scared, running with all my might and was moving so slow. Something was coming for me and the scream was like the scream which a person whose throat had just been slit: inaudible-silent. The scream which never came out. This is what I felt: a scream which would never be. Only locked inside me like a prisoner, and that is the maker of tears.

I was lost in a wonderland where I did not belong.

And I wrote everyday in a journal which I have given to my friend (I never keep journals; I destroy them for the pain they've caused me). People remember the bad and never the good-that applies here. I am one of those people, and I write it down and there is nothing good to remember.

I was lost.

I haven't woken up since.
I keep thinking, pondering and trying to reason why people leave their own countries for another. But no matter how long I do, I rarely am convinced that the conclusion will ever be clear.

I don't know whether I've met many people here, in the United States, but I know I don't belong due to my experiences with them. They (… or should I say 'we'?) are not bad people, and not that different from I, for we, as I see it, are either all human beings, or, as I prefer it, individuals all given different circumstances: these factors which create us.

I've only seen New York, I live here, and perhaps, this is the only place I wish to see of this country as long as I live. Any other part would simply be more uncomfortable. There are so many different people I see, the ones I meet are from all parts of the globe, speak so many different languages and have so many accents. And I rather see people like myself (foreigners) than think I'm all alone.

Manhattan (96th St. and yonder): the place is so much different here, and, again, I do not see the relevance of my being here. I see the buildings and highways, and fill my soul with amazement. I see the underground tunnels, with the big trains rolling in and out, and I wonder how people do this every day, and breathe in all this dust. Under here stinks of hundreds of years of grime, dirt, smoke, grease, and bums. And I must admit, too, that riding underground does give a very 'scenic' ride: I guess that explains why people ride on it for hours to get to work- but more importantly, perhaps, they need bread on their table.

I consider: I can summarise my experiences with people as being typical of one who comes here like me, in one word: strange. But my responses, in generalising, I believe, are overall different from anyone I knew or know (omitting a few exceptions-the men whom I admire-- obviously). People change, they tend to bend to the rules of a new society or, more appropriately, the mould themselves. And perhaps it would be easy for a weak person to change-the strong stay brittle until they break.

I've seen men break, deteriorate. Their philosophies, ideology, psychology-disappear, ruined. Their moral character cremated and their former self distilled in new water. I realised that the human character is fragile, frail, weak-put under pressure or circumstances-your character, if soft: moulds, if hard: breaks, so there is no escape. I know that I am a hard character, for I have not moulded, but have been put under strain. Strain to keep my identity as is, while society weighs down on my back.