Most Americans have fascinating stories to tell about their first flight ever and the experiences associated with that flight. The stories form a large ball of yarn added to the oral history of humanity, unwritten stories that sometimes are told to friends, strangers, family, and whoever is willing to listen.
One hundred
years ago, very few people could have even envisioned that humans would fly on
a regular basis inside a metal tube propelled by jet fuel and would be able to
reach all corners of the world, not just a small world around their homes, in
the city, the village, the dessert, on an island, or a hut in the jungle.
My first
airplane flight was in 1978. I was leaving my country of birth which was tightly
controlled by the Communist Party with fists, arms, soldiers, agents,
policemen, informers, and the military.
I was in a
daze, leaving my family behind forever and everything I’ve ever loved and known,
moving to the shining city on the hill, across the Atlantic, the mythical
America, the land of the free and of the brave. Part of me wanted to go and
part of me wanted to stay.
I was happy
to escape tyranny, but did I really know what was awaiting me? I was accompanied
by my husband and mother-in-law who was just a stranger who smiled a lot and
spoke English with a lilting southern accent. Everybody loved her because she
was so pretty and sweet.
Would I be
able to understand my new home and its people? Would they understand me? Would
they accept me, the suspicious foreigner from a communist country? Would they treat
me with kindness, would they welcome me in their midst? Would the customs and
religion be alien to me? Would I like the food? Would I like where my fresh
husband would take me? What would my life be like?
After hiccups
at the airport where angry men with Russian guns threatened to take away my tiny
gold wedding ring because it was Romanian gold and could not be exported and
after my mother-in-law took it off my finger and put it on hers, I sat quietly
in my assigned seat, a shaking storm of present and future fear raging in my
heart and mind and watched the airplane door. When will it close?
When no frightening
agent came to yank me off the flight, the door finally closed, and the plane
started rolling on the tarmac towards alleged freedom, I breathed a deep sigh
of relief and started crying quietly. It
was a sad cry of loss, of pain, of inner suffering, of terminal
good-byes, and of fear of the unknown. It was not a cry of joy.
After a long
flight, we landed in New York on a cold January the 13th day. I was
relieved, bewildered, did not have a dime in my pocket, and the only picture I
have from JFK shows a happy, smiling me. But I was not smiling on the inside, I
was sad because of fear, apprehension, misery, and loss. On the upside, I thought
I was finally free to be me and to speak my mind.
The next leg
of the flight carried me south and then, after landing, we took a long drive in
the darkness, to the isolated farm where I would spend the next two years of my
life.
Knowing what
I know today and the experiences I’ve had since my first flight 45 years ago,
would I do it again, would I take such a huge life-altering chance and climb
the steps onto that Delta airplane bound for America? The answer is a
resounding NO.