I Left Her for Brooklyn 1
I
El Regreso
We have touched ground. I look through the window and stare out into the grey cold visuals. I am in no rush yet I feel every passengers impatience affecting my own. A glance back inside, and the entire row sits like high school students waiting for the bell. The salaryman beside me had been on his laptop most the flight. (1) His anxious eyes probably want to get back to it.
My eyes return to the outside. As far as the eye can see, nothing but clouds and wet concrete. Mis madres first flight out the isla was to this very destination. (2) I can imagine the Dominicans clapping and cheering once the plane landed. (3) I imagine it to be a flight with hopeful eyes and American daydreams. This is not that flight.
The plane stops and the seat belt light goes off. Passengers quickly stand up and grab their overhead luggage. After 15 hours, that exit door couldn’t open fast enough. At the speed the world is moving, a 15 second flight wouldn’t be fast enough.
The aisle begins to inch forward. Faces facing forward but nothin’ to really see but the back of someone’s head. I give one final look outside and search for a sign that lets me know I am here. Minus the weather, it could be an airport anywhere else in America.
A look back inside and my eyes meet that of a stewardess. It’s a look of displeasure. Behind her, the line is way passed first class. I take it as the cue to finally get up and out. The question I ask myself is if the Japanese have lost their patience, what hope do we have? As I grab my overhead luggage, I can feel her impatient eyes staring me down until I turn in her direction. Her farewell face stares into the abyss. I have gone from inconvenient to non-existent in a Manhattan minute.
I make my way to the exit. The cold air seeps between the plane and the bridge. As I step through, I imagine my feelings being that of a man who has been cryogenically unfrozen. It’s a city full of nostalgia but I been gone too long to think things haven’t changed. Gone too long for me to think this country hasn’t changed.
The flight arrived early enough to get a McDonald’s breakfast. I have never seen immigration so empty. Maybe it’s the time of morning. Maybe. Or maybe most Americans have gone to Canada and there isn’t a foreigner who wants to come to America. Maybe.
My expectations are to be greeted by TS with an attitude. Yet international arrivals pleasantly welcomes me with a smile and directs me through the latest security process. It felt like there were still people who didn’t live and die by the outcome of an election.
The new security machine looks like an ATM. As a first timer, I stand and watch US nationals scan their passports into the system. The security algorithms cross examine their faces. One day this facial identification will be the keys to an apartment.
Like a Red Sox player at Yankee stadium, I step up to the plate. The camera stares with it’s dead eye and takes a better look at me than I ever have. Does it only identify terrorist and narcos? Or am I at America’s pearly gates waiting for the approval of a Saint Peter app? The machine clears me and prints out a ticket as if I purchased myself. Welcome to the capital of capitalism.
At the exit, the process gets human. A nonchalant officer places his hand out and awaits my documents. His demeanor has military all over it. I give him my passport and a smile. “What’s your final destination?” His Long Island tone is in autopilot. “I don’t have one,” I reply. His eyes switch to manual mode and he sees what the algorithms missed. He quickly glances at my documents and reconfirms my American citizenship. And with a no nonsense grin he replies, “we all do.” I commit to the exit answer and tell him, “Buenos Aires.” Looking away, he hands me my passport and with a happy meal smile says, “stay out of trouble.” “Muchas gracias,” I tell him. (4) But he is already back to auto mode.
After a few corridors, up and down escalators, and customs, I reach the terminal’s platform. The AirTrain must be an immigrants first ride. Its interior design is something out of a NASA spaceship. There isn’t even a conductor onboard. As cheap labor, I am reminded that this is cheaper.
Groups of faces and races get shuffled with each terminal stop. I think I am just a lone traveler minding my own. Until I pull out a sports cam and begin filming the voyage outside. The people near me watch with concern, not saying a word, yet it begins to feel like they are involved in my actions. I try to ignore the stares and let the card roll. The AirTrain stops at a terminal.
A voice from behind me speaks in a loud authoritative tone. “You cannot film in the airport. Put the camera away.” I turn around to a guard. His right eye is looking behind me and his left eye is looking at the girl across me. I am reminded of terrorism and realize this is not the place to fuck around.
Obedient, I grab the camera and shut it off. As I reach for the zipper of my bag, he repeats in a loud authoritative voice, “You cannot film in the airport. Put the camera away.” I pause as the AirTrain doors shut and the shuttle begins to move. My eyes read, “Is that not what the fuck I was doing?” Slowly the pages in my mind turn to a thought, the confrontation doesn’t end here.
We continue staring at each other. Nature denied him direct eye contact but his vision and attention are clearly looking into my pupils. He might be thinking I am just another papi without a word of English. (5) Or he might be thinking I am straight out the Middle East. I don’t say a word.
Even if I comply, I still imagine more guards getting onboard and forcefully detaining me. After a few more seconds, his authoritative stance softens. With no where to go on a moving shuttle, he just stands in front of me. Right eye looking at me. But he is no longer looking at me. In order to keep it as cool as the temperature outside, I also look away but find the heat of the crowd and all its attention centered on me. Each gaze shares an opinion and then turns to see if another gaze shares that same opinion.
Feeling alien as fuck, I turn my back to all the passengers and just watch as the shuttle pulls into the next terminal. The guard, along with our audience, gets off the AirTrain. The seats are vacated and I choose to lean against the window. Among the passengers, one maybe none witnessed me being taken to high school. But before my embarrassment could totally fade, my conscience says to me, “Welcome home niño.” (6)
At arrivals, I finally take an isolated seat and I try my best to organize my situation. The place is nearly empty. But my thoughts are full. I got 13 hours. JFK is a dead zone. No WiFi. My iPhone is a dead zone. No cellular data. It will be 13 hours of New York, and the only thing on my mind is all that she doesn’t know. Like a knee jerk reaction I ask myself aloud the rhetorical question. “How the fuck did I get here?” My voice comes off harsh and angry at me.
I look around to see if anyone heard. Save for a few Orthodox Jews by the entrance, I am surrounded by empty chairs. Yet I somehow don’t feel alone. I look up and contemplate. Airports are full of security cameras.
Different feelings and ideas argue with each other. I could sit here all day and wait for my religion to find me. But I am still new at this meditation shit and even with my eyes closed, I see where I need to be. And it is not here.
Regreso - Homecoming
1. Salaryman is a Japanese businessman or better yet a company man.
2. Madres is mothers in Spanish.
3. As of this writing, Dominicans from DR still do this. Get on a flight to Santo Domingo and when the plane lands, there will be clapping. It can be seen as a thank you to God, the plane, the pilot and all the rest of it for getting us home safe.
4. Muchas gracias is thank you in Spanish.
5. Papi means father but it also has other meanings associated with it. In this context it means a young Latino.
6. Niño is boy in Spanish.
