I remember only two things from the first time I rode in an airplane. One: my mom took two dramamine that knocked her out, a precaution so her eardrums wouldn't pop. And two: the way my stomach dropped when we took off. The flutter and feelings of weightlessness lasted all of three seconds and brought a smile to my face. How could my mom want to sleep through the soar?

At nine, I was a precocious child and felt cheated out of what riding an airplane signified: travel and adventure. It was a point of contention between my mother and me, as she had flown many times for the job she had just lost. We both knew it would be my first and last time flying for a while. I was on my way to a national dance competition that we fundraised money to make possible, so I was determined to enjoy it. And I did. At least for those three seconds where nothing mattered. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would spend the rest of my air travel career trying to recreate that high. 

The next time I flew the wonders of flying eluded me. I was 16 and flying to Chicago all by myself for a debate competition. The anxiety of setting foot into an unfamiliar scenario clouded anything else. But if I’m being honest, the flight into O’Hare is eclipsed by the experience of making my way back home. We couldn't afford flight insurance, not even for the questionable Spirit flight in and out of O’Hare, so when it kept getting delayed and eventually canceled until the next day I wanted to die. All of my friends had already flown home. It seemed I was destined to spend the next 14 hours at the check-in area of an unfamiliar airport city.

Camped outside of a Starbucks, I periodically ordered iced shaken expressos and received worried calls from my mother every hour. At the time it felt very Night of the Museum-esque, like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be after hours. Although stressed there was a calmness I had never experienced in an airport. Waiting to finally fly home the next day, I didn’t have the butterflies in my stomach that I was so looking forward to. It was a decidedly mundane experience looking back on it. 

I didn’t really start consistently flying until college, when I was flying at least two or three times a year to get from New Orleans to Texas and vice versa. This was when the routine of air travel would sink itself deep into my bones. I don’t know if it was that growing up I always felt trapped by my life or if it was the sick obsession I had with Peter Pan taking me away, but constant flying brought out a self assuredness in me I didn’t know I had. I could be anyone in the sea of strangers and gawk to my heart's content. I knew to dress in a way that TSA agents thought I was a kid so I wasn’t bothered with extra security. I learned how to pack a personal item with ease and the best way to carry said bag so my back didn’t ache. The only responsibility I had was me, and though that three-second high hadn’t been felt since the first time, I didn’t hate the airport. So much of it blends together, so many trips with nothing to note. 

That is, until my sophomore year during Thanksgiving break where the butterflies would make a reappearance. I had just landed at Houston International Airport for my layover. I made my way to the Chick-fil-A by my gate, my headphones blasting the Twilight soundtrack. Next in line to order my food, I noticed that the woman in front of me who had a young child and was trying not to cry as the cashier waved their hands. I took off my headphones and  realized the woman was trying to order food for her daughter, but she couldn’t speak English. I was so surprised by the cashier’s callousness. 

Growing up on the border basically everyone I knew was Latino and could speak both English and Spanish. It wasn’t uncommon to see people ordering in their native language. The Mexican-American bubble I had grown up in had slowly begun to pop. I wanted to help, but no one ever really paid any attention to me so why would today be any different? That was until I heard the cashier say: “Are you dumb? It's time for you to leave, not just the line but this country.” Ironic considering we were in an international airport. Something about it put me on autopilot, I asked the woman what the problem was and ordered my food along with hers. The entire time the cashier glared at me. I felt like crying. I walked to my terminal with a heavy heart and when I saw I was sitting next to an old, white man the tears nearly came out. 

The man pulled out his laptop which showed the blueprints of what I would soon learn was a school in Mexico. I pulled out my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and tried to ignore my surroundings. It was my favorite book at the time and the perfect revenge fantasy needed for the moment. The plane took longer to board than I was expecting so when Al, the white man next to me, asked me who my favorite character was I was stunned. We discussed the merits needed to escape prison, and surprisingly he was very funny.

Getting ready to take off Al asked me if it was my first time; my clenched jaw and gripped hands made me look like a newbie. The weight of the Chick-fil-A moment couldn't be ignored. Ever the closed-off one, I said no and tried to focus on my breathing. There was something about the way he looked at me like he knew exactly who I was that made me start crying. As the plane started moving down the runway, he told me to close my eyes and imagine I was Edmond Dantes freefalling into the ocean. Something one would think would make me nervous considering we were on a plane and Edmond was in a body bag when he escaped. But the plane started moving faster and faster and the second the wheels left the ground I felt it. The freefall, the flutters, the three seconds of peace that had eluded me since childhood. He ordered me Mott’s tomato juice, and explained his plans for the school he was building. He didn’t ask what was wrong and I didn’t tell him either.

I never saw Al again. But I order tomato juice every time I’m on a plane in his honor. I can’t escape who I am, even flying can’t help me do that. The ever-present longing for more won’t ever leave. So instead I close my eyes and freefall until I reach the ground. I let myself have that moment of peace, of victory.