Escaping?
by
Gisela H. L. Roger
"Fasten seat belts — no smoking," command the signs above the heads of passengers sitting in rows of three's and five's. The plane is ready for take-off. The voice of an invisible stewardess announces, "Please, shut off cell-phones. Disconnect electronic devices, please." Today is November 5, 2001.
Obediently I turn off my lap computer. My thoughts circle around the issue of "ESCAPE", an essay due before I left Winnipeg. To jot words down on paper has to wait until we are up in the sky, above the clouds heading towards the sun. I try to make myself comfortable in my seat. This is no easy undertaking. Seats in tourist class give only an illusion of comfort; they are designed for super-slim people without elbows. At least it seems like that. I rehearse stretching my legs, moving my feet, and visualize, with some dismay, how I will be confined to the two-by-two square-foot space for the next seven long hours.
With a quick glance, I check my neighbour on my right, a middle-aged male, tailored suit, pale skin. Scientist? Teacher? Could be. He is leafing through a newspaper in French. He would not engage me in a conversation, I know. I don't like to hold conversations with people I meet accidently and will never see again. To my left, yes, there is the possibility of endless small talk about weather, grandchildren, and the present bad times. Aged hands used to hard work, now idle, folded in her lap, an almost hidden smile on her face. A face wrinkled like good Mother Earth with valleys and elevations, yet with a certain loftiness. A grandmother and first-time air traveler, I can tell. And here am I, squeezed between two worlds and waiting to depart.
Disregarding the relatively small discomfort of the narrow seats, no one on this plane seems to be at ease. To fly after what had happened in New York and Washington—called 9/11 — means putting lives at risk. How naturally the thought of escaping comes when there is no escape! I look at my computer. Escape. How? "How to escape those screaming images of a collapsing, burning super tower showing lives and deaths simultaneously?" I ask myself and find no answer.
I would rather fasten my seat belt in our car with wheels on the ground instead of here in a plane so far away from any steadiness. Human beings are not made to copy animals with wings. They need something solid under their feet to pursue their lives. I look to my left. Grandmother is still smiling knowingly. Is she not afraid to take off, leaving our planet? While I am lost in thought, the plane has left its boarding position and is rolling smoothly along the runway. There could still be an escape, I dream irrationally. The solid ground offers a ready escape — just put your feet on the ground and run! But in a second, the invisible air changes this remote possibility into absurdity, and is itself changed into an enormous force produced by speed that enables a lifeless machine to carry the weight of 300 people, their luggage, needed food and superfluous comfort. "Escaping involves not just running away but arriving somewhere," I tell myself, realizing that there is no point of arrival for me at this point. The engines are roaring. There is a slight jolt as we lift. The pressure on my ear drums is growing. We leave buildings, streets, trees, green areas, and highways beneath us shrinking into toy-size. Before we roar towards the sun, clouds cover our view. I close my eyes; I feel as small as a fly in the universe and as helpless as a falling raindrop in the wind. I open my eyes and find we are 'way up in the air. The clouds now beneath us look like huge balls of cotton, the kind you would like to jump into. What a lure! Just don't take it for real!
We are now permitted to use computers. There is a click here and a click there. Fellow passengers start up their electronic devices for whatever purpose. I also look at my computer and begin to think again about my overdue assignment.
"Ma'am, coffee? tea?" asks the smiling stewardess. "No, thanks. Just water," I reply. "Coffee, milk and sugar, please," Grandma requests on my left, and "No, thanks, nothing," is the answer on my right. Where does he fit in? Escaping the norm?
As I had learned from my Webster just before leaving home, "escape" means "out of cappa, and cappa means cloak, which leads to "to leave one's cloak behind." A cloak has many shapes, is made of different materials and colors, and has to fit various builds. "ESCAPE" has many faces as well. It can be denial or steady agreement, comfort zone or battlefield, aggression or love. It can mean disappearance and art, freedom and avoidance. ESCAPE stretches like a colorful rainbow over our lives. It can only be seen when it rains and when the sun shines simultaneously. An entire life is an escape. But an escape from what? From life? It does not make sense. There is no escape — because we live.
I sip my purified water. The French-newspaper-reading neighbour has closed his eyes, pulled in his elbows, and is listening to something via earphones. He is probably escaping his own presence. Left side: grandmother's smile gives way to alertness and the joyous expression of being a traveler. There is no thought of escaping in her mind; she feels secure in what she is and in what she knows.
Meanwhile the plane has pulled its way high in the sky. The noise of the engines has a steady, almost soothing rhythm. My eyes fall on a light grey button at the upper left corner of my computer. It reads: "Esc" and means ESCAPE. Escape from what? This question will not let go of me and I don't want to be its prisoner. But I am. In my mind's eye, horrifying situations with bombs, rape, drowning, running and fleeing come alive; screams I hear and tears I taste. Is that what we are made for? "ESCAPE!" shouts my inner voice, and I escape into illusions that such things never happen, or happen only far away.
The manual of my computer advises, "You can use these trouble-shooting tips when ..." I have to stop a second. Shoot? Trouble? Since when do you shoot trouble? "Oh, forget it! Go on!" I argue with myself, being disturbed by these words. Unfortunately, or fortunately, a thick ink blot covers the next line. But underneath it continues,
• ..to back out of a menu
• ..if you see a dialog box and you don't know how to respond to it
• ..if you see an error message and want to clear the message
By then I have dozed off. The ESCAPE button of my computer has offered me fundamental wisdom. Escape is not only a negator, it depends on experience. Half asleep now, my mind's eye shows me the wonderful first smile of our daughters when babies, their happy laughter or joyful exclamations, that unexpected loving hug and kiss when they had not quite reached their teen-age years, and their thankful glances as adults. These feelings are made visible to me because they escaped my daughters' very being. And for that I am filled with thankfulness. How wonderful life can be when we only know how to escape its dark sides!
Now I have enough material for my essay, ESCAPE, and my fingers race over the keys touching "Save" and finally "Save as" as I return the smile of my first-time traveling grandmother. She is fully enjoying the service she thinks is royal. We are in God's hands, yes. There is no escape. My inner turbulence melts down into the steadiness of the engines' roar. The sun keeps rising. It will be early morning in Europe. Life will find a new start again. I stretch my stiff limbs, pull my elbows in, smile on the ESCAPE button and shut my lap-top computer. Soon all the passengers, fully understanding what is expected of them, will file obediently in mingling rows towards the exit. In the early morning light, the solid ground of the busy Frankfurt airport welcomes us without exception. Unquestionably, we cannot escape the genuine happiness that not only have we arrived somewhere, but also that we have arrived safely.