I get Dunkin Donuts every time I go to the airport. I don’t think this is romantic, nor is it beneficial to my health, but tradition is tradition, so I grab my coffee once again.
In March, I sat alone on a near-empty plane to visit my mother. Masks on. I wasn’t quite allowed to travel then. I was terrified of it, actually. When I stepped off the plane into my mother’s silver Kia, I kept my mask on. We both used hand sanitizer. Walking through the doors of my childhood home, I stripped down and emptied the contents of my suitcase straight into the washing machine. To say I had no idea what would lie ahead in this Corona would be an understatement.
Its September now, and again, I sit on an airplane. It’s not so empty this time, yet this pandemic plagued world seems worse. On this airplane back in March, I knew who I was. I knew what I had to do. Six months later and I have done it. I came out. Now I am coming home, again. My dad is getting married, mid pandemic, matching masks and all, so he is sending me across the country. Normally I might be upset about his irresponsibility, bringing his 70-year-old parents into the world of illness and vulnerability simply to celebrate himself (selfish), however; I need my family now more than ever, so I will let it be (selfish of me, too).
When the plane descents into Chicago, I either listen to Lake Short Drive by Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah, or a lesser known Lake Michigan by Rogue Wave. I love being from a place that people write songs about. It only strengthens my air travel traditions. If you’re lucky, you’ll have chosen the correct side of the airplane, the one that lines up perfectly with the landing pattern, flashing the gorgeous Chicago skyline alongside Lake Michigan. I almost like the city better from above than below. From the sky she is all beauty. I can sit alone in my airplane row and enjoy all my dreamy misconceptions of who the city really is. On the ground I walk through an airport filled with Black Lives Matter masks and maskless folks in MAGA hats. I wonder how all these people can exist in this space. I wonder how a city has fostered such a sense of division. I wonder how the value of Black lives could somehow make American less great in the eyes of some. The answers to these questions go back generations, but people still refuse to know them. My stepbrother picks me up from the airport. His hat totes an American flag, one blue stripe. He scoffs at my Black Lives Matter mask. My dad tells me I am being too political with my clothing choices, yet there is no comment for my stepbrothers. That’s the thing about being from a place people write songs about– you think it’s all wonder, big bustling city, a cultural hub. These illusions hide the truth of the reality for those who live there. One of the most segregated cities in the country, thriving police brutality, and wealthy white folks who insist this is all fine.
Driving home down Cicero, I look at a building draped in Trump flags with a homeless man begging out front. As someone who came out three days ago, I find the division in this space to be overwhelming. In Denver, I feel safe, pride flags line shops and street corners. Back home, I am faced with the reality that my rights as a queer woman are on the line. I am struck with the realization that unless you are a white, cis, heterosexual, able-bodied, wealthy man, traveling can be overwhelmingly political. To the point where it is threatening. This is the place where my best friend got beat up for coming out as transgender, this is the place where a girl had her hijab ripped off at school because Trump was elected, this is the place where a swastika was painted on my high school parking lot during the Black Lives Matter protests, after all.
Sitting at my dad’s rehearsal dinner, my family members ask me if I will be coming home after graduation. Chicago absolutely is home to stunning scenery, infamous foods, iconic sports teams. It is without a doubt culturally rich. Yet I always say no. This space does not feel safe to me. Despite the fact that this is my hometown, I am no longer certain of the degree in which I am welcome here. The handling of a global pandemic, a civil rights movement, a life-threatening election– 2020 has unveiled many of Chicago’s shortcomings. Perhaps it is not quite the tourist’s dream location.
As I prepare to board my plane back to Denver, I sip my Dunkin Donuts coffee under my mask. I am still uncertain if this is appropriate pandemic behavior. I am truly uncertain about nearly every aspect of traveling in 2020. Yet here I am. This time, I will listen to Rocky Mountain High by John Denver when my plane begins to land as I contemplate the meaning of traveling to a new place in the midst of what the world looks like today.
