Priorities

This admittedly has absolutely nothing to do with airplanes, aviation or giant hunks of pressurized metal, aluminum and composite materials blasting through the sky at sickeningly fast speeds.  Instead, I've been spending time thinking about college and how I felt so connected to the arts then... and how uncultured I've become since graduating.

I have a very fond memory of my friend Maggie and I going to the Slam Poetry World Championship that happened to be held in Charlotte, NC one year.  It was, in a brief synopsis, mind-blowingly amazing and awe inspiring.  Through my recent harping on times-gone-by, I remembered a slam poem called "Like" by Mike McGee.  The other day, I watched a clip of him performing the poem on YouTube and that has set me on a newfound course to reconnect with my creative, more artsy self.

So, for you today, is a slam I wrote about understanding priorities in life.  It is by no means good, but I'd like to think it's a pretty solid baby step into a literary world I don't fully understand, but can't wait to learn more about.

Fly high and stay safe :)

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Prioritize.
A possibly-awful, maybe semi-decent slam by Ben Kaufman.

I decided to start doing some things for me.
It’s not that I don’t want to do things for other people
it’s more that I’ve been doing things for other people my whole life.
I have the chance, so I’m making some changes.

I rise with the sun now
and diligently set my place at the kitchen table.
The coffee maker drips and I slip cream into a mug
that’s been patiently waiting empty next to piping hot pancakes.

I don’t know if this is the breakfast of champions
but I do know that there is nothing to win here except
my own heart so I’m going to eat what it tells me I’m feeling.

In the car I roll down the windows and scream along to the soundtrack
of my life that is playing on the radio.
These days I think I can relate to
any song I hear and
I get lost in the music maybe a little too easily since

I don't actually remember where I am

or where I am trying to go.
The beauty, though, of getting lost in sound is

that when I find myself again, I understand, if only for a moment, that the
meaning of true perfection
is realizing that when I felt discontent in the past,
it was only my mind’s way of saying
“Hey, it’s time for a new song.”

I think – and I’m scared to admit it -
that this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.
Because anger and disappointment are
just paradigms that paralyze
and I’ve been paralyzed
but I am not paralyzed now.

You have to understand this:
I’m up before the sun because I don’t need its rays to be enlightened.
This whole thing called life is worth the sometimes-struggle.

Somewhere, I know that it’s in people to do what’s right
Even if they have to fight for it and
even if they can’t see it in themselves,
I know that it’s in there.
And you know how I know?
Because I force myself to remember.
I remember that for every moment of inexplicable bullshit, there were a few moments that were so inexplicably beautiful
that it was worth every wrong turn I made to get there
just so I could see it with my own eyes
and feel it with my own heart.

I call those moments near-life experiences.

They don’t happen often, but I sure as hell remember when they do.
When I recall one, I relive, regenerate and revitalize
I simply redo
and it remakes.
Because that’s what it takes, after all
to make the good seem great to someone like me.
There’s just no room for hate and
back in an instant I’m staring at my very full plate…

…of pancakes, that is…
And so I eat.

You know, sometimes it’s worth it to be a little unhappy…

I decided I’d start doing some things for me lately.
I had the chance, so I made some changes.
I didn’t know it then, but the changes made me.

Role Play

Sometimes I’m with people for just a quick minute, answering a question about how to find their departure gate.  Other times, my connection to a customer might be for five or six hours jetting out west to California, confined in a pressurized tube hurdling through impossibly cold and thin air.  The only aspect of this job that is more constant than Newark being on a ground delay program is that the people I serve always change; they come and go with every take off and every landing.  I am a part of their life for a very small amount of time, especially in the greater scheme of their existence, but I still have the opportunity to make a positive influence on their spirit and this is a personal challenge I do not take lightly. 

This is all to say that when a customer blows up at me, yes, I take it personally. Believe it or not, I do so by choice, not because my company or I have failed to provide a service, but because I would like to believe that for better or worse, I can stand to gain something out of the experience and maybe you, the upset and angry customer, can gain something, too. There are, however, limits. 

Slam poet Taylor Mali said in his award-winning work “What Teachers Make” the following words of brilliance:

“I have a policy about honesty and ass-kicking and that policy is that if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.”

Consider the following interaction that occurred on a flight of mine a few weeks ago.  While I’m taking a case of water from the Provisioning truck supplying my flight at the forward service door, a middle-aged woman traveling with her mother and more baggage than is legal to carry-on grabs me by the shirt sleeve, turns me around and with a very agitated, demanding tone says, “You know, you could take a bag and help.”  Yes, hello to you too ma’am and welcome aboard.  I bite my tongue and instead start the following conversation:

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, I was getting a case of water for our flight.  Did you need assistance?

Woman: Um, yes, I do. Take this bag and put it in the overhead.

Me: Ma’am, I’m happy to assist you.  We can put the bag up together, you take one end and I’ll take the other.

Woman: No, you need to put it up, how do you expect me to lift it? It’s huge for God’s sakes and it weighs a million pounds.

Me: Well, if it’s too heavy for you to lift and you can’t do it with me, I’m afraid I’ll have to check it to the carousel. 

Woman: I don’t think you heard me.  Put it up. After all, it’s your job, isn’t it? I mean honestly. 

Cue that Taylor Mali quote about honesty and ass kicking. You asked for it and now I have to let you have it.  Of course, I could never say what I wanted to say on the plane, so to the woman whose bag I refused to lift into the overhead, this is for you. The answer I gave you was, “I’m sorry ma’am, those are our options today.  We can do it together or I can check it, and I apologize for the inconvenience.” This is the answer I wanted to give you:

First of all, I’m not sorry because there was no inconvenience.  You should apologize to me for treating me like your slave.  After all, it is 2012 and I believe that in this day in age, we treat each other with respect at the very least even if you forgot to pack your manners.  You should apologize to your fellow travelers for holding up the boarding process, making them wait in a 90-degree jetbridge that has no air conditioning pumping cold air into it.   You should apologize to your elderly and disabled mother who is sitting in 2D with her hand on her forehead, sheepishly apologizing for your behavior to everyone around you because she is embarrassed that she has to rely on you to help her get from point A to point B.

And no, ma’am, my job is not to put your 60-pound carry-on bag into the overhead bin.  It is not my job to endanger my health and well-being for you to have your bras and travel-sized lotions above your head instead of under your feet.  Nowhere in my job description did it say I’d get paid for putting up with your unreasonable demands.  I have no choice but to deal with your bad attitude, which I will acknowledge professionally and with a smile, but I will not tolerate your selfish and demeaning remarks.   It is not my job to ask the person in 1E to put their seat forward during the flight because you don’t like it reclined and no I will not let you cut another customer in line for the bathroom just because you feel like you’ve already waited long enough.  Your glass of wine is not on the house because I wouldn’t lift your bag during boarding and no I can’t tell you it’s okay to get a book out of the overhead while the seatbelt sign is on. 

But enough about what my job isn’t.  Let me tell you what my job is. I am a highly trained and qualified professional.  It is my job to welcome you onboard and assist you with your baggage, not stow it for you.  I have agreed to graciously provide you with all the tools my company offers to make your travel experience a pleasant one; whether or not you choose to partake is your choice and yours only.  I will gladly offer you a soda and a bag of chips and will explain all of your food and drink options even though we just told you there’s a menu card in your seat.  I will of course sell you a pair of headphones so you can watch the in-flight entertainment and smile when you try to pay for them in cash even though I just told you it was debit or credit card only, for no less than the 3^rd time this flight.  I will say “you’re welcome” any time you thank me.  I will apologize for our maintenance related delay even though the inconvenience was not my fault and was with your safety in mind.  I will empathize with your delayed travel plans and sympathize with your missed connection.  I will help you find a space for your luggage even though you were late to boarding because you had to go buy a bag of pretzels just as the gate agent called for all rows and all passengers. I will pull your broken body out of this burning airplane even if it kills me because it's the role I've agreed to take to protect your life and value it as if it were my own.  

Let me break it down for you ma’am so it is very clear to you what my job is and is not about, and yes, I’m getting personal. Let me tell you what I stand for and who I am.  I believe that I am blessed and I do not question this.  I am not religious, but I am spiritual.  I believe in the mind and body as one and I believe that soulmates can be partners and friends or maybe even both and I witness acts of bravery and chivalry every day between people who don't know each other at all, but believe in the human connection .  I honor your right to choose and I will concede to your opinion if it seems more logical than mine or if it’ll just really make you happy.  I don’t necessarily know you, but I have chosen to love you regardless because I believe that’s what humans should do.  I still choose to love you even though I think in all actuality that your behavior on this airplane depicts you to be a heinous bitch and it horrifies me that I'd have to breathe the same recycled air as you.  To put that all aside is what it means to me to be a global citizen.   All I am asking for in return is your respect, which I promise to afford to you at all times nevermind what my inner dialogue wants me to say or do. 

Now, with that being said, would you like something to drink?

A skyward slam

A slam poem is verse meant to be performed; a poem that lends itself to oral presentation.
I've always been enthralled by this art form and so today, for you, is a slam about why I love aviation.  I'm not sure if it makes perfect sense, but that is the beauty of art... it doesn't have to :)

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I think to myself as I greet the flight attendant at the boarding door that none of my friends or family would have suspected that my sixteen-year-old self would have been incredibly afraid right now.
Not afraid to fly, more afraid to die in a situation I can’t control.
Like a plane crash.

The sound of air rushing by dulls the music in my headphones
and the last rays of sunlight catch the silver lining on the engine.

There is an attitude about the sky tonight.
Its orange is an airborne flame
Its red is screaming for attention
And the dark blue it fades to pacifies the temper of the heavens, like a blanket draped over a newborn child that wants nothing more than his mother.

Time passes by as effortlessly as the endless crop circles and swimming pools below and I remember the days when I was ten years old and would lay down across the trunk of my mom’s car in the driveway and wait for the sound of a jet engine.
The clouds would be moved by a wind that brushed my brown hair over my forehead and
there was a blue afternoon sky that’d get deeper the higher I stared.
There was a time I thought I could stare skyward forever.

Without warning, the sound of the jet I’d been eagerly anticipating would rattle the calm afternoon air…I could hear the plane coming so my eyes would dart around the sky to find it.

My grandma would tap my shoulder, point to the plane and ask me what kind it was.
Boeing 737-500. Continental Airlines.
Easy.

Grandma would walk away, content I knew the answer, and my eyes would quickly refocus above waiting for the next airborne thrill.
She died not long after that.

“A beverage for you, sir?” asks the flight attendant.
I smile and take a cup of water.

Out the window, the last bands of color tell me that daylight has been tucked in to bed and I wonder what it will dream about. 
The smooth ride tells me that the heavens don’t mind us visiting tonight and
I wonder if my grandma knows that I came to say hello.
My sixteen-year-old self wouldn’t have been afraid anymore. 

I remember how small I felt on the trunk of that car and I consider how small I feel now.
I remember all the times Mom and Dad took me to the airport to watch the planes and they sat in the car reading a magazine for hours while I’d eagerly scream, “Look, a Continental 757!”
They would act excited even though it was no less than the 20^th one I’d seen that day.
I remember the facts I made up in 5^th grade, like a Boeing 727 having 900 seats, just to make my friends think I knew what in the hell I was talking about.

I drift in and out of sleep as I flip through my mind’s photo album.

My grandma would ask me if I had seen any planes on the way to her house and I’d say yes and go into elaborate detail about the Saab 340 that came in so low over Northern Blvd I thought it’d clip an apartment building. 
I felt her tap on my shoulder to point out another airplane and I was suddenly startled awake.

“Dude, the plane landed… time to get off.”
The man in 20C seems amused that I somehow fell into such a deep sleep, the landing didn’t even wake me up.

I knock on the aluminum frame of the plane on the way out as if to say
Thanks for the visit.
And as I drive home from the airport, the flashing red lights in the night sky
remind me that perhaps
I should call home more often.

Day One: Epic Fail

NicoDerm aired a commercial that encapsulates what I am well on the road to becoming if I don’t catch myself and set course for higher ground.  If you haven’t seen this spot of advertising genius, give it a quick watch here:

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I am trying not to become even though it’d be so much easier and so much damn funnier if I did.

The worst part is, some of this – most of this, actually, is entirely my fault!  I should have known better than to pick up a trip that had a 3-hour sit in JFK and a 3-hour sit in Syracuse on the same day.  Really, I should have known better.   And I should have run for the hills screaming bloody murder when my first customer interaction of said trip went as follows with a twenty-something hipster girl wearing no shoes, black spandex, a pink t-shirt and a torn orange moo-moo with wilted flowers in her hair:

Me: Good morning, welcome aboard.

(Customer freezes and stares at me blankly, not moving)

Me: Did you need help with something?

Customer: What do I do now?

Me: You sit.

Customer: Where?

Me: In your assigned seat.

Customer: How do I know where that is?!

*Let me just point out that this was asked with an exasperated sigh and arms flailing in the wind, as if she was expected to also explain to me the meaning of life while balancing on one foot and juggling seven oranges on a tight rope over the Grand Canyon.

Me (after looking at boarding pass): Your seat is 17D, it’s the window seat on your left side at row 17.

Customer: Where is row 17?

Me: It’s between 16 and 18.

Customer: Is it far from here?

Pardon me while I place my head into an overhead bin and attempt to slam the door shut approximately twenty times. Empathy, Ben, empathy. Breathe. Maybe she’s nervous.  Maybe she doesn’t fly much.  Maybe, just maybe, she never learned to count. These are all possibilities I’m pondering to give Lady Moo-Moo a pass when a middle-aged woman boards our Charlotte-bound flight and breaks my train of thought.

“Hi, good morning,” I say, noticing her denim Mickey Mouse hat and instantly wishing I had gotten a second cup of coffee.

“Yes, hi, hello, how are you?” she responds.  “May I have some water? I need to take an anti-diarrhea pill. I get awful stomach cramps when I fly.  I keep the pills right here just incase I get the poops,” she says, joyfully pointing to a black leather fanny pack slouching sideways off her figure and simultaneously giving me a thumbs-up with her other hand.

Let me go try that overhead bin door one more time…

This is going to be much harder than I thought.

The beginning...

I am sound asleep when the blaring tone of my hotel room’s telephone manages to not only give me a minor heart attack, but also becomes an instant and solemn reminder of the fact that it is 3:30 in the morning and it’s time to go to work.  Without my saying a word, the automated voice on the other line cheerfully wishes me, “Good morning!” and goes on to assure me that “It’s a beautiful day out there today!”  Naturally, my first instinct is to scream some combination of expletives and throw the phone against the wall.  When the back-up alarm I set on my iPhone goes off two minutes later, I get dangerously close to actually doing it. 

The truth of the matter is that I live, breathe, eat and experience stupidity on a daily basis.  Every flight attendant does and it’s what makes that 3:30am phone call even more brutal; it’s a disappointment akin to realizing that you’ve made it all the way home from the Chinese restaurant with someone else’s takeout and heaven only knows that shrimp Lo Mein was the last thing you wanted.  Stupidity cuddles up to me like a warm comforter in the dead of the New England winter.  It sneaks up on me like the hangover I’ll inevitably get from that extra vodka drink I really didn’t need last night, but took anyway because it was a stressful day and the Captain was buying.

Let’s be clear; while there is a copious amount of entertainment value in much of what we see as flight attendants, my experience has shown me that despite what we perceive as hilarity, we are really only giggling because had we not laughed, we’d probably cry.  Bawl, actually. There are tremendous rewards that come with being an ambassador of the skies, but not without an all-too-frequent reminder that the world is a very imperfect place.  I do believe it’s true that imperfection can be a beautiful thing, but it becomes shockingly less so when you are hurdling through the air in a pressurized soda can filled with worn seats that reek of beer farts and old lady perfume.

As you can imagine, it becomes very easy to complain.  In fact, I’ve become quite good at it myself.  I am fairly certain that if complaining were to become an Olympic sport, I’d medal without much effort.  I certainly wouldn’t need to train, I could still eat whatever I wanted and I wouldn’t need to worry about how dashing I’d look in a skimpy red, white and blue Speedo.   Seeing as how that probably won’t happen in time for Rio 2016, what I’ve come to realize instead is that my complaining is actually a sign that I have reached a very crucial crossroads that every flight attendant comes to sometime in his or her career; the decision to willingly become a bitter sky hag, or to shift my perspective and embrace the idea of gratitude, forgiveness and understanding. 

It’d be much easier to keep complaining. Instead, however, I am committing myself to a major attitude overhaul, not only in my line of work, but also in my daily life.  Since we in the Western world spend so much of our time working, it seems natural to me that many of our biggest epitomes stem in some capacity from our jobs.  They are, in all-too-many ways, our existence.  My goal? To change the nature of my existence without changing my job.  I think it’s possible and I hope you’ll follow along.  Quite honestly, I’m not quite sure when, where or how this will all happen and in all actuality, it’s as exciting as it is gut wrenching.   I’ve taken wisdom from the lyrics of my favorite Florence & The Machine song by coming to understand that “it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

Speaking of which, I better get to sleep.  It’s almost 3:30am.