Pilgrimage Pt. 1

The Arrival

«Bing Bing» “Ladies and gentleman, we’re about ten minutes away from making our final descent into Grenada. Please take this opportunity to gather your belongings, stow all electronic devices, and place all tray tables and seats in the upright position, as we prepare the cabin for arrival.” «Bing»

My ears will be telling a different story as we intentionally lose altitude, but for now, they are pleased. The Captain said it right: Gre-NAY-duh.

For years, hearing people struggle to say the country’s name felt like someone was pricking my ear drum with a sharp needle. The worst was when they defaulted to that place in Spain. No shade really. Shot out to the people in Granada. I’ve never been, so I have no beef with them, but I do with people who struggle with phonics.

In this way, I have morphed into my mother. I want to scream “Read what you see on the paper! How could ‘e’ make that sound?!”

And to push it even further, we typically say GREE-NAY-duh, pronouncing the first syllable like you’re saying griot. But that’s the AP version; this American Airlines team has already passed the test.

My youngest has been screaming at the top of her lungs for the last four hours of this four hour and forty-five minute flight. As clearly as a one year old can communicate, she basically told me and entire plane to go fuck ourselves.

We left the house at 3am to begin our journey, with a 6am flight and a connection in Charlotte. Our second leg is sticking to it’s planned arrival of 2:15pm. With 25 minutes to go, and two scheduled nap times missed, she couldn’t give two shits about giving us a break from wailing.

Right now, I’m excited for two reasons.

First, I’ll be free from the constant shifting and compensating for crunched ankles, clobbered knees jammed into the metal holding the tray table in front of me, and a cranky toddler. Second, I might make it off of here without saying something to the passive aggressive couple in front of us. Keyword might.

Imagine affixing your pointer finger, attached fingernail and cuticle to the flight attendant call button, applying pressure to said button, and then complaining about a one year old kicking your husband’s chair…all while we’re sitting centimeters apart from each other in coach.

It’s like I had gone through a full cycle from confusion to awareness to contained rage. At first, I was being nosy and trying to read the lips of the Black flight attendant who appeared. I barely had any time to process what she said to the passenger before she calmly swiveled her head three degrees due south to repeat the complaint we all heard the first time.

No request. No admonishment. Not even a change in facial expression. Simply relaying the message.

As my ‘brows furrow and my pupils make mental targets out of seat 9D’s head, the intro to Lil John’s Bia Bia begins playing in my mind.

My baby girl can’t even walk yet. Sure there were a few boodoops to the back of the seat in front of us, as she protested the snack foods we packed, but she was not one of “those kids” you see in TikTok videos.

Seeing my face contort as a result of 9D’s dastardly behavior from my seat in 10F, my wife mouths over to me “It’s okay,” and I back down. I’m a few thousand feet away from my mini mecca, and this hajj that I have been willing myself towards for years will soon commence.

It’s not long before the sea breaks with the farthest reach of the island’s southern tip, and with one giant thud, we’ve landed. Before the wheels draw down to a normal speed, I’ve betrayed myself twice. Once for not joining in with the lone joyful passenger who erupted in applause, and once for not letting my little girl go to town on 9F as the plane turned towards the terminal.

My wife likes to say that I’m just petty in my head and would not actually do that. One day I actually might let pettiness ring, but for now, I’m focused on the missed opportunity to teach my crew about how it used to be.

We always clapped when the plane landed in Grenada. I’d later learn that the same was true in much of the Caribbean, Central and South America. Some clapped for the pilot, signaling a job well done. Others clapped in praise and thanksgiving to God for the ending of a safe flight.

Betrayal might be too heavy of a word, but no clapping didn’t help my cause. The whole point of this trip - my kids first trip to Grenada - was to give them exposure to the country and culture that shaped me. Since their natural guides, my parents, are not here to play this role, I knew I would have to assume the role as best as I could. Things big and small, like clapping upon landing, are small pebbles in the foundation of the culture, the experience. Perhaps, I’m racing against the inevitable. The land will be foreign to them, but my hope is that being there will not.

As we turned off the runway, I spied a surprising sight in the distance - a jetbridge. Though standard in most countries, this was a major upgrade for the airport. My last trip was just 3 years ago and this hadn’t been built yet. I was excited for the technological advancement, but again, a little saddened what would be another missed opportunity to share my experiences with the kids.

Emerging from planes into the hot Grenadian sun was like a right of passage they would not take. The heat and the beams of light hit you with the heavy embrace of an uncle happy to see you all grown up after many years apart. It was loving, but it stung for a bit.

Though I was slightly jealous of the Delta passengers traversing the tarmac, I marveled at my little tri-island nation growing up. What else had changed since my last trip?

By the time I reached baggage claim, I was a celebrity. In repeat conversations, people I will choose to affectionately call aunties and uncles, they exclaimed “Oh you were the one with the baby?!”

To which I replied, “Yes…first flight for her.”

I think they mistook my exasperation from simply being up for so long for exasperation stemming from an inability to navigate a baby for five hours. My two older kids have made many trips to Colorado, California, and Arizona without so much as a peep, but baby number three didn’t sign that contract.

As a result, the unsolicited advice ensued about extra food or bottles during takeoff and landing or pulling on her ear lobes to help with the pressure from the altitude change. Sensing my resistance to engage with their novel…revolutionary thinking, they leaned in further.

Now standing in a group as we waited for our bags, they observed my now angelic baby and traded stories about how they’d all been drugged in some capacity for flights as kids. Melatonin and Dramamine were the two prevailing solutions to the problem of kids being kids on a plane.

I, too, remember being given Dramamine on flights as a kid, but here’s the thing, I didn’t need it. I loved flying and found it exciting; it was my mother who would get anxious and fearful of looking out of the window, unless we were in the clouds.

The aunties and uncles meant well, but I was done. Tired, hungry, and ready for the beach. One by one, our bags appeared on the conveyer belt and we went on our way to through customs and on to the hotel. We reach!

Part 1 of the pilgrimage was complete.