Eleven Years of Transiency Collegiate Writing, Claire Philips, Fall 2012 This assignment for a collegiate writing class examined critically a childhood experience as in its relation to history at the individual and society levels. My childhood was gilded with elaborate cathedrals of wooden blocks and Lego skyscrapers, all neatly thrown together from one side of the family living room to the other. Dispersed between these sprawled innumerable toy airplanes, each flying about its own undefined route. A trans-living room flight could take days or weeks to traverse its journey, depending on my will. At the time, I would never have thought of the unique misery to which its imaginary passengers would have been subjected. There could have been no crying babies, and no pocket of rough air around the family couch could have created turbulence. The world was naïve, innocent.
clearly showed me otherwise. From this, it was the pinnacles of modernity to which I clung. Aircraft and skyscrapers offered me an oasis from the realities I escaped at home. While my “family” shook and rolled like a poorly framed bridge in the wind, cities and airports provided me with what I then thought was flawlessness.
I gazed into the monotony and fortitude of our creations. Every morning, the sun struck the John Hancock building in Boston. The same as any other morning, the sun reflected from its monstrous façade onto the street below. Peopled filtered in and from the tower, and business was conducted within its grasp on a repeating basis. With such easy this performance took place that I became fixated on its routine, on its foreseeability. Likewise across the Charles River, Logan International Airport held a constant flux of flights from the far reaches of the planet. As if by a diThese two passions, those for architecture vine model, each jet landed, disembarked and flight, had arisen from the two polar and began its next trek – clockwork. There ends of my life, two firm supports on which were no prospects of unpredictability, I asI rested my young being. At one end, my sumed; such systems functioned sequenmother infused in me a deep appreciation tially time after time, without falter. Unlike for the aesthetic. Our home glimmered these solid exemplifications, the happiwith meticulously placed vases and ness filling our home was very much conpainstakingly cleaned china. It was as if a tingent on a number of things, especially reach towards visual perfection had been the unpredictable nature of my parents’ made in a superficial ploy to cover emorelationship. To these vestiges of moderntional blemishes. Beside this, my father’s ism I kept my hope. The discrete skyraw passion for flight stood vehemently scraper and the timely airport appeared as another pillar of my early life. Having to give us the ultimate ability to conquer worked at the FAA for what seemed at the nature. Any idea of a random intervention time an eternity, his intrinsic fascination into the timely spectacle humanity had with the mammoth machines crisscrossing created would have been absurd. Then, our skies instilled in me a unique regard it all foundered. The bridge spanning my for the wonders above me. Like a skyparents’ differences crumbled under the scraper, every detail of which held deep force of a vehement gust. Some heard roots in methodical planning and execuwhispers of an affair in the wind, though I tion, a jetliner shone a similar beauty in am more inclined to believe it was simply its engineering. No curved panel clung to my mother’s increasing weight, a lament the wing without reason; not one window of my father which had eventually come to had been placed on the bulkhead without define at least their last decade together. proper thought to its effects on cabin In any case, eighteen years of a repetitive pressurization. This obsession with refine- struggle to patch the canyon between my ment in both architecture and aeronautics parents’ personalities had slowly rotted took hostage both my mind and eyes. the support beams of an already shaky Perhaps, it was this precision in mankind’s connection. Under the weight of a particucreations which I began to see as a refuge. larly challenging year, it splintered. By the While my parents’ marriage appeared from end of 2000, my situation had home had an external perspective to be pedestrian, been carefully divided in a courtroom. Lawif not downrightly bourgeois, even my naryers for each side had diligently chopped row understanding from within the house apart each asset of my life into two equal
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portions. These were then conscientiously be that jetliners and buildings had been dispersed to either my mother or father. employed as weapons? How odd must the reality of the world be if the two staples of Amidst this melancholy, I remember little. solidarity in my life had been upturned? The days must have blurred together, Staring at the smoldering pile of rubble in because only certain moments protrude Lower Manhattan on the television, I came in my mind, one of the most significant of to grasp what remained of my broken ideals. which occurred a few weeks into my first While I redefined my identity in relation to week of second grade. Streaming from my parents’ divorce, America awoke from a the school doors at 2:30 on that Tuesday somber of steadfastness. Our nation was afternoon, we joyfully poured towards our no longer impervious, no longer a metal-clad awaiting parents, as was so any other day. giant whose motivations and ideals only Usually greeted by open arms and inquisi- the starkest of adversaries could besiege. tions into the day’s doings at school, we Likewise, marriage was no longer an unshakfound only confusion and astonishment able union. America, torn from her dignity, awaiting us. The air sobered our juvenile staggered to reinterpret what exactly she follies with fallout from something which meant. My parents, shaken by their up-
How could it be that jetliners and buildings had been employed as weapons? How odd must the reality of the world be if the two staples of solidarity in my life had been upturned? Staring at the smoldering pile of rubble in Lower Manhattan on the television, I came to grasp what remained of my broken ideals. had happened a five-hours’ car ride away, heaval, pondered similar questions, facing a in New York City. Most predominantly, I world not yet set to their newfound lonelirecall being told that two airplanes had ness. Having worked at the air traffic control collided with the World Trade Center, a center that held the last contact with three favorite attraction of mine which I had ac- of the flights hijacked on September 11, my tually visited only a few months before. My father sulked away for some months. More minuscule understanding of that day slow- so than many others, the day had completely ly sprouted around two central facts: many restitched his identity. Adding to this was people had died, and all flights across the the anxiety caused by the relativity of the United States had been grounded. tragedy to our lives. My mother had regularly flown American Airlines flight 11, from Boston As the details slowly unrolled, my personal to Los Angeles, twice a month for ten years journey merged with that of a nation taken on business, concluding her travels in 2000. back by a unique tragedy. How could it The solidarity he once found somewhere
Eleven Years of Transiency