I've been finding myself in airports a lot over the past year, a result of the careful maintenance of multiple long-distance relationships. While I have a strong distaste for flying - typically suffering from a mild panic attack that begins the moment the plane takes off and lasts until it's touched down - I am a huge fan of the whole travelling process that occurs before. In particular, I love the waiting area provided at each gate before passengers board their flight. I love the permission these areas grant to do nothing of actual importance except catch up on Netflix or read the latest book that Oprah recommended.
Just yesterday I was sitting in the Pearson airport of Toronto, Ontario - Gate 27, Terminal 3 - watching an episode of Comedy Central's Broadcity that I had streamed moments earlier using the 30 minutes of free wifi the airport so generously grants. I was flying to Halifax, back to university after having been home visiting family, and I was hours early for my flight. This scheduling flaw had occurred on purpose. I sat there with the coffee and bagel I had purchased from Tim Hortons cooling at my side. I was still in my sweatpants (allowed because it was before 12pm), magazines, technological devices, and various other leisure activities were strewn carelessly around me, and I was blissfully content. The particulars of my exact situation may not be terribly common, but my affinity for these moments of intermission is not entirely unusual. There weren't too many people around me, but I hypothesised that the few that had arrived equally as early had done so intentionally as well. As I noticed the open laptops, the plugged in headphones and plugged out faces, the flipping of pages and the sipping of coffees, I knew I was right. Everyone was brazenly occupying their section of the waiting area, indulging in a collectively allowed lethargy and detachment. Everyone except for an elderly woman sitting just a few seats down from me. I noticed her not because of our proximity, but rather it was her stillness that was unsettling. Had she not been ever so slightly twiddling her manicured thumbs, I might have thought she was dead. Her back stood almost straight up, bent slightly I assumed out of age and not sloppiness, as all other limbs seemed to sit in their intended positions without contest. The vision of her natural etiquette made me automatically take note of mine - incredibly disheveled in comparison. Her white hair was curled atop her head in perfect ringlets one can only achieve from an uncomfortable night spent in curlers. I subconsciously flattened down the baby-hairs flying from my scrunchie. Her arms were laid gracefully on her lap, hands empty, as though sitting without intention is something she was used to. I caught myself biting at my nails as I have for years and slowly removed my hands from my mouth. Her legs were crossed at the ankles in a tight grip, as though attempting to take up as little space as possible. I unapologetically stretched my legs out wide, taking up additional room as they lay comfortably across the seat to my right.
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The first time I heard the word "broad" used as a noun was in the kitchen of my grandparent's bungalow home in Guelph, Ontario. My Grandmother had accidentally turned on the cold water, as opposed to warm, while my Nono washed his hands. The temperature-shock had caused him to pull his hand back quick, water and insults flying across the room. I was seven, and I had a pretty extensive vocabulary for my age due to my instant obsession with books. To me, broad meant wide; it meant covering a lot of distance or a large number of subjects. My Grandmother wasn't wide, in fact she was a tiny lady. She stood not quite five feet tall in the kitty-heels she religiously wore and was light enough to step on hard, January snow without breaking through. At the time I debated over correcting my Nono on his misuse of the word, proud to share with him my literary knowledge, but the air felt too thick for my words to cut. Instead I listened to him mumble it once more under his breath, still proceeded with a pronoun, as he left the kitchen, and watched my Grandmother shrink inches in seconds as the word clung to her like a corset. That night, she prepared dinner for everyone but claimed she did not feel well enough to eat herself.
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My mother did not inherit her own mother's delicate bone structure and small frame, and neither did I. My mother had thighs that stood firm and were not swayed by winds or words. She had hair that defied gravity and curled straight up, making her easy to spot in any grocery store, although I was rarely forced to look for this telltale-fro for long. Her voice, which did not ask permission to be heard, often flew across aisles and into my ears before I even noticed I was without her. Having inherited her unruly curls and what my Nono referred to as "child-bearing hips", I grew up feeling, to some degree, that I was destined to take up space. My mother ensured that this was the case.
At eight years old, she dressed me up as Pippi-longstocking for Halloween. The shameless and rambunctious tomboy had always been a favourite fictional character of mine, a role model my mother surprisingly seemed to support, despite the child's mischievous ways. Mismatched knee socks were pulled up to my thighs and we used my mother's makeup to dot my already-freckled face with more. For the finishing touch, my mother had spent all afternoon carefully crafting a bent coat hanger which she placed atop my head. Bright red braids made from yarn were wrapped around the metal hanger, jutting out horizontally just above each ear and ending in sharp spikes that would stab anyone should they get too close. Slight embarrassment hit me at first as I struggled to fit my head through my front door, but this was soon clouded by the confidence this weapon granted as I marched down dark, October streets. My friends followed behind as they could not safely walk beside me without fear of getting an eye removed. I was their fearless leader, taking up the entire sidewalk by myself, and not once apologizing to the fellow trick-or-treaters I forced to move out of my way.
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Yesterday, as it neared the time of departure, the waiting area at Gate 27 had filled up and the elderly woman was called to board. I was forced to move my leg from the seat to my right to allow for a middle-aged man, speaking loudly into his cellphone, to sit down. I began to pack away all the personal items that had accumulated around me in the hours I had spent treating that small public space like my own, and heard the flight attendant announce that they "were now boarding row B". That was me. I quickly shovelled the rest of my now-cold bagel into my mouth and ran to the gate. Once on the plane I slowly maneuvered my slightly-too-large carry-on through the aisle, passing the elderly woman. Her small frame somehow made airplane seats look roomy. I caught her eye and smiled big, bits of bagel still stuck in my teeth. I like to think that if I had been able to speak I would have said something to her - something that alluded to the gratitude I now feel and the responsibility that I take seriously. Something that bridged the gap in our decades. Her's was a decade of quiet voices, shallow conversations, and stomachs empty of the food they spent all day preparing. Mine is a decade of booming voices, conversations brimming with change, and stomachs full of food we did not make but know we deserve. Her's was a decade of being pushed down. I promise mine will be a decade of building back up.
YOU ARE READING
They Began Feeding Me Before I Was Born
Non-FictionA memoir that explores a difference in the way generations take up space.
