My my would you look at the time…
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.
I’m really glad I read that.
ahh hahaha ha first and probably last time animating anything
when ur crush likes someone else but u still wanna be cool and happy for them
The rainbow life is a hard life
now-now-every-quintwin, next dye job. THIS.
the funny thing about dril posts is that they actually do have a structure to them– they hit a kind of conceptual caesura halfway through, a point where there’s no inevitable logical connection between what’s been said and what’s still to come. here, the first sentence didn’t need to result in the second, yet it’s not “lol random” either; the speaker is angry about his boss’ draconian ferret-kissing policy, and reacts in kind, and even the reference to a “screen saver” reminds us that we’re in an office. it’s a narrative progression that, despite having an internal logic, alienates its punchline from its setup. who the hell is this person?
one thing i love about @dril posts is how they all seem to take place in a universe that is somewhat like our own, but with the habitus of white middle america taken to a bizarre, absurd, but strangely logical conclusion. take this one, for instance:
so we have our setting: a security guard protecting the american flag in the betsy ross museum, something almost archetypically american and middle class. but once again the first part, or setup, for the punchline, “fucking the flag,” careens the joke into an alien punchline that still, given the setting, makes sense. @dril’s security guard character imitates a sort-of cop-talk, the banter of a security guard, “buddy, they wont even let me fuck it”. you can imagine a similar response from a guard at any museum, but we’re talking about Fucking the American Flag, here.
i really love @dril.
it’s astonishing that a human being thinks of those posts. some person, someone out there whose existence we have to infer, because all we know is that those posts occur and they must be coming from somewhere. “the @dril tweeter” resonates as “the beowulf poet” does, except beowulf (which i’ve only read in translation, so i’m not an authority) has never made any use of the english language as baffling and sublime and somehow primally interlaced with the stuff of human consciousness as “IF THE ZOO BANS ME FOR HOLLERING AT THE ANIMALS I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL.”
This is my favorite post, I am so glad I found it again.