OK, I’ll admit it. When my brain is left unattended for long periods, my thoughts tend to meander to interesting places. For the most part, that’s a good thing.
Sometimes. my thoughts are mundane. Why do people wear dark clothes and ride bicycles with no lights down dark roads at night? Why do folks feel so wonderful throwing trash from their cars in the street or sidewalks heading somewhere with probably more than one trash can?
Most of the time, though, I think and dream about big things, like the major social matters of the day, life and death and how to improve. Often, though, the focus is hope.
That happened again recently while sitting in Atlanta’s giant Hartsfield-Jackson Airport waiting for a flight. I’m always astounded in large airports by the planning, engineering, labor, design skills and everything that went into the construction.
Headed onto the plane, I was surrounded by a gumbo of ethnicities, and, I would guess, sexual orientations and political leanings. I’ll bet there was a chalkboard full of acronyms boarding with me on the sold-out, 194-seat aircraft.
From my seat, one step from the last row, I had a good view of my fellow travelers and could hear the swirl of dialects being spoken.
Minutes after takeoff, my dream world of strange thoughts and what-ifs was ignited. The what if was this: What if the plane had crashed seconds after takeoff and had suffered major damage?
In my mind’s eye, there were pockets of wreckage and flames in some places. People were lying about. Folks were moaning in pain and others were pleading for assistance. Some lay motionless as flames crept toward them. You could hear a cacophony of “Help me. Help me!”
There was a man wearing a MAGA T-shirt lying on his back, unable to move as flames inched toward him. Just then, a man with polished fingernails and wearing gaudy bracelets, a nose ring and a rainbow-colored striped shirt rushed over to him. As that man was reaching down to grab and pull the injured man to safety, the MAGA-shirt man quickly and gladly gave his hand to be rescued.
An LGBTQ woman was on the ground gasping for breath when a man in blue jeans, cowboy boots and a cap that said “God Hates Queers” rushed over to help.
There were two men wearing Black Lives Matter T-shirts, standing over two uniformed Minneapolis Police Department officers barely breathing. A plane door and seat were laying across their chests. The BLM guys debated for a minute then pulled off the door and seat and helped the officers.
There was a mom with two boys, both Spanish-speaking, who were treating a man bleeding from cuts on his arms and face. The boys were using one of their shirts on the blood coming from a deep cut on his chest. Then for a second, I could see the injured man had a “Deport Them All” T-shirt on.
OK, these were thoughts and sights in a dream caused by too much time on my hands, very little sleep and a continuing hope for something better here. I’d like to think it’s possible to shed our hate and live together, if just for the one-hour or so flight time from Atlanta to New Orleans.
Like always, there is a period after these dreams when I try to unravel their meaning.
The best I can come up with is the hope that groups with disdain for others can, in a split second of horrific danger and need, reconcile their differences and see each other’s humanity. Maybe they should be able to deal with each other in the same light daily.
I want to believe that with so much daily rancor and hate speech, we can be better.
Email Edward Pratt, a former newspaperman, at epratt1972@yahoo.com.