The flight from one life into another

 I was 8 years old when I first got on a plane.   To my children who have been travelling for pleasure since they were younger than that, and to many of their friends, this may seem very unimpressive.  To many people who I know and who grew up without the means to fly this always seems like a big milestone.  It is all perspective. 

My first flight was not for vacation - it was a flight in both the plane sense and in the flee sense.  My parents had escaped from a Communist bloc nation by going on vacation and asking for asylum once they reached Austria.  They had left their child behind because in Communist countries visas to go to non-bloc countries required sacrifice, bribes and a whole lot of nerve.   They got their visas minus one for me.  After all that was collateral to those bureaucratic processes that are the Communist backbone of any of their systems.   

Two years later they finally managed to get me a long awaited visa to move to the States with them.  So there I was, not allowed to be accompanied by any family members (they might not come back after all) and eager to rejoin my parents.  My great-aunt, and her daughter, who had been taking care of me since my parents had left made sure my hair was combed that day with giant white bows on either side.  If you have not seen this look Google Russia, Romania, Eastern Block hair ribbons on school girls.  You will find a plethora to use as a visual.  They were big.  Like Princess Leia big on top of hair.  My outfit, so proud of it, had been sent from the States by my parents.  Polyster, tan, animals printed on the pockets.  Oh yeah the late 70s were a fashion we still see and shake our heads at. 

I had along with me a small yellow and black checkered pouch, that was meant to hang around my neck.  It was too heavy for that.  I carried it.  It contained my parents names and address, some paperwork, my passport and a book.  Notice the absence of money.  We were not allowed to have dollars and maybe we just didn't have them.  Much fuss was made, a lot of family came to see me off.  There was crying and I know I should have been sad but I wasn't.  I had not seen my parents since I was 5.  I was excited to rejoin them.  My great aunt and her daughter had been amazing with their care - I should have probably thanked them more but I was 8 and you know kids are sort of selfish and frankly I wanted to go.  It was not them.  It was the separation.  They bribed a stewardess, or two, to look out for me. 

Now if you are American or Western European that last sentence might seem odd.  I was an 8 year old unaccompanied minor - why would they not take care of me?  Bribe?  Yes bribe.  These people were miserable, no longer allowed to deplane at stops because too many were defecting, so imagine 12 hour flights and you get to sit on plane until you can go back.  They had their own miseries.  That doesn't excuse the fact that they should have taken care of an 8 year old but I kind of get it. 

They took the money and then they put me in my seat and promptly did not speak to me for most of the flight.  

That flight in some ways defined me.  In other ways it shows parts of my personality that I already had.  Only child, easy with talking to adults or to anyone.  

I smiled and nodded at my seat mate, my English tutoring had left me with a great British pronunciation of the word "the" and "My name is Juliana Badescu".  That's it.   I hand gestured smiled at the woman next to me, a blonde with a shag cut like the mom on Brady Bunch I would later realize.   She was American, since we communicated with smiles and gestures had no idea why she had been to Romania.  She was nice.  There was a family traveling with their daughter, she was American born, spoke almost no Romanian, around my age.  We played dolls and like children did not let lack of a common language stop us from talking, her in hers and me in mine.  There were a few men who were on some sort soccer committee, young, smiled at the kids a lot.  There was a woman traveling with her son,  they were joining the father/husband in America.  He played with us too.  He was dressed in a traditional Romanian national blouse.  I do not recall names.  

There were others on the plane but these are the people I remember.  I loved the feeling of being on a plane.  I read my book.  I slept.  It was so exciting. 

At one point there was an announcement that our layover in Amsterdam was going to be longer than we expected.  I had no idea what that meant.  When we got there they told everyone to get off the plane.  There was an issue w the plane.  I was 8.  They told me to get off.  

Now you grow up in a Communist country and there is a level of conspiracy and distrust that is bred into everything you do.  No matter your age.  Where they kicking me off and sending me back?  Some trick they had played and now were going to keep me from my family?  I was scared.  I had no money, I had an address, my little bag and my passport.  The family with the little girl noticed that the stewardess was asking me to get off too, but none of the staff would go with me.  The father argued that they could not expect an 8 year old child to wander around a foreign airport for hours.  They told him not their problem.  I did not want to be a problem.  

The family took me with them.   We had a multi hour delay, I was happy I was going to see my parents, that was all that I focused on.  At one point they stopped near a shop,  My parents used to send me care packages with Milka chocolate.  I knew what it was.  The over-sized bars in the lavender wrap.  Yum.  They stopped to buy their daughter some.  I had no money so I smiled and waited outside the shop.  They came out with a bar for me.  I thanked them but told them I could not pay for it.  The mother cried.  I remember all of this as if it was yesterday.   They said it was a gift.  Eventually we got back on the plane.  Milka gone.. yeah don't judge. 

The rest of the flight was uneventful.  We got to New York, delayed, and the family I had been with had to transfer to Chicago.  The father told me the immigration people needed me to process my paperwork.  He was afraid I would have trouble but I was so happy to be in New York I just hugged them all while they got urged to rush to their connection.  

I was taken by a large set Black man, I had never met a person of color before, though I had seen them on TV.  I touched his skin, he smiled  Somehow we completed paperwork and I got a green card.  

Unbeknownst to me on the other side of the sliding door my parents were going bonkers.  My mother especially was a mess.  Her only child, who she had not seen for over 2 years had landed hours late and now as the people came through those double doors as they slid open, her child was not one of them.   She grabbed the little boy, the one I had played with, by the arm. She was frantic I am sure, his mother begged her not to take her child away.  That breaks me every time.  My mom explained that she was not looking to take him but she was looking for her own.   A little girl, blonde hair, ponytails.  

The little boy and the mother smiled and told my mother my full name, how I had talked to everyone on the plane and how I was getting my greencard.  

I came through a tiny bit later.  My parents cried, the friends with them cried, I was ecstatic.  I was in New York, in America with my parents.  My bows had gone askew, my purse was around my neck as I dragged my suitcase (no wheels) and my smile bigger than anything else. 

This experience has been with me all of my life.  My ability to survive, to try new things, to welcome talking to anyone who is willing to talk to me, to be optimistic.  This flight from a place of shortages, lines, fear, control, government controlled to bend to the will of a mean spirited, small minded dictator to one of great possibility, my parents, a world so unlike the one I had left. 

I am sad so often when I read immigration hate rhetoric in America today - I cannot recall that flight and not be broken by some of the things I see happening here.  Yet it is due to that flight that I refuse to let anything stop me from moving forward, from believing that behind opaque doors there is a whole world full of better tomorrows.  I am a realist but one that is driven by the possibility of possibilities.  I learned that on that flight, celebrated on Aug 26 every year and I hope I passed that on to my own children.