SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL
Ellie Searl
The older couple sat beside me in Row Three - wife in the middle; husband at the window.
The lady’s head looked like a camel molting in late spring. Sparse patches of short, reddish-brown dyed hair with muddy, grey roots stuck out of her head in clumps; a bald spot highlighted her crown. She wore a rayon turquoise outfit, sensible brown shoes with Velcro straps, and lots of costume jewelry.
The husband matched his wife’s lackluster style with his tousled grey hair and lumpy beige suit. He slumped so far into his seat I could barely see his face. He mumbled something to his wife.
“They’re down there.” She pointed to a pink, quilted bag under the seat in front of her.
“Huh?”
“They’re there . . . in that bag . . . down there . . . !”
“WHAT?”
He reminded me of my father – asking a question but oblivious to it when it was answered.
I could hear them shout at each other over the roar of the JetBlue engine and my headphones, which were already turned up several notches so I could watch “Real Housewives of Orange County” on the little TV above my tray table. MORE . . .
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YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
Carolyn B Healy
My high school was one of the best in the Chicago Public School system – academically superior, racially stable, with a host of after-school activities. A substantial percentage of students went on to college and success. It had the customary social divisions for the time: the cool kids, the hoody kids and the nerds, even though that word was not in use yet. Everyone pretty much knew where they belonged, but our school had a particularly vivid way of drawing the distinctions, at least for the white kids.
The black kids must have had their own stratification, but in our self-involvement, we got only a glimpse. Within our honors classes, there was a bit of a range from the ultrastudious twins, to the hardworking activity jock who ran the yearbook, to the glamorous girl who belted out the theme from Goldfinger at the talent show. We were school-friends, but never met outside of school, and never wondered why. MORE . . .
