Carry On

On the airplane there’s a firm tap on my shoulder, then another. I slide up my black satin eye mask. We’re still on the tarmac at Heathrow. Passengers are trickling in, but the two seats to my right and the one to my left are empty. There’s a white man tilting over the seat in front of me, his sandy hair gelled into a sawtooth crown, his mouth moving fast. He plummets several inches, stopping short of a half-squat, as if he had second thoughts about exercising in khakis and a polo shirt.

I’m so groggy it takes me a second to realize why I can’t hear him. I cock my head and remove my earplugs. “Sorry, what did you say?”

A frown flits across his brow, the corners of his mouth sink. He rolls his shoulders back and leans closer, his mouth twitching into a rigid smile.

“There are three of us. Move to the aisle seat.”

It’s not a question. He tips his head toward his shoulder, indicating which way he wants me to go.

“Are you with the airline?”

“No. There are three of us. We need you to move to the aisle. So we can sit together.” His voice is level, self-assured. His accent American, like mine.

“I don’t want the aisle seat,” I say. “I purchased this particular seat. All of my things are here.” I point to the seat pocket where I stowed my water bottle and journal, a novel, and snacks. Beneath the seat in front of me, my laptop bag.

“You need to move.”

The electronic thump-screech of a microphone interrupts us. “This is the final boarding call…” a flight attendant begins.

I push against the airline pillow cushioning my lower back and settle in. The man is tapping the headrest between us with his index finger. As I reach for my eye mask, a woman walks down the aisle toward us, eyes fixed on the man, her hair glossier than a mug of dark roast. A young boy shuffles in her wake. They sidestep into the row with the man, both dressed in lightweight sweaters and loose slacks. Must be his family.

“Is your son ill? Is there a reason you both must sit with him?” I ask.

I’ve switched seats many times on planes so people could sit with loved ones. But no one has ever demanded I move. It had always been a kind request.

“What seat do you want?” he asks.

“The seat I have. Why didn’t you just buy three seats together?”

He turns toward his wife, sheepish, then addresses me with renewed vigor.

“What other seat would you want? Would you want a window seat?” he asks.

I had considered purchasing a window seat, but they were pricey. I’m comfortable, tucked into two blankets. I don’t want to move. I want to sleep.

“Maybe, but probably not.”

He says something to his wife. She walks to my row and makes a sweeping motion to indicate I should exit the row so she and the boy can take the seats on the other side of mine.

I will have to remove my blankets. The far aisle is clear. Upon entry to the plane, a flight attendant would have instructed her to locate her seat by traveling the parallel aisle. Why does she expect me to move?

“Would it be possible for you to enter from the other side? It’s the direct path to your seats,” I say.

An exasperated sigh slips from her lips.

The woman and her son walk to the opposite aisle. She takes the seat on my right. The boy deposits himself in the aisle seat next to her. Passengers settle into the chairs in front of mine, driving the man into the aisle.

Through the intercom, a flight attendant instructs us to fasten our seat belts, put up our tray tables, and turn off electronic devices.

The man plops into his seat on my left and tucks his chin toward his right shoulder. “It would be better for you if you move, because you would have more room. You should move to a window seat.”

Reading those words on a page, his greatest concern appears to be my comfort. In person, he cocks every syllable into a fist.

“Please don’t tell me what would be better for me,” I say and replace my sleep mask. I’m too agitated to sleep but want this conversation to end.

From behind the satin mask, I listen drowsily as the captain says, “Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.”

Sometime later, there’s a tap on my shoulder. Then another. I yank down my sleep mask. I must have dozed off.

“I understand you would like to move,” a flight attendant says in a posh British accent. She’s standing in the aisle, her voice arcing over the man’s head.

“No,” I say, “I don’t want to move. He wants me to move.”

He beams at her charmingly, his shoulders rising and lowering as if to say he is helpless dealing with this difficult brown woman who won’t give up her seat for him.

“There’s a window seat available in the back,” she says. Her porcelain skin catches light as she turns.

“Is there room overhead for my luggage?”

“No, but you can leave it here.”

Airport warnings about leaving luggage unattended fly through my mind. I don’t trust this man.

Behind us, an infant begins bawling.

“Is the available window seat near that infant?”

The flight attendant scans the back of the cabin. “I’m afraid so.”

“Is that seat available?” I point to my right, past the man’s wife to the unoccupied seat directly across the aisle from the boy.

“Let me check,” the flight attendant says and walks toward the galley.

The man’s wife is curled toward their son, who is tapping an iPad cradled in his lap.

The infant near the window seat wails.

“Listen, it would be better for you—” the man says.

“Don’t try to sell me on something I don’t want,” I say, cutting him off. My voice sounds more in control than I feel.

He leans forward, calling softly to his wife. She doesn’t respond.

The flight attendant returns. “That seat is open,” she says. “Would you like help moving your things there?”

“I would like this man to move to the seat across the aisle from his son. It would solve two problems. He could sit close to his family, and I could sit in the seat I paid for.”

“Ah, I see,” she says and appears relieved when another flight attendant approaches to ask for help with the business class beverage service.

“It would be better for you if you move,” the man says again.

A vein pulses in my neck, hauling blood from my brain to my heart, the rapid thud-thud-thud almost erasing sounds around me. Beneath the blankets, I take my own hand, the way a friend might if I were frightened.

“It would be better for me if you moved to the open seat across from your son,” I say. “Why try to force me to move? It’s the height of white privilege to demand that a person of color move so that you, a white man, can have what he wants.”

“I don’t know why that’s coming in,” the man says, hunching forward as though shouldering weight.

White male privilege might have been more accurate, but either way, I’m glad I’ve kept my voice at a normal volume. It’s dangerous to be trapped in a metal cylinder hurling through the sky more than 30,000 feet above ground with people who are unlikely to have my back.

His wife isn’t an ally. Or perhaps that’s what she intends through her silence. To my mind, silence signals complicity. With him.

“You want me to move,” I say. “You are not willing to move. It’s the mind of a colonizer.”

I don’t mention Belize, my birthplace, a former British colony in Central America. I don’t describe the slurs and humiliation some white men fired at my Black father after we immigrated to the United States.

The plane reaches cruising altitude. I give up on sleep and flip mindlessly through the airline’s magazine. The man crosses his legs, letting one swing into the aisle like a gate, blocking access.

“I’m sorry,” says a woman when the man’s leg interrupts her path to the restroom.

He withdraws his leg from the aisle, but only partially. She steps over his foot, then smiles brightly at him as though he’s done her a favor.

I slide the magazine back into the seat pocket and start to scroll through the free in-flight movies. A part of me wishes I could be the kind of woman who would have gathered up her belongings and given up her seat just because she was told to do so, but a childhood of witnessing my dad insisting on equal treatment has inoculated me against it.

The man suddenly leans too close. “You’re going to wish you moved,” he says.

My stomach clenches. He inserts one of his legs under the seat in front of me, pushing his leg against mine. I shift my leg slightly so it’s not touching his and glance at his wife. The magazine on her lap is open to an article about seasonal nail polish trends. She must have seen the flutter of movement as her husband occupied my legroom. She doesn’t say or do anything.

He takes his briefcase and pushes it halfway under my left knee.

I ignore him.

He elbows my arm off the armrest.

I replace my arm, careful not to touch his.

Ringing for a flight attendant would be useless. Their job descriptions don’t include mediating disagreements between passengers. Besides, once the man next to me sees me press the button, he’s likely to shift positions, then gaslight me.

I maintain my space. The man withdraws his leg. He stands in the aisle and hails the flight attendant. “I’m going to take the other seat,” he tells her loudly. He lowers his voice and adds something I cannot hear.

Behind me, the infant starts screaming.

With one foot I push the man’s briefcase back into the space in front of his seat. He returns, picks it up, scoffing.

The man takes the empty seat directly across the aisle from his son. After a few minutes, he leans across the aisle and says something to his wife. Without a word, she hands him a bottled drink and packaged salad from the tote bag near her feet. She takes out her Kindle and taps to open the novel Normal People.

Meal service begins. I unlock the tray table, wipe it down with an antimicrobial cloth, notice the woman stealing a peek, and extend the packet to her. She may be married to a jerk, she may even be one herself, but the seat situation is resolved, and I hold no ill will. Resentment is a byproduct of being nice. Kindness is genuine care for others that flows from self-worth and wise boundaries. A kind person takes action against inequality to calmly restore justice for themselves and others. It’s kindness I aim for, although I sometimes fail.

The woman grabs two wipes from my offered packet and uses one on her son’s tabletop. I pull my journal from the seat pocket and begin compiling a to-do list for the tasks I need to handle while in New York.

“She’s writing about me,” the man says loudly from his seat across the aisle.

“Who, Daddy?” his son asks.

“No one,” his wife says.