Other side of the Atlantic.

by Tonasha Barrow (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Guyana

The door of the Caribbean Airlines Boeing 737 bathroom refused my proposal to open. No matter how hard I banged and tugged at it. It was my first time on a plane, and my unripe 7-year-old mind had no clue how to maneuver about this flying machine. My first miscalculation? Boldly disregarding my dad’s offer to help me to the bathroom. For I was a “big girl” and “can go by myself!” I proclaimed. Yet there I was, ungraciously hovering 36,000 feet above my only home, helpless in a phone booth for a toilet. Unbeknownst to me I was leaving all I knew, including my mother. It wasn’t until 6 years later that I got to feel the high from the sun a mere 350 miles below the equator, and that of a mother’s touch; we cuddled for an entire day. But so it goes for most of us immigrants who decamp out of fear of our own, we never know what lies on the other side. If I had known I was retiring my rotting roads for symmetrically lined streets with actual sidewalks or abdicating the tribe of motionless mango trees that harbored my humble home, I don’t think I would’ve enplaned on my side of the Atlantic. I started to think about what my dad could be doing back at our seat. He’s probably asleep, I thought, paying no attention to the fact that his child has been missing for what felt like forever. I heard the voice of the nice stewardess who told me I pretty walking by. When we boarded, she was the first person I laid eyes on amidst the hills of seats that were supposed to be able to recline. Though it was 3am in the morning, her, me, and the crickets outside shared the same cheery mood. “Tiny!” My dad yelled cautiously, “What are you doing?” I didn’t realize the amount of tears my face began to welcome as I banged on the door not realizing it would soon bang back. Slowly sliding open and bringing my dad’s long skinny legs into my clear view. “The door wouldn’t open.” I said quietly as he picked me up, starting the long journey back to our seats. He stopped in his tracks for a few seconds and started laughing. “Tiny.. the door was open the whole time.” It’s a chilly morning in New York City when we land. The airport engulfed everyone as they all scattered their separate ways. Everyone was.. rushing. Not like home where we take our time to acknowledge the presence of the person next to us. A train, just like on TV, zipped past the track above our heads as we walked out of the airport to catch a taxi. Not colorful like ours, they were all yellow. The buildings look like they touch the tip of the sky where no one should be as we start our drive to… I still have no idea where I’m going. I wake up to the sound of my grandmother’s laugh, I’m laying on her lap. So this is where she’s been all these years.