Published July 9, 2009
Rock Island Argus & Moline Dispatch
Copyright 2009 Frank Mullen III
Waiting for the plane to take off from the Detroit airport, I found myself sitting among a flock of teenagers sporting iPods, nose rings, tattoos and a catalog of hairstyles that ranged from dreadlocks to green spikelets. A redheaded kid in the seat in front of me—I could only see his head—even sported a retro, 1950s crew cut.
This was the last leg of my trip from Illinois to Norfolk, Virginia, for a reunion of the Navy Musicians Association. Former members and leaders of U.S. Navy bands, we gather once a year to play the old songs and tell the old stories. We speak of the Navy musicians who died at Pearl Harbor, listen to the tales of bandsmen who served in Vietnam and remember the work involved in entertaining troops on land and at sea, at play and at war. Naturally, our old-man talk sometimes drifts to the current culture in which age and wisdom no longer merit respect, and notoriety, youth and individuality are valued.
Thinking of this, I began to smolder at these children seated around me to whom “sacrifice” is a word on spelling tests and “duty” is something you pay when going through customs. I fumed at a society that tolerates, even celebrates the whims of these kiddies, like the girl next to me who was, it appeared, traveling in her pajamas, and the rebel in front of me with his dopey crew cut. Burying my face in the in-flight magazine, I clenched my teeth in indignation.
“Sir,” said a woman’s voice, and I looked up to see a flight attendant standing in the aisle a few rows ahead of me. Trapped behind a passenger who was stowing his luggage overhead, she leaned in my direction and said, “The captain sends his compliments.”
O sweet, cosmic justice. My age and bearing had identified me as a former military man, a valued citizen worthy of special recognition in this flying daycare center.
“We have an empty seat in the first class cabin,” the attendant said, sweeping her arm toward the curtained area ahead. My maturity was about to earn me V.I.P. treatment. Although the attendant wasn’t close enough to look me in the eye, the respect in her voice was clear. “The captain has instructed me to offer you a free upgrade to first class.”
Trying not to gloat, I reached to unfasten my seatbelt, ready to rise and accept this richly-deserved gift. As I fumbled with the buckle, the kid in front of me—the redheaded bozo with the crew cut—said, “Thank you,” and started to rise.
What a presumptuous little brat, I thought, this twerp who would try to claim my respect, to usurp my position. What sort of low-class airline was this, anyway?
The kid stood up and stepped into the aisle. The white of his bellbottom trousers and jumper was blinding, his neckerchief rolled, pressed and knotted to training-manual perfection. Dixie cup hat in hand, the young sailor followed the flight attendant up the aisle, through a sea of watchful youngsters who briefly interrupted their text messaging to offer smiles.
If this were one of those e-mail stories that clog inboxes around patriotic holidays, the passengers would have stood up, applauded and sang “God Bless America.” The truth was much more impressive: an airline’s employees quietly recognized someone who merited special favor, a sailor graciously accepted a courtesy, and—most significantly--nobody found the incident particularly remarkable.
Except a certain passenger who has a habit of judging entire generations and institutions a little too quickly.
