Meet Johnny...

Traveling with an Infant Form

Thank you for choosing Contintental Micronesia. If you intend to travel with an infant, please fill out the following form and return it to the attendant when you check-in for your flight. Thank you for your cooperation.

Circle either YES or NO for all that apply.

1. Are you traveling with an infant? YES or NO

2. Is your infant under 3 years of age? YES or NO

3. Does your infant: (circle all that apply)

Cry? YES or NO

Scream? YES or NO

Whine? YES or NO

Whimper? YES or NO

4. At what noise level does your infant have the

ability to perform any of the above?

Whisper ? YES or NO

Murmur ? YES or NO

Conversational ? YES or NO

Tonsil bearing ? YES or NO

Blood curdling ? YES or NO

Ear piercing ? YES or NO

5. How frequently does your infant perform the above?

Rarely ? YES or NO

When provoked? YES or NO

Often ? YES or NO

More often than not ? YES or NO

Non-stop – without coming up for air ? YES or NO

6. Does the small, enclosed size of a cabin exponentially

amplify the noise that your infant is capable of

producing? YES or NO

Please add up the number of YES boxes you circled. Scores totaling over 12 may qualify you for our special reserved courtesy infant seating in the very middle of the cabin, completely surrounded by adults looking for a peaceful ride to their destination. Thank you for your cooperation and again, thank you for flying Continental Micronesia.

Meet Johnny

There is at least one on every flight. Perhaps there is an application for this seating as well that I am unaware of. Inevitably, about 20 minutes or so after taking off, the flight attendants begin tending to the cabin, offering an assortment of complimentary beverages – sometimes peanuts, if you’re lucky honey roasted peanuts, sometimes pretzel wheels and if you’re really lucky, a sandwich and some raisins. In order to fit all of this goodness onto one cart, the dimensions of the cart tend to be such that it consumes the whole aisle, the armrest of seat C to the arm rest of seat D with maybe just a few spare inches on either side.

Meet Mr. Johnny Patient sitting up in seat 2A. He's one of the first to receive his Coke, coastered with a napkin. Impatient because they took his slurpee away from him at a security check point, he downs the Coke and with a satisfied smacking of the lips, pounds the empty plastic cup on the seat tray. He looks around for a moment out of boredom now that the excitement of a free drink has subsided. It doesn’t take long before he realizes that he now has to use the restroom and so his sole focus becomes relieving himself. Without hesitation, he climbs over Jimmy and Suzie, comfortably reading and sipping on their beverage of choice. With minimal spillage but maximum inconvenience due to not so small adults playing musical chairs in not so large airplane seats, he triumphantly makes it to the aisle. To his dismay, he looks up and sees the rear end of the stewardess, working fervently behind her precious cart. Surveying either side of the cart, he realizes that his load is too wide to shimmy past. The flight attendant has a good 27 rows left to serve, but he makes the decision to wait it out. Initially confident this is a good idea, he stands upright, watching her adroit, rehearsed movements – pop, pour, napkin, serve. This amuses him for a while until the liquid pouring sound reminds him of his need to get to the restroom. He thinks maybe if he looks again there may be an opening he missed the first time that would allow him to squeeze through. Alas, the cart is the same size.

The stewardess senses someone is behind her and notices the gentlemen, not seeking her attention, but still unusually close. She continues working, not losing her focus or breaking her routine, for if she stopped for every inconsiderate passenger she would never finish her job.

Though she pretends not to notice, other passengers, particularly in seats C and D, do, and are now feeling awkward with this gentlemen hovering over their personal space. Johnny senses the tension and tries to look away but slips for a moment to check if they are staring at him. They are. Johnny’s look says something to the effect of, “Soooo, this is pretty awkward….probably couldn’t get more awkward, well, unless of course if I were naked, then I would be in quite a pickle,” which warrants multiple looks that insinuate, “You’re not a very intelligent individual are you?”

One row at a time, the stewardess works diligently, still slightly uncomfortable with someone leaning over her shoulder. Johnny Patient thinks she’s going slower on purpose just to embarrass him even more, and he begins to get frustrated, huffing and puffing to indicate that he is still waiting to pass. Hearing, but not acknowledging his anger, she smiles. Even after all of the flights she has worked and all of the clowns who do the exact same thing, she is still amused by his stupidity.

After what has to have been about 7 minutes, Johnny takes note of the emergency exit row – his one chance to escape! She unlocks the wheel brakes and he nearly knocks her over to squeeze past her before she blocks the next row. Sensing that she had given him enough of a hard time, she courteously rolls the cart back to allow him to pass and he scurries off to the bathroom.

Vacancy light on – off – on. He struggles to exit through the sliver of a bathroom door, stumbles back into the aisle and starts heading back to his seat….that is until he looks up and notices the cart back downstream at row 16.

Palauan Status

I was so excited to go to Palau, forgetting that this too would be a cultural immersion experience of its own. The Republic of Palau is a tiny group of islands in the farthest west point of Micronesia from which a small percentage of our Xavier students come. I guess I thought it would literally be all fun and games watching Xavierites and Palauan citizens play and run their hearts out in the 6^th annual Belau games, but I found it more reminiscent of past experiences of pure discomfort, such as Saipan, Uman and sponsor families – just tagging along as an outsider with no particular purpose other than to observe - always on the outside looking in, embarrassed by the burden I put on people to feel like they have to baby-sit the foreigner. I don’t know what made me think this experience would be any different.

It was a blessing to be able to visit, and looking back, it seems like my trip was more for selfish reasons such as getting to see and experience life in Palau. I suppose that I erred yet again in thinking it was some grand gesture to show how much I care and how important they have been in my life. As a thank you for that, I gave them a burden for about a week……….ME – YAYY!! (if you know me, you know the tone in which that is squealed)

I don’t yet know how I feel about Palau. It is definitely an island and there are definitely glimpses of island life. You sweat your tukus off, there are coconut trees and you are surrounded by crystal waters, but it is so different from Chuuk. There is a very obvious sense of modernity that has tiptoed in and made its presence known on what was used to be a pristine culture. I felt a nagging sense of resentment towards such progressiveness.

I suddenly found myself self-conscious of what I was wearing. It hadn’t dawned on me that this was a place where ripped t-shirts aren’t socially acceptable to wear in public. I forgot the existence of the understood social principle: matching clothes. I was only one of less than a handful sporting the long Chuukese skirt and though I’ve seen them before I was easily offended by girls with thighs showing. The cars drive fast. Stores line both sides of the roads that the cars barrel down. People who drive the cars become easily road raged and are clearly more confrontational as opposed to humbly submissive.

* * *

A few of our students happened to be on the same flight going to Palau for a Junior Statesman Preparatory Conference. Across the way, there was another boy in the airport immigration line staring at one of our Xavier boys. So our student, what I think was casually, approached the gawker to ask him if there was a problem. Naturally, our student wanted to know if he had done something that would cause him to keep staring.

Well, the mother of this awkward Palauan boy stepped in and started inquiring why our kid was getting in her son’s face. Coolly, the Xavier student rejoined that her son was staring at him and he simply wanted to know why - perhaps not the best logic when approaching an impolite gazer, but one that certainly did not warrant the inflated response that ensued.

The mother didn’t like our student’s defense and so she flipped out. F-bombs flew, voice was well above reasonable conversational level such that the rest of the immigration line had either turned to see what was happening or turned towards the wall so as not to get involved. Myself and the other Xavierites played it island (FSM) style and backed off, trying not to make eye contact and feigning invisibility hoping that the aroused and irritated once sleeping bear might find someone else on which to prey.

Instead of settling down, she proceeded to call for Papa bear, who was halfway across the terminal. So I now find myself standing in between a normally confident senior in High School who is built, but not too much taller than me, and a good 250 lb., irate, Palauan gentleman who I assumed would have attacked on the spot had he not wanted to tarnish the glow of his shiny head which seemed to have been recently shaved and waxed.

His blood was boiling as he began yelling at my student, informing him that when you’re different, people stare at you and you should just get used to it because there is nothing wrong with staring. Being the token white person in the immigration line, this point offered the perfect opportunity for some comic relief. I should have interjected “Well, I’m more different that he is. How about your son just stares at me.” However, judging by the look on Tonto’s face, he didn’t seem to be much in the mood for humor. He then started to step forward, leaving his kids in line. My heart nearly flat lined as I was trying desperately to figure out how little ole’ me is going to prevent this angry beast from pummeling my kid. Thank the good Lord’s providence, immigration called him to the window, effectively diffusing the kafuffle. Unless the person was drunk (which isn’t that uncommon) I am fairly certain the situation would have been handled much differently in the FSM.

* * *

The western ideas of opulence and mentalities that value status and monetary wealth have also crept into the water here, which believe it or not you can drink right from the tap. It is traditional at graduation, as in most places, to give money as a form of congratulations. But at the Palau public High School ceremony, relatives slipped a $10 bill into an envelope, no card, no substantial message, just a sawbuck in an envelope. People buy mwaramwar (lei) instead of making them. People drive everywhere along the 1 ½ mile main strip instead of walking. I was washing dishes and since there was no basin, I was turning the faucet on and off so as not to waste water. My sisters walk up behind me, flip both faucets on and say, “This isn’t Chuuk, you can waste water.” Not that I am in any way in a position to be making criticism, but I suppose that these differences have become more readily apparent having ventured away from my Chuukese nest.

I was blessed with the opportunity to tour the Palau Capitol Building along with 9 other Palauan Xavierites. Fortunately, one of my rising sophomores is the daughter of a current senator and, as is as equally valued in Chuuk, it pays to be family. What was initial excitement was surpassed by disillusionment upon pulling up to the palatial estate. I had seen it before. Yes, I had seen the building before. Oh, I don’t know somewhere in hmmm Washington D.C. It looked exactly like the U.S. Capitol Building, only it was off white and adorned with Palauan storyboard symbols. There were 3 separate, but connected edifices for the legislative, judicial and executive branches complete with…….an oval office. I think that was the kicker. The president governs Palau from an oval office.

It’s not the fact that they’re mimicking American style that bothers me, but that the U.S. has created this standard for which people strive and are willing to compromise their own culture to achieve. It was really interesting to talk with another Xavier student’s anti-progressive father who was giving me the down low on politics in Palau. Apparently, up until a year ago, the capitol used to be in Koror – the main city. Five years after ground breaking, the capitol was moved to this brand spanking new state of the art building atop a hill overlooking the Northeastern shore of Babeldoab. Babeldoab is a separate island from Koror connected only by a bridge, but distinguishable in it’s bucolic, peaceful, unadulterated countryside – quite the contrast from the bustling commercial “city” of Koror. The decision to move the capitol was passed down by predecessors who, according to legend, claimed that Melekeok (the legendary person) was the eldest son of the 4 heirs and that the capitol building rightfully belonged to Melekeok (the state). What is not as respectable is that Melekeok is about 30 miles away and gas is 3.50/gallon. The state is practically deserted with just a few homes along the coast. The location is not convenient for anyone nor is it economically practical. The electrical bill alone is about 68,000 per month, 1/3 of the national monthly budget excluding other maintenance expenses. Eventually the modernity that has transformed Koror will creep out into the undeveloped country side, gradually dissolving the bridge that separates the “new” from the “fine the way it is.” Is it preservation of culture, rolling with the times, or flaunting a $42 million dollar investment for the sake of asserting status?

I don’t have any pants, I’ve worn skirts or long “running” shorts for 2 years. So when I wasn’t at the track, (Yep, Palau has a track!) I was kicking around in my Chuukese skirts which I initially didn’t think anything of, especially given the oblivion to any sense of fashion that I have cultivated here (and lacked in the first place). People started asking me where I was from, clearly confused by the contrast of obviously Chuukese garb and ghostly white skin. Slowly I began to notice that no one wears skirts here, let alone bright, floral, embroidered, unique local skirts. In Chuuk, it is customary to walk somewhat crouched down when you enter a roomful of people who are sitting, out of respect for not being at a level higher than everyone else. People looked at me funny, and told me I should stand up straight. Chuukese often use local utensils to eat, more commonly known as the 10 digits protruding from your palms. When I sat down to eat chicken and rice, which out of all foods necessitates the use of local utensils, someone commented, “Did you learn how to eat with your fingers in Chuuk?” It became much clearer after sitting in on a conversation, translated to me, after Lu-A had just finished eating and inadvertently wiped her hands on her pants. Sitting right next to her, her father chided mockingly, “Chuukese style eh?”

A cousin sitting nearby giggled and then explained to me that often times Palauans tease Xavierites because they come back home with Chuukese habits, referring to table manners, hair styles and manner of dress. Unfortunately, it made sense then, how highly Palauans regard their own culture and look down on Micronesians as uncivilized. On many occasions, I was offended and became defensive of what has become home. People criticized the trash, the corruption, the living conditions, the roads etc…. But instead of making me love Chuuk any less, it instead caused me to deplore Palau even more. Some sort of organization, structure and accountability are things that we long for in Chuuk. They have it in Palau, but with it comes brand names, cable TV, department stores, commercialism and consumerism. They speak Palauan, wear their hair really long and chew betelnut like fiends but everything else appears Western. That’s not to say their culture is lost, but something organic has to be sacrificed for this state to look like a Guam Jr. Again, not that I am in a position to be judging culture, but it was disconcerting to see Mami Rita curing a Spam Ham for her brother’s birthday instead of glazing bananas with coconut milk, or to notice that the decorations in the grocery store were hallmark paper cut outs celebrating the start of spring. Palauans don’t even celebrate spring. There aren’t any seasons here.

Chuuk may not be what most would consider paradise, but it’s simple. Whether that simplicity is by deliberate choice or default, I find it beautiful, and I don’t think that westernization grants bragging rights or status to insult.

The Airport Goodbye

Just like the airport hello, the airport goodbye is an art really - the art of bidding someone an adequate and expressive farewell in a public space while maintaining grace, class and composure. It starts with the awkward check-in send off, when they’re not quite leaving yet, but leaving your side long enough to check their bags, passport and ticket. By this point, they are standing at a non-conversational distance, but close enough to make eye-contact. You try to relish the finality of their physical presence in your life. You follow their movement through the line secretly hoping they’ll be hindered for having over-weight luggage, an over-booked flight or an error in the reservation – anything that might detain them longer. But they pass through with ease, and you feel yourself silently resenting the smile on their face, alluding to their excitement of reaching whatever lies at the end of their destination, also completely ignorant of the pain of your loss. They reluctantly saunter back to you to continue draining the emotional energy out of you. Leaving their carry-ons at your feet, they leave again to make the rounds. You observe years of collided paths summarized in firm handshakes and mutually understood nods, the donning of mwarmwar (Chuukese leis) and a limp hug, the hand-shake pull into a one armed hug, the male favorite bear hug with forceful slaps on the back that preserve masculinity, the “I want to shake your hand but I don’t want to let it go so I’ll devise stalling techniques such as ‘Good Luck. You have your ticket? You don’t want to forget that (awkward chuckle). You’re going to keep in touch right? Have a good flight. Enjoy the peanuts’” interface, the good luck pat on the shoulder that says “I want to, but I’m unsure whether hugging you is socially appropriate right now,” the lover’s ‘head buried in shoulder’ extended embrace, the look-away, “you mean to much to me and I can’t bring myself to say goodbye to you it’s too hard I’ll settle for a handshake” adieu, or the merciless ‘rattle your hand off’ grip.

One would think after so much keen observation and practice, you would have mastered the art. As you survey the scene, everyone else can handle the trauma of the airport good-bye with minimal permanent damage. Confident you can do it also, you stand up tall, chest inflated, shoulders back – all of the necessary steps to convince yourself this is going to be as easy and as classy as everyone makes it seem. They start walking towards you with that look in their eye that says “it’s our turn.” They get closer and closer, and instead of making a motion to reciprocate their embrace, you panic. Unable to shake the thought that this is most likely the last time you will see them again, the last time you will look at them with the motherly “you’re getting so big” gaze, the last time life in this space and time will exist like this. The pre-planned handshakes or back slaps fall to pieces as the tears well up and you crumble in their arms. You can’t think of anything constructive to say that would encapsulate what they mean to you and express your prayer for their future success. All that comes out is “sniffle….sniffle.” but somehow, that says enough. They try to let go, but you’re holding on too tight because it’s more comforting to cry into someone than to cry standing alone. Mustering up enough strength to pry your arms off their neck, they step back, pick up their bags, give you one last look and a sympathetic smile, and walk through the double doors.

The art in the airport goodbye is that, unlike most things in life, practice does not make perfect. It breaks you down little by little and makes you scrap for the strength to pull it together enough to do it again…