What This Journey Is Teaching Me About Regret
What about becoming a nurse or a secretary?
My mom’s comment was not an attempt to deflate the balloon of hope I’d been secretly carrying. She didn’t know. No one knew why, as a little girl I’d get so excited whenever we went to Kennedy airport to greet family members arriving from Borikén (colonizer name: Puerto Rico). Younger kids often run to the windows overlooking the jumbo jets parked at the gates, mesmerized at their colossal beauty. Nothing new about that.
But back then airport security was lenient; non-passengers were allowed entry to the terminal area. And while I was happy to see relatives, I was all the more elated to see aircraft up close. At five or six years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up — an airline pilot. I wanted to travel and see the world.
Still, I kept quiet until middle school. Around 12 or 13, I gave my parents the newsflash. The exact circumstances of that day remain foggy, but their opposite reactions remain vivid in my mind. Sharing my childhood dream didn’t seem like a bold statement, and I couldn’t fathom why mom was opposed. My dad, on the other end of the spectrum, shared my enthusiasm. If our daughter wants to be a pilot, then we must stand behind her ‘til it becomes reality. To him, it was that simple.
