Monday, January 30, 2017

The Meaning of Travel

When I think about the Muslim ban, I think about the vacation we almost didn't take in 2007 or 2008.

We didn't have much money, but I was able to put four round-trip tickets onto a credit card for us to go visit my parents on the West Coast. I had bought the tickets using one of those bargain sites and when we got to the airport, the confirmation number I had wouldn't pull up any flight information. I found out from the attendant behind the counter that my flight was actually not leaving from Charlotte, but from a smaller airport about an hour and a half's drive away. Our plane was to leave in an hour and a half. We weren't going to make it.

With no money to buy new tickets and no refund available, I knew I was defeated. I would have to explain to my kids that our week-long vacation wouldn't happen. That despite weeks of careful planning, they wouldn't see their grandparents for another year or more. That all my careful shopping still meant $1,650 went down the drain, and there were sooo many places it could have gone. That I wouldn't see my mother.

We would have to just go back home. What would we do for that week? How could I entertain us with almost no money? What hope did I have of rescuing that vacation without feeling the constant pain of missing my parents? What would I tell them?

I did the only thing I could: I started weeping. Nasty-crying in the middle of the arrivals gate. My kids were embarrassed and confused. My husband was embarrassed and powerless. The attendants wouldn't make eye-contact. It was awful.

My story has a happy ending. After a few minutes of sobbing, an attendant hurried over to us. Didn't I get the phone call? They had left messages on our home phone. We had been driving. The flight that was supposed to leave from the smaller airport was cancelled. We would have to re-book at no additional charge. They had a flight that would leave in two hours. There were seats available for us.

So, imagine that it hadn't been a year or two, but several. A decade. Two decades. Imagine that it wasn't a 6-hour flight, but a 12-hour flight. Imagine that it wasn't a careless oversight on the part of the traveler, but a revoked promise on the part of the government. Imagine getting all the way there, and being told you'd have to start over in a few months. And imagine that "just going back home" wasn't an option.

I can't. I can't imagine that.

That's why we need to work to ensure those who were told they could get here can do so. I hope they get their happily ever after, too.

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