Flight DL-3

As I located my seat, I encountered an older couple from another country seated beside me. The woman was wrapped in a red and purple shawl, and the man was dressed in a tight brown antiquated suit, and seemed to fidget under its restrictiveness. “Hello, how are you?” I said to the couple but got no response, only a confused expression. After hearing them talk in, what sounded like jumbled monotones, I realized their country of origin and language were completely unknown to me. I settled into my seat and thought about the summer reading assignment I planned to finish during my flight back home from London to the U.S. As the flight departed, the couple struggled to buckle their seatbelts, pull down their tray table, and open their food packages. I assumed the role of stand-in caretaker, helping the couple with seemingly basic tasks. After trying to communicate in English and broken Spanish, I resorted to hand signals, pointing at items, and trying desperately to communicate a practical idea.

We played multiple rounds of charades, but all attempts to communicate ended in a frustrated sigh.
I looked around the plane at the passengers immersed in their own activities, unwilling to even notice the confused couple. I felt alone in a sea of selfish people. Some passengers who did notice simply smirked, happy they were not the ones in my position. Even the flight attendants avoided interaction with the couple. When I did ask for their help, I got the generic response of “we’ll be right with you, sir.” Assistance never came. The flight attendants seemed engrossed in other tasks like preparing meals and servicing the first class passengers. I put myself in the couple’s position and wondered how I would have felt if I were flying to an unknown land and spoke a different language. I would have wanted someone to help me and show me a little compassion. With that thought, I gained renewed faith in my purpose. We exchanged smiles and laughs. Our language barrier was so profound it was comical, and our frustrations became humorous.

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Each time I helped the couple, they clasped their hands together and bowed their heads, a universal sign of gratitude. In his heavy accent, the man stuttered “thank you,” probably one of the only
English words he knew, and likely learned from listening to other passengers. In response, I imitated the man’s bowing gesture, expressing mutual respect.

After the flight, I thought about the couple. I still wondered where they were from and where they were going. Were they escaping poverty? Persecution? Social strife? Or were they simply vacationing? Visiting relatives? The image of them in a bustling JFK International Airport made me cringe. Turning, I caught my last glimpse of the couple, smiling and seemingly content.

When I tell the story to others they ask, “Why did you do all that for a couple of strangers?” I too originally felt the couple was somebody else’s problem. After the flight, I even complained to the airline for their lack of assistance. I now realize that if people keep denying responsibility, no one will ever take responsibility. The couple’s laughs, gestures, and emotions reminded me that they were human, and humans no matter what ethnicity should be treated with compassion. By helping the couple, I realized how small actions can make a difference.