32 MAY8, 2022
Damon Young Sign up to get email alerts every time Damon Young publishes a column at wapo.st/damonyoung
No, I will
not switch
airplane seats
with you
I
am an assertive driver. Not aggressive, because that word is
too aggressive. But I am decisive with speed. Still, if I’m
attempting to merge and someone lets me in, I will roll down
my window and wave to them. If it’s raining, I will just have a wet
hand.
I pray before meals. Not every meal. But meals with meat.
I tip generously, regardless of the service. (This tipping dogma
could be somewhat due to some subconscious behavioral
subversion of the stereotype that Black people don’t tip well. But
unpacking that would take much more space than I’m allotted
here, so let’s move on!)
I attempt to be the last to enter elevators, and the last to exit.
(Sometimes, though, this can backfire, when multiple people are
playing the same elevator chicken game, and the door closes. This
is why I prefer stairs.)
If I am eating a meal with you, I will make every effort to sit
with my back to the wall, to ward off potential danger with ... my
eyes, I guess? A soup spoon? I don’t know. I haven’t really thought
this through.
I don’t ride city buses anymore, but when I did, I wouldn’t just
give up my seat for women, elderly people and those who appear to
have a physical disability, I wouldn’t even sit if the bus was packed
and seats were limited. Few things made me feel better about
myself than when I did this. There was no difference, in my head,
between me standing in the aisle, satisfied with my sacrifice, and a
soldier diving on a live grenade to save their troop.
I also perform all of the boilerplate chivalry: the opening of
doors, the holding of umbrellas and even the walking closest to the
curb when with a woman. So, if you’re with me, and a car jumps
the curb, we’ll both probably die, but at least I’ll die first.
Do I do all of these things because I’m a good person? Or is it
just a performance of socially consensused goodness? I don’t
know! What matters is that I do these things.
But there is one thing I haven’t done. Will not do. Will never do.
Will grow angry enough at you to throw spitballs at you if you ask
me to do. And that’s move my seat on a plane to accommodate you
so that you can sit with your friends or family or concubines or
whoever else you’re flying with.
Your grandma’s on the flight with you and you want to sit next
to her? Granny should’ve taught you to plan ahead. Maybe Granny
wants a break from her thoughtless progeny. You ever think about
that? Of course not, because you’re thoughtless. You’re separated
from your 6-year-old son? Braylin has to learn to fend for himself.
Plus, this ain’t Antarctica. It’s an 80-minute, temperature-
controlled trip to Albany on a flying couch. He’ll be fine next to his
new Uncle D.
The rationale for my abject refusal to budge is simple. I hate
flying. It is a thoroughly uncomfortable experience for me, from
the moment I enter the airport. There’s the vaguely fascist security
line, where we’re de-shoed, de-walleted and de-belted while
waiting to jaunt through a doorway of allegedly targeted radiation.
There are (White) people in line with tank tops and flip-flops, and
then the heavily armed (mostly White) people waiting to accost
you after you get through it, like you’re on an assembly belt to
1923. There’s the dystopian vectors of pestilence and Chick-fil-A
called “airport terminals.” And then there’s the flying itself, which
I cannot do comfortably unless under the influence of a narcotic
and whichever divine grace five Hail Marys provides me.
To somewhat alleviate this anxiety, I’m very intentional with
seating. I need a window seat, so that I can rest my head against it
and sleep. I am also 6-foot-2 with a big head, a short torso, long
legs and big feet, and airplane seats are apparently built for
Simone Biles. Which means that paying extra for legroom — even
if that means an exit row or first class — is paramount. Not for
comfort, but for less discomfort.
So, asking me to change my seat to accommodate you is
essentially asking me to give you money and give myself a panic
attack just so you can whisper in your wife’s ear about hummus.
(“Babe, did you try the garlic? I think I tasted a hint of ginger.”)
Nope. Naw. Never. I will fight you.
Maybe this makes me a bad person. That’s fine. I’ll be that. I’ll
also be asleep, so I don’t care!ILLUSTRATION: MONIQUE WRAY