Lost in America

On airplanes my druthers is to mind my own business. I prefer reading to chatting. And that’s precisely what I did for almost the entirety of a recent flight from Manchester, New Hampshire, to Detroit. Nothing out of the ordinary here. It’s my usual pattern. And it generally works, if one avoids eye contact and small talk right from the start. My motto is “Settle in, buckle up, and shut down.” If this routine is broken, if so much as a nod is made in the direction of the person next to you, it could be all over. Pretty soon you’re talking about the flight. Then it’s the weather, and once you’ve hit that subject the conversation could lead anywhere—and usually does. And then, before you know it, you’re landing.

On this particular flight all went according to plan until just prior to landing. At that point my young seat mate interrupted my reading to ask a small favor. Could I help her with her connecting flight to Indianapolis? Of course, I replied. (I’m not that unsociable.)

Well, as might be expected, this brief exchange led to a bit more conversation. I soon learned that she had never flown before. And then I learned a little bit more than I wanted to know.

Having noticed that she had been working on a school assignment, I asked her if she was heading home from college for Thanksgiving. She giggled slightly at what I soon learned was my partial error. Yes, she was going home to see her family, but, no, she was not a college student. “I’m still in high school,” she went on. And then without benefit of another question from she went on a little further to tell me that she had left her family in Indiana to live with her boy friend in New Hampshire!

At that point I had any number of questions that I wanted to ask. Not to mention any number of things I wanted to say. But instead I kept quiet.

Why was I suddenly silent? Not because I wanted to return to my reading. It was much too late in the flight—and in the conversation—for that. And not because I wanted to pretend that I had not heard what I had just heard.

In part, I was too stunned to reply. But I was also too cowardly. Cowardly? Yes, cowardly. To be sure, I quickly rifled through all of the usual excuses. It’s none of my business, I told myself. And it wasn’t. Besides, she’s a perfect stranger. Which she was. And of course, there was too little time. Which was—and wasn’t—true.

So there you have it. A sad commentary, twice over, on the state of affairs in early 21st century America. A teen-aged high school-going girl can think nothing of moving in with her boy friend half way across the country. And that same teen can think nothing of telling a perfect stranger of this arrangement.

Did her parents know, I wondered. Did they approve? If not, were they speaking to her? If so, were they helping her? And if so, why?

Answers to any or all of those questions might have led to more questions—and not a few comments—from me. But that was that. I was left with my questions unasked and unanswered. In sum, I was left to wonder what she was doing with her life. And she was left to wonder how she would find her way to her next flight.

Lest you think I had been stunned into complete silence, I did my duty as a fellow passenger (even if I didn’t do my duty as a fellow human being and surrogate in-flight parent). I escorted her to the right monitor, pointed her in the right direction, sent her on her way, and wished her well. (Yes, I am that sociable—and that cowardly).

As to helping her find her way in other right directions? On that score I proved totally useless. All I could do was trudge off to my own connecting flight, that brief human connection gone forever.

And all I can do now is wonder what will happen to that young girl with her high school math book and her live-in boy friend. And when I don’t find myself wondering about her, I wonder about the future of a country that produces lost souls that don’t even know that they are lost.

How could she be lost? After all, she was diligently doing her homework. She was traveling to see her family. And she has at least one someone whom she presumably has some reason to think cares deeply about her.

I have to assume that she found her way . . . to her immediate destination. But did she find her way home? And where might that home be? Any such thoughts were probably not on her mind as she prepared to land in Detroit.

In all likelihood, such questions have not been on the minds of most American teens today or any day. After all, there once was a time when virtually every young person knew where home was. That’s no doubt less the case today. Nonetheless, most teens do know where home is—even as go about the inevitable business of making that sometimes messy transition to adulthood and establishing a home of their own. But what about this less than inevitable business of making a mess of things while still a teen and pretending to be an adult? Here’s where she has failed. But then so have the real adults in her life—including those who happened to flit in and out of hers ever so briefly.