The Creative Non-fiction Corner//

Catching the flight

If you look up the term ‘traditions’ in the Oxford Learner’s Dictionary, it says: "a belief, custom, or way of doing something that has existed for a long time among a particular group of people.”

With this definition at hand, most think of festivals, religious holidays and activities that take place on or around said holidays or certain events like weddings or birthdays.

As an agnostic Indian woman holding immigrant status in Canada, those traditions tend to fade into the background, overshadowed by the energy it takes to simply exist in a country where our identities seem to define us more than our achievements.

Fighting to constantly prove your merit, to show you mean more than where you’re from, means that everything else takes a back seat, while you watch your family continue age-old traditions — you’re there with them, but on a tiny screen held in your sister’s hand, privy to a small section of an ongoing celebration.

I have a tradition I keep for myself: catching flights between two lives.

In those moments, all I can think of is my life at UBC, a separate one from home. Wholly more fulfilling, am I living the life I’ve always dreamed of? Yes. But as a result, I am 100 per cent devoid of familial connection.

The tradition of catching a plane supersedes preexisting ones — you want to fly 15 hours just to see me? I think that’s beautiful.

Without fail, the onset of any break from school means a flight will be booked, even if the duration of it doesn’t warrant such a long trip. Nonetheless, walking through the door of my house kills all uncertainty — until it’s time to return and I’m itching to repeat my tradition, only this time, to live on my own terms in Vancouver.

Airports are uniquely removed from the real world — everyone has a place to get to and someone to go to. But for me, nothing matters more than the destination.

There is tradition in the airport routine: the chaos of checking in, rushing through security, searching for a seat nearest to the windows so you can watch your plane land and, of course, convincing yourself that the cute guy you ran past was most definitely looking at you and not cluelessly searching for his gate.

Bursting with individual stories, everyone follows the same tradition at an airport, especially during the holiday period. Wake up earlier than required, because you can’t wait to return home. Spend hours in the check-in line, where something is bound to go wrong, but you push through it (the finish line is so close). Brave security, praying you aren’t the random security check victim this time.

The WiFi-less time spent on an airplane is the perfect opportunity to perform autopsies on conversations held a lifetime ago. For me, this means holding onto shreds of moments with my friends, while pining for board game nights with my family back home.

Therein lies the beauty of family: I would never hope to fight with friends, but here in college, even an argument with my mom would be preferable to the silence of my room. With each city I leave behind, I also bid goodbye to a life that cannot exist in the town I’m flying to.

My tradition may not be a tradition at all for those fortunate enough to live with their families. For me, it transcends everything else.

Without this, the string between us may have been cut a long time ago, because who are we, if not reflections of each other? Where would we find ourselves if we lost touch, our connection slipping through our fingers?

I may be perfectly content sitting in my room in Vancouver. But this tradition is one I will never let go of. Because traditions are reliable and one thing I can always count on is catching a flight.

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