Stewardess

As an Air Force Academy cadet, I remain grounded to my hometown roots, especially to the church where I was baptized and confirmed – the church where I have grown up. This crew has been part of my flight from childhood onward. They have watched me target goals, crash and burn, reattack and finally achieve my objectives.

I write monthly letters to the church which are reprinted in the newsletter and posted on the bulletin board. My messages navigate them through the daily activities of normal college life – sailing in gliders, classes in aeronautics, flying solo in single-engine planes, et cetera.

Located 10 miles west of Washington, DC, our congregation is heavily armed with those employed by the military industry. Every service academy is represented by its alumni who are currently serving a Pentagon sentence or have stayed in the area after the parole of retirement.

It’s the middle of my junior year, and I’m milling around the fellowship hall after the Sunday service. The sugary sweet scent of cookies and lemonade is cut by an overdose of cologne and perfume. The fragrance of freshly-brewed coffee soars through the hall, weakening the resulting assault of coffee breath. 

A sharp bouquet of “eau de old lady” pre-announces the arrival of one of the more senior ladies of our church.

She gently asks, “How’s your training going?” Her over-aspirated ‘H’ transports eye-watering breath.

“Fine ma’am, thank you for asking.” My practiced military bearing provides a steady defense against the nasal assault.

“How much longer do you have dear?” 

Silently, I pray, “Dear God, exorcise her demon breath.”

“Two years, ma’am.”

Her face wrinkles into what looks like disgust, making me wonder if my silent prayer was indeed silent. I quickly re-categorize the look as one of confusion. She inches closer as if physical distance reduction will bring clarity.

“Hhhhhuh. How long have you been there?” Her ‘H’ habit hampers hope of handling her halitosis.

“Two years.” Brevity is my friend.

“How long is the school?” H’s are hers.

I don’t mean to flaunt my mathematical prowess, but I have already told her I’ve been there 2 years and have 2 left. I go ahead and do the math and relay that this is a 4-year program.

She reels back (prayer answered) in astonishment, shouting, “FOUR YEARS? To become a STEWARDESS?”

It’s my turn to over-aspirate as I reset my patience with a long sigh before clearing up the confusion that the United States Air Force Academy is not in the business of producing flight attendants.

My brief edification that the Academy is a 4-year Bachelor's of Science degree-awarding institution followed by at least 6 years of military service is a good reminder that some people support us even though they don’t really understand what it is we’re aiming for.

Just like there are people who doubt us without knowing what we’re capable of.

The more important reminder is to persevere despite anyone's lack of clarity or disbelief.

In the end, these are our goals.  No one else’s.

Choose them, believe in them, pursue them and believe in yourself.

That’s what matters. That, and knowing where the emergency exits are located.