Content Warning: mentions of homophobia
I could feel my ego grow whenever the other kids at school would talk about their parents and what they did. Lana’s dad worked in construction. Miranda’s mom was a veterinarian. Justin’s dad was Police Officer Raymond. But my dad? My Dad was a Boeing Engineer. That was something I made sure no one forgot. How cool was it that My Dad built planes, that we got to take a plane all the way from Seattle to anywhere in the world? That went to Disneyland and he leaned over to me to say “we are flying in a Boeing 747” and the simple knowledge of his trust made me feel safe in something so terrifying to a second grader. How amazing is that? Even a simple whisper from my dad’s mouth made me feel safe in a hunk of metal hurtling through the sky. Nothing any of the other kids’ parents did could ever bear any semblance to the level of awe my father gave me. My Dad could fly.
How strange is it that we saw birds flying in the sky and decided that flight was something we needed to be able to do as well. We humans did not grow wings, have not gained hollow bones to be easily lifted away from the Earth, were not given permission to trespass the skies–the home of the aviary friends we so desperately wanted to copy. People made it their life’s work to achieve the “impossible” which I suppose means that it’s only improbable. The improbability of human flight turned into something tangible. Just not in the way we imagined.
I like to imagine what it would be like if humans had wings. Where would our wings go? Would they be full of hollow bones? Would they spring from our backs? How big would they be? Would they grow with us? Would they be covered in colorful feathers or leathery skin? Would a person’s feather coloration and plumage grossly determine how they’re treated like humans already judge the color of skin? Where would we go? Part of me wonders if we would lose our arms in exchange. Our arms are what allows us to point at the sky. We gesture and we look at the world stretched beyond our fingertips, hoping to one day find ourselves on the nail. Our arms and our hands are what brings us closer to the sky. I wouldn’t want to lose that. I wouldn’t want to lose the ability to hold someone’s hand—to write and draw. And I certainly wouldn’t want to stop running my hands through my girlfriend’s hair for it brings us both comfort. Losing my arms and my hands means losing something much deeper, and much more important to me than the surreal appeal of something I can’t have.
I want to fly because it would be amazing to be near the sun, so close to the lifeforce of the Earth while so far away from the ground it cares for. I think I understand why my dad wanted to fly. He got into engineering because of his eyesight. He gave me his genes and so I know that I would not be able to confidently fly a plane with the state my eyes are in. The Air Force took one look at his prescription and booted him to DeVry. His college years were spent in Arizona, agreeing with his roommates to never turn on the AC so that they could save money. Four years spent in the sweltering heat for a degree in a job he thought was mediocre. His favorite part of his almost 30 years was the flight tests. The planes would be constructed and they would select certain project heads to be in the cabin for the several tests they would run. While he loved this, I found it extremely funny. Dad was always very self conscious. Not of his appearance, but his smell. He loves foods with the garlic and onion add-ins that continue to seep through your pores even 24 hours after you’ve eaten them. The night before a flight test, he would only ever eat a salad, not adding croutons because they had garlic powder on them. For almost 30 years, he would avoid eating garlic and onions every so often because he didn’t want to smell bad in an enclosed space with his coworkers. When we’re on a plane as a family, Dad won’t care. He is surrounded by strangers who will probably never see him again and he will only exist to them as “the guy who smelled like garlic and anxiety.” Which, having traveled with him for 19 years, are two very distinct scents.
Part of me wonders if Icarus, like my dad, ever had motion sickness. Icarus craved the rush of adrenaline that came in tandem with experiencing the unexplored. I’m certain his stomach dropped when he plummeted into the Aegean Sea. I’m certain Daedalus was not expecting his son to crave the impossible to the degree that he did. He just invented and invented and became one of the most well known engineers in history. Daedalus lives on as a creator of wings. People forget about the labyrinth he built or the nephew he attempted to murder. All people remember are the wings and the son that he killed. Does it matter that he was blessed by Athena if Icarus still died at his hands? Was he really that amazing?
How astounding is it that my dad has the same, improbable, creative cravings as the people in my childhood stories. How astounding is it that I know that about him, his desire for the sky. There’s a sort of connection between the two of us made through our love for what lies above. He loves exploring it, and I love looking at it. I am a “look at the pretty sunset!” or “Oh! Do you see Orion?” kind of person and he is a “good weather for flying today” or “there’s a south wind blowing, it’s going to rain tomorrow” kind of guy. He lived in Alaska for a little bit, and how I envy him for having seen the Northern Lights. Amazing things happen beyond and within our atmosphere that humans cannot reproduce no matter how hard they try.
Is it the fire in the sky that’s captivating to me? Is it the light that comes from it? The dim light of stars, the fires burning lightyears away. Could that ever be me– still shining on, even after they’ve been blown out by someone who knew the candle needed to stop in order to be savored for later? Why do all of the brightest stars burn so quickly? I guess, in a way, we do try that improbable task.
Just try.
Maybe Icarus thought that he could try to experience joy for a little while. The same kind of joy that comes when you wake up with your dad at 6AM on the weekends to make homemade carrot/apple/celery juice that you are sure would make you gag now if you tried it, though you doubt the two of you would ever spend time together like that again. The kindness and joy you feel when you’re on a roller coaster after knowing that your parents had consumed raw shrimp the night before but they are toughing it out for you anyways because they know how much you care about this. The kind of joy that you only get once in your life on your “golden birthday” that you didn’t realize was a special thing until one year before it would happen but you were 9 turning 10 so yes of course you can have a caterpillar cake, of course you can have it at a roller rink, of course you can play the Into The Woods soundtrack while all your friends skate with you, of course dad will be busy at work. The thrill of joy you feel when all of your emotional build up from the past thirteen months all get released in a single kiss that was the most awkward kiss in your relationship because yes, you asked first but she thought you were asking if you could hug her since she had never kissed anyone before, but you missed her lips cause she was not expecting it and she is eleven inches taller than you are, but the two of you still laugh about it because how the hell did it take thirteen months for the two of you to accept the fact that you are completely and utterly infatuated with the other. The kind of joy you get from laughing; laughing so hard from the aftermath of sobbing for so long that the only emotion you have left to feel is joy. Joy, despite being on the porch at 10PM thinking you would have to comfort your grandmother but all you felt was the warmth of your father’s arm wrapped around you in the cold June night because summer had not yet settled in but the stars were just that much more beautiful with yet another dead soul among them. Maybe Icarus laughed as he fell.
Candles smell nice, glow soft, burn out. My grandma kept reusing the same scarecrow shaped candles for years and years every Thanksgiving because they were just so cute. The scarecrows only ever sat on display in her candle holder in the middle of the table. The year she finally lit them was the last Thanksgiving we had with Grandpops. Candles can be savored. Candles can be lit and relit. They taper off to a burning point that can stop and start again depending on who is holding the flame. But they have to burn out eventually, right?
Why do we burn out?
I would like to travel among the stars. Not necessarily in corporeal form but at some point– maybe in my dreams. Maybe in my dreams I can fly. Maybe in dreams my wings won’t take away my arms. In dreams I am flying alongside a Sopwith Camel being piloted by My Dad because in this dream he has perfect vision. In my dreams my girlfriend is flying alongside me and my dad because in this world he likes the fact that we are deeply enamored with each other and not “just friends.” Maybe in my dreams, Icarus will be there too. Maybe he will tell me why he chose to go against every fiber of his being telling him not to fly too close to the sun. Maybe he will tell me that too.
Daedalus used candles. He used so many of them while forming the wings that would eventually lead to doom. Icarus had too much trust in the steady flame and the wasted wax. He burnt out, which is an easy thing to do. Hubris and pride taking these feeble wings so close to the thing that will destroy them but how did Icarus have the confidence to believe that they would not? Icarus was lucky to have someone yelling at him to stop, that he’s playing with fire. Then again, candles always fight the wind.
Am I Icarus or am I the puddle of wax? Why am I burning so fast?
It seems strange now that he’s retired, but My Dad worked at Boeing for almost 30 years. Almost 30 is a long time to do anything, especially to keep flying for the same “evil corporation” as he so lovingly called it. No one wanted to take his spot, it was a shit job anyways. He kept asking his assistants if they wanted to be his replacement and I think that scared them off because they kept quitting before my dad could. Waking up at 4:30AM to drive for 80 minutes to a building that was always cold and had unhealthy snacks in the vending machine, coming home with bags of Famous Amos that he bought because he knew I liked them, working late at night at home on his computer because he did not know how to take a break, eating overpriced cafeteria food that he did not even enjoy, coworkers who sometimes liked you and sometimes did not, and rarely being able to make it to parent-teacher conferences or to after-school theater rehearsals or to elementary school movie nights to the point where someone tells you, “I didn’t know you had a dad.” Rodney Pierson did not retire from his work at Boeing until November of 2020, approximately six months before I graduated high school. Talk of him retiring first started in 2018. It took two years of him essentially telling himself and my mom and me and my sister, “I just need to finish this one project first” before another would be added to his desk and another and another. Two whole years. I could not possibly dream of doing the things that he did.
Slow down.
Humans have a deep self-destructive desire to do what they should not. “Progress” was humans who told the world, “wait.” Wait for the prime window of the right amount of money and the right amount of wind to finally blow through Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Promises were made and all it cost was our freedom. We can fly, but the sun is getting closer, the world keeps burning brighter. We’re still flying, but our wax is melting, our feathers are slipping. Take a break. There is only so much we can do before we become the distantly burning star in our children's eyes.