A Story

I am a member of the Artist Conference Network, ACN for short, a group of artists who meet to support each other. During our meetings, we share our work, showing or telling. As a writer, I tell; however, at our last meeting I had nothing to read because of an unexpected occurrence. I had nothing memorized. I had nothing jotted down, so I was left with the telling of a real-life that happened some 40 years ago. I was surprised by the way I stepped backward in time and was able to recapture the feelings and sensations of that event. I became young, unknowing, fresh and open. It's something I've never written about before (fiction and poetry are my creative areas).

When I was 20, I left my family and the city of my birth in a huff. "I'm never coming back here again!" I announced as they stood lined up on the porch. And then, with great ceremony, I flung open the door of the taxi that would take me to the airport where I would board a flight bound for Kansas City, Missouri, for airline stewardess school. After 6 (?) weeks of intensive training, I came to New York to fly out of JFK. My foreign language, Spanish, took me to Madrid where I danced a faux flamenco on top of a tabletop, to Rome many times, where beat a Roman with a a box of shoes when he grabbed my crotch, and cursed the Nazis when a German hausfrau spit at my feet. My greatest thrill, however, occurred on a domestic flight, from New York to Cincinnati, Ohio.

Being one of the most junior flight attendants, I would be working the coach section of the Boeing-727. A ground agent boarded and called all the flight attendants together. He told us that HE would be boarding the flight soon. What??!! No! I was having an attack of tachycardia. When the agent said that HE would be boarding first, and though HE was a first class passenger that HE would be boarding through coach, I started to smooth my hair, brush and smooth my uniform, and make sure that my wings were straight.

I took my position at the door, and within seconds I could see HIM and His entourage coming down the jetway. At a distance, HE was gorgeous. Close up, HE was heart-stopping. I gave HIM my best smile, praying there was no lipstick on my teeth, praying that HE did not see the corners of my mouth nervously twitching.

I thought of the many times I heard him ask reporters, Howard Cosell, anyone, "Ain't I pretty?" HE was magnificent. His presence was overwhelming. He looked you straight on, right in the eye. Damn right, he was pretty. Tall, brown and powerful.

"Welcome aboard, Champ?"

He greeted me with the Arabic a-salaam-alaikum, and then added, Sister.

This is the truth: My knees weakened, and the sophisticated world traveler reverted to what she was -- a 22-year-old away from home for the first time and meeting the man whose lesson to her would be standing strong for principles in the face of adversity, in the face of possibly losing everything.

He asked me if I would be serving them in first class, and I explained to him the seniority issue, but told him that I would be up to visit. and then I watched Muhammad Ali, Bundini Brown and others walk the length of the aircraft and disappear into the first class section. The other flight attendants see thrilled to have him on board, though I'm sure some of the crew members, cockpit crew, especially, disagreed viciously with his politics. Being a "sister," I decided it was my place to advise the first-class attendants against serving him the usual breakfast fare or sausage, bacon or ham. "And make sure," I said, "that there isn't any ham in the eggs."

When we finished our coach meal service, I went, as promised, and spoke to The Champ. This was during the time that his license to fight had been revoked. He was on his to defend himself to the Illinois Boxing Commission.

Before the flight was over, I presented him with two in-flight post cards and asked for two autographs -- one for myself and one for my grandmother. After he'd autographed the first, he asked for my grandmother's name. "Oh," I said, "the same as mine." I felt kind of bad lying to The Champ, but I wanted two for myself -- one for the wall and one for the wallet. My grandmother, who used to call Muhammad a loud-mouth Negro and claimed he would always be Cassius Clay, couldn't have cared less.

I have always loved Muhammad Ali, though I abhor boxing, and my love for him inspired me, years later, to do something I had never done and have never done since. The photos below tell the story.


(left) This is the sign I made for the Parkinson's Unity Walk in Central Park in the name of Muhammad Ali.
Planetary Citizen (right), a woman walking in the name of her husband (left)


The sign says: "I'm walking for my hero, Muhammad Ali,
The Greatest
of
Alllll Tiiiiimes."



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