THOUGHTS IN AIRPLANE MODE

FEBRUARY 13, 2026 – Today a wholly clear smooth on-time uneventful two-hour and seven-minute Delta flight took us from Minneapolis/St. Paul to Hartford . . . to visit our two-and-a-half year old grandson, his new baby sister . . . and their parents.

The 90 minutes in MSP terminal were a reminder that perhaps I need to get out and about more, at least in normal settings where a large demonstration against the Current Regime isn’t the center of attention because in the moment it’s the highest priority.

In addition to the flight itself being as trouble-free as such an endeavor can be, the baggage check-in and TSA clearance were also so lacking in hassles, they were almost . . . fun. Well, at least funny if you consider the three large aging people in the security line—wearing bright red embroidered Disneyworld sweatshirts—no kids in tow, since the three old grown-ups themselves were the kids. The woman at the baggage check-in was especially cheerful and attentive, and everyone in the TSA assemblage seemed to be graduates of some offshoot of an Emily Post course.

But then there was the Alec Baldwin look-alike, whose role and credentials were a mystery, though he was anchored near a set of TSA staff in uniforms. He wore an I.D. on a lanyard and a number of pin badges, but I wasn’t able to get close enough to see his name or title or what the badges were all about. He seemed to be of the TSA persuasion, though he was in mufti. If he hadn’t been an official, I’m certain the TSA personnel would’ve escorted him off-stage long before I appeared.

I espied him as I walked toward the “All Other Passengers” line. (Several years ago Beth went through the prescribed rigmarole to obtain “Pre-Check” status, and where we enter different TSA lines, she always says, “See you at the gate.”) Ahead of me a few paces was a young Asian woman. The Baldwin look-alike stepped toward her and asked for her boarding pass. He examined it for a moment, then spoke to her in Chinese. I could tell by his tone and cadence that it was elementary in substance—more of a greeting—but the pronunciation sounded quite good. He smiled at the woman and was otherwise completely non-threatening. After he gestured for her to continue to the end of the queue, I assumed that he’d turn to me next, so I pulled my boarding pass up on my phone. To my surprise, however, he showed no interest in me and stepped away.

Once I’d caught up to the woman, I said off-handedly, “Why did he stop you and not me? Sure looks like profiling to me.” The woman smiled politely but didn’t offer any verbal comment. About 10 minutes later, I noticed the guy approach another Asian woman who’d recently joined the queue. The encounter between him and the woman was as brief as the earlier exchange, and though I was too far away to hear, I could see a warm and spontaneous smile cross her face. She showed no sign of concern.

But what in the world was going on between that guy and the two Asian women?

Before long, I’d reached the point where I was dumping my coat, laptop, briefcase and pocket contents into the big plastic bins and loading them onto the rollers. Fortunately, things moved rather swiftly. Today, apparently, whoever was in control of the dials had turned ours to “Shoes/Belts Stay On.” Why? I wondered. For years, it seemed, shoes and belts came off. Just last November, I know, I’d had to remove them. I remember, because for good measure, I’d wrapped my belt once around my phone before plopping them atop my jacket in one of the bins.

As I waited to step through the scanner, I thought about the whole infrastructure of passenger and baggage inspection for weapons and explosives. We’ve all grown so accustomed to the whole unpleasantness, we now consider it nothing more than a mild inconvenience. But who wouldn’t accept the minor trouble of shuffling through a TSA line in exchange for safety?

This got me thinking back to the comment by a book club member last Tuesday that greatly disturbed my view of safety vs. liberty; the comment to the effect that “order should come before all else [including constitutional rights].” In the context of “Operation Metro Surge,” most of us Twin Citians came down decisively on the side of liberty; in strident support of constitutional rights, especially when “safety” was defined as “protection against the ‘worst of the worst’ among ‘illegal aliens.’” Knowing that the stated premise for the ICE operations was community safety, when in fact it was mere pretext for carrying out Trump’s campaign of retribution against Democrats, the overwhelming reaction of the public was that the unlawful tactics of ICE posed a much larger threat to our physical safety than did the actual harm committed by “illegal aliens.”

After passing through the scanner and the pat-down of one of my arms, I pondered further the tension between safety and liberty. Moreover, I contrasted the highly refined measures taken by TSA against air travelers and the complete absence of inspection of voter crania. Somewhat facetiously—but not entirely—I asked myself the question, “Who poses the bigger threat to my safety—would be plane hijackers or a citizenry who would vote for a tyrant for president—a president who in a year’s time would turn the constitution inside out and push the country into the abyss of authoritarian rule?”

I cooled my jets, so to speak, as I walked down the main section of the shiny, splashy terminal among the presentable hordes bound for all points of the compass. A five-minute walk took me to the gate where Hartford-bound passengers, including Beth, were waiting, sipping their gourmet lattés and high-end pastries. A few minutes later I heard the first call for passengers entitled to preferential boarding: veterans, and with the usual tag line, “We thank you for your service.”

This triggered a pet peeve of mine. However I might feel about our nation’s military fiascos (Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan), which were in fact, political fiascos shouldered by the military, I have nothing but sympathy for any and all veterans who experienced physical and mental trauma as a result of war. In my judgment, we taxpayers should stop at nothing to provide for them and their families. But the term “veterans” includes a whole lot of people, who for a whole lot of reasons were never in harm’s way. Yes, I know, many—I’ll gladly stipulate most—played vital support roles in “defense” of the country, or more accurately, in support of combat troops put in harm’s way, whether by well-advised or ill-advised decisions of the government. What disturbs me is glorification of militancy, and concomitantly, singling out (non-combat) veterans in a society that depends on so many other vocations and professions to safeguard and promote our well-being.

I mean, what about public health workers, teachers, engineers, architects, research scientists, applied scientists, first-responders, fire-fighters, law enforcement officers, builders, trades-people, skilled laborers, unskilled laborers, and . . . dare I say, lawyers, judges and all thire support staff, not to mention all the uncountable people who fill critical roles in the makeup of a thriving society?

This question triggered a thought about the daily invitation to evening “coffee” at my old boarding school, Sterling, in Craftsbury Common, Vermont. Dinners were a formal, sit-down affair. At each of the 11 round tables were nine students and a “master” (teacher) and his spouse, if he had one. Each week the seating arrangements changed. When you were assigned to Monsieur and Madame Moutard’s table you had to speak French. As dessert was served, the headmaster, Mr. Birmingham, would stand, clink a spoon to his water glass and announce the lucky invitees to “coffee” in the lounge down the hallway from the dining room.

Tea was served as well as coffee, but the affair was always called, “coffee.” Everything about it—the dispensers, cups, saucers, spoons—were “fancy,” in keeping with the point of the operation, which was to teach us ruffians (despite our ties and blazers) some proper manners, starting with, “When you step up to the server for a refill, you never, ever leave your spoon in the cup.” It was also an opportunity to develop the art of conversation—with grown-ups.

Among their other special privileges, the seniors were automatically welcome at “coffee,” so Mr. Birmingham didn’t need to extend an express invitation to them. But the rest of the invitees were selected with amusing randomness.

Once he had our attention, Mr. Birmingham would say (for example), “Invited to this evening’s coffee are all varsity lacrosse players from the state of Connecticut [5], all those who scored 90 or higher on their latest exam in Mr. Field’s geometry class [3], and all who worked in the horse barn this afternoon [4].”

It takes a village, I thought, as I reminisced about Birmingham’s invitations to “coffee”. Then came the “Eureka!” moment. What if instead of always giving veterans preferential boarding rights—with a “Thank you for your service”—the gate counter announcer were to mix things up. What if it were, “We’re now ready to board flight 123 to Hartford. We’re calling up first, all elementary school teachers, current or retired, doesn’t matter—and . . . we thank you for your vital service.” For the flight, it could be, “First to board are all healthcare providers—and . . . we thank you for your vital service.” Next up, “Make way for all people who sing in a choir . . . and thank you for your vital service.”

Et alia ad infinitum. Because, after all, it really does take a village, the whole village . . . for a nation of villages to thrive.

Once we were airborne, I do what I always do when I have a window seat (which is nearly always) on a clear day: I press my nose to the glass . . . er, plastic . . . and peer down at the earth and the markings of humankind across the face of nature. And I marvel at our world and how billions of people live their lives, each a universe unto itself, yet out of necessity as much as desire, highly integrated and interdependent. What a planet, this beautiful place. What a species, this human race.

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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson