But They're All Hip

Howdy. I hope all is well with everyone. I’m still unemployed in St. Louis. Yesterday, I googled the airline whose hiring pool I supposedly occupy. In doing so, I discovered they have suspended flights in New Mexico because they haven’t been paid by one of the cities they service. Needless to say, I’m not expecting a call from them this week.

My ambitions have sort of turned a corner. I realized that I could manage a Kwik Shop and make more than what I would as a pilot for a regional airline. This epiphany was extremely liberating. I realized that I could do whatever I wanted and it wouldn’t affect my immediate financial situation in the slightest. What’s more, with my background in sales and aviation (not to mention accomplishments related to peripheral interests and hobbies), there are a lot of things I could do where I would earn significantly more than I would as a pilot. Also, if I ever want to go back to flying full time, I’ll be in exactly the same spot I am now: needing multi time. After obtaining the twin time, I’d be current again and ready to go. Frankly, I don’t miss flying every day. Sad to say, but it’s true.

One of the more larkish things I’ve done lately was to apply to be a delegate of the International Committee of the Red Cross. If by some miracle I were to be accepted, I would be responsible for interviewing prisoners of war and inspecting the prisons in which they are held. My friend, Erica, having heard of the gig by virtue of her being goddess of foreign affairs and general intellectual diva, encouraged me to apply. The only stated requirements are proficiency in French and English, willingness to travel, and passion for human rights.

Completing the application process was a fantastic reawakening of a version of myself that I had all but forgotten. In rewriting my resume to include all the warm fuzzy things I’ve done for others (had to dig a bit to remember those…) and in writing the “Why I Want To Be A Delegate” cover letter, I was forced to remember the version of me with foreign language and interpersonal skills; the version who thought maybe he could do something with a direct human impact.

Thus was born my humanitarian alter ego. That’s how I’ve taken to viewing myself; as a collection of identities, only one of which will survive. Who will it be? Adam the pilot? Adam the aerospace sales big shot? Adam the international humanitarian aid worker? Adam the guitar shop guy? Adam the barista? Adam the street musician?

It's as if each of these identities is one of Shrodinger's Cats, locked in an atomic death box (or a basement), alive and dead at the same time, until fate has made its choice and the box is opened.