Time Travel and a Gameboy by Emory Whaley
Honolulu, Hawaii 1997
Honolulu, 1997-1999
I am a time traveler. It is not an extraordinary skill; we are all time travelers. We hop from moment to moment, place to place. The 1989 science-fiction drama Quantum Leap leads us to believe that with each leap, the next might finally be the leap home. Unfortunately, Quantum Leap was canceled. Sam Beckett never did reach home, but he taught us something more important. Each leap is good enough. Sam made his travels become his ever-shifting home. So, I live as Sam Beckett did. I leap through time and space. There is no final destination for time travelers.
As the child of a military serviceman, travel is your birthright. Everywhere you live, no matter the time frame, becomes a piece of your home.
My first home, Honolulu, Hawaii, offers me few memories that weren’t captured by a camera. Photo albums remind me that my grandparents held me, smiles warm and wide, at a lūʻau. The three of us are centered in the photograph, framed by palm trees, with a chorus of hula ʻauana dancers behind us. The dancers, clad in kapa cloth, have their bare feet deep in the sand as they tell different stories with their dancing. Hula ʻauana is a modern form of hula; ‘auana meaning “to wander” or “to drift.” It’s an almost ironic title for the dance. Each gesture of their hands and hips mimics words that tell stories of Hawaiian culture and folklore. Each movement is precise and deliberate. Only well-trained dancers can make these look like casual wandering.
In my own way, a series of carefully planned and deliberate actions have caused me to wander, or drift. Each new home I've claimed has been far from accidental despite how delicately they seem to phase into each other. The warm waters surrounding Hawaii’s Oʻahu island quickly transformed into towering glaciers that flow from the Harding Icefield in Seward, Alaska.
Leap.
Seward, Alaska 1999
Seward, 1999-2002
Our new house was two stories high, with the entrance on the second floor. At first, this seemed like a nuance of architectural design. Carrying groceries up the ice and snow-covered stairs frustrated my parents. It wasn't until a heavy snowstorm left behind five feet of snow, tightly packed against the first floor of the house, that everyone understood why the entrance was so high. This was likely the first time we truly understood the implications of living in Alaska.
The second time this feeling occurred was during a barbecue celebration for all the local U.S. Coast Guard families. We congregated in the early evening to eat and celebrate the joys of being stationed somewhere new. I played with the other children for hours in bright sunlight. It wasn't until half 1 in the morning that the first parent realized the time. Still, the sun was as bright as midday. Everyone laughed and gathered their families to return home for the evening, but the sunlight stayed for 24 hours. Most of us knew this happened, but unfortunately, the knowledge of it didn't prepare anyone for how it feels to stand under a brilliantly bright sky in the dead of night. The solstice, the day that feels as though it could never end, also eventually saw its sunset.
Still, time moves like a convoy of U-Haul vans.
It was swiftly time to leave Alaska, too. My mother and I were moving back to her home state, Michigan. The flight was scheduled to depart at 06:00. Alaskan snowstorms had delayed our departure for nine hours, and unfortunately, only night-time delays warrant the airline purchasing you a hotel room. Daytime delays, such as this one, require you to spend the full nine-hour wait in the crowded airport, LED lights illuminating every unhurried minute while you wait. Nothing occupied my young mind while the delay carried on. I examined the other children playing near the flight gate. Most of their families presented them with toys to distract their wandering attention. A four or five-year-old girl slowly pulled individual plastic hairs off her Betty Spaghetty doll’s head. A middle-school-aged boy read a comic book about superheroes, but I couldn’t see more than the cover.
Leap.
Charlevoix, 2002-2017
I don't remember the journey to Michigan or arriving at Detroit Metro Airport. I don't remember driving 6 hours up north to Charlevoix. I don't remember moving into my third house. I don't remember my first day of school. It was as if one day I woke up, and I was discussing Pokémon trading cards with my friends in a classroom. I wasn't a good student. By the time I started kindergarten, I had been reading and writing for two years. I already knew the alphabet, so my idle hands distracted other students. I never fell behind on schoolwork. I tested well. But my mind was often far away from reality. I swiftly learned this was attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. To this day, it is my greatest curse and most brilliant superpower. It is the loosely tangled ball of threads that stuff my head beyond capacity, and it is the roadmap for how I remember "home." A photograph here; a brief glimpse into the past there: all working together to remind me of my travels.
Suddenly electrocuted back into reality, I stood at my high school graduation ceremony. The costume, maroon cap and gown, made me feel like a trick-or-treater. Dress up, say hello, and they'll smile and hand you a diploma instead of candy. On my left stood my childhood friend. She wore the same cap and gown like the rest of the graduating class, but a gold summa cum laude cord was draped off her neck. It symbolized the highest academic distinction. Only four other students wore this accessory. Around my neck was a silver cum laude cord, the second-highest academic distinction, worn by only ten other students. Our parents were proud, certainly. This was well established through two hours of photographs after the ceremony ended. We smiled and posed until, finally, our relatives were content, or maybe their camera's batteries died.
My friend and I had an afternoon planned to celebrate our first day as high school graduates. We went to a local diner for our celebratory lunch. It was a diner we had been going to for more than ten years: Harbor View Cafe. It sat in the far corner of a plaza. Its roof was flat and level with the top of the hill that hung above it. This made the roof a popular spot for kids to sit and look over most of downtown. On the inside, there were diner-style tables and booths with plastic tablecloths draped over them. The tablecloths were perpetually sticky from years of maple syrup falling onto them. The waitresses had worked at the cafe for at least five years each, some much longer. I recognized their faces from memories of eating here with my grandfather as a child. The woman who walked up to us to take our order seemed familiar, too. She had pancake batter on her apron, and she didn't write down our order. Something my mother tells me is a sign of servers being very good at their job...if they remember correctly. Of course, she did. Ten minutes later I was presented with two fried eggs, toast, strawberry jam, and coffee.
My friend and I laughed, ate, and speculated how life after high school would treat us. In September, she was going to a local community college to earn an Associates of Science. I would be going to the same college to study Computer Networking and I.T., although we never planned to study at the same institution explicitly. As we tried to guess what our professors would be like, I finished my orange juice, tipped the familiar-looking waitress, and we headed back to the car.
All of this was a piece of my home, too.
Leap.
London, August 2017
Those sunlight-stained memories play in my mind. Two years after our celebratory trip to the diner, I enrolled at Falmouth University in Cornwall for my BA. I had only briefly visited England prior, but I wasn't a stranger to drastic moves geographically. I felt comfortable and confident. My first night's sleep living in England was restless. I wanted to be at home, but I guess I was already there. The hotel room was humid from the rain that pelted the window outside. Through the window, a streetlamp illuminated the left side of my face as I tossed in bed. No matter how I moved, the streetlamp managed to wriggle through all obstacles of physics and nature to reach my eyes. I fought this fervently until, eventually, my face was illuminated by sunlight instead. I wandered towards the hotel shower to start my day. The temperature was in Celsius, and first it was stinging cold, then blisteringly hot, until I found a comfortable spot. Most minuscule cultural differences can be solved through patient trial and error. This sleepless shower was only the practice run.
Afterward, it was time to catch my train from Central London to my destination, Falmouth. The platform was a mild walk from my hotel. The London bus services were still an enigma to me, so I walked happily, feet splashing in the heavy rain. The passing taxi cabs kicked up water, too, and I evaded it carefully. The five-hour train journey to Falmouth would feel much longer if I weren't dry. I couldn't help but laugh at myself when I remembered how many friends and family members offered the advice "bring an umbrella," when they learned of my upcoming move to England. Of course, I had not brought one. I had too many different things to remember, and rain is more forgiving than forgetting a laptop or a pair of sneakers. The pigeons were hidden inside of the architecture, a stark contrast to yesterday when they dominated the pedestrian foot traffic. Now, I could hear little more than their rustling in the Georgian buildings above me as I hurried to the platform.
Leap.
Falmouth, 2018
The other students asked me about the U.S. and how things feel different here.
"They don't. Not really. I think Asda has the same parent company as Walmart."
They pressed me further. Surely some things must be different.
"Many things are different. They just don't feel different. It's like going to a chain restaurant in a different town."
They weren't happy with my answers.
"I'm sorry. Things are different. Yeah."
The interrogation ended.
As days phased in and out, my perception of Cornwall grew more vivid. I noticed the smaller details that set it apart. Each step in a Cornish staircase was a different height. They were stone, slick, and treacherous to climb in the rain. Everyone talked about rain. Nobody talked about how rainbows could appear on command. The constant rainbows reminded me of Hawaii. If you count it, Alaska's Aurora Borealis was similar to the rainbows too. Brilliant colors streaking the sky for your entertainment. It's the same air, the same sky, the same colors.
Leap.
London to Traverse City, 2019
Now, I always purchase airline tickets that depart in the evening. The airport, itself, doesn't change much between sunrise and sunset; terminals don't recognize time. Now, as an adult, I stood in the Queen's Terminal of Heathrow Airport. I look overhead at the nearest flight board.
19:00 - Tokyo.
19:00 - Sydney.
19:15 - Toronto.
19:30 - Mexico City.
19:30 - Beijing.
19:45 - Mumbai.
Found it!
20:00 - Chicago.
Night and day are equally as chaotic in the purgatory of an airport. Families struggle to entertain their young children. Rushed businessmen weave through foot traffic, trying not to spill their coffee. But after I've survived the long queues, security, and the anxiety of customs, I finally board a sleepy, peaceful plane. That makes all the difference.
Once in the air, I say farewell to a city, lit well, dressed in its best evening gown. I wave goodbye, and all of London flickers, the night-covered offices and flats illuminate a Morse code message: "see you soon."
The altitude rises.
London fades, and I sleep.
When my eyes open, it's 6 am, and the sun is rising over the Appalachian Mountains. There are so many trees. There were never this many trees in England. White smoke escapes from the wilderness and attempts to touch the plane. A signal that hikers are waking up at camp, preparing to embark further up the trail. Shoes dry, ash-filled fire pits smoldering, legs not too sore to go on. By the time their shoes are tied, they're seven miles behind me.
I phase simply through state borders until the plane begins its descent over Cherry Capital airport. Suddenly and briefly, we hang in suspension, moving less than the clouds above us. The passengers shift uncomfortably, eager to press their shoes on home soil. The impatience is suspended, too, and it lingers in the cabin. Then, the landing gear extends and the plane shudders, reality is jerked back into the aircraft. The overhead light tells me to keep my seat belt fastened, but I loosen it, slyly, and arrange my bags.
I don't have much luggage, considering I'm spending four full months back home in Michigan. Just a laptop and a compact suitcase filled with the basics: a worn, purple pair of sneakers, a few shirts, a jumper, and a tin of biscuits for my grandparents. I leave enough of my belongings back home that I never need to bring much. Returning home to a bedroom full of old stuff you've forgotten about it is half the fun of foreign studies. I'm certain that my childhood Gameboy hasn't been moved since last August, tucked away beneath the bookshelf. I wonder which game I've left in it.
Before I can check, I'll have to embark on a whistle-stop tour to see everyone I've grown up with. My mom will be first. She's waiting for me in the airport pick-up queue. The subsequent week after I land will be full of catching up and unpacking. Only then will I figure out if Pokémon or Kirby is in that Gameboy.
Leap.
by Emory Whaley