Do We Long for Constraints?

Is First Class a Prison?

A view from the NYC Ferry.

There is a phrase for a certain kind of blandness attributed to Midwesterners, often by Midwesterners, in a self-deprecating fashion. That phrase is “Midwestern nice.” It’s supposed to describe a stereotype of people who are conflict-averse and passive-aggressive. Sometimes it’s true, but I believe that Midwesterners are genuinely nice.

What is not talked about is Midwestern weird. Weirdness is abundant in the Midwest. And unlike New Yorkers or Los Angelenos — professional weirdos — Midwestern weirdos are bizarre in ways that will never be commodified.

I have a friend who grew up in the American Midwest who is very, very strange. I like him. One day, we were talking about life in his tiny apartment in rural Japan. His father was a stern Protestant preacher. And my friend had spent a night in jail, I can’t remember why. But he said that when those jailhouse doors closed he relaxed in a way he never had before. He felt true freedom. There was nothing for him to do. He wasn’t behind on any work. There was absolutely nothing he could be expected to attend to as he was imprisoned and he loved that feeling. He told his father about that feeling when he got out and his father said, “Perhaps that tells you something about yourself.”

I have another odd friend here in New York City. This pal of mine truly loves flying first class in airplanes. He likes it so much that he once saved all the little slippers, eyemasks, and accouterments they handed out during a flight. Sometimes, at home, he would meticulously arrange these items around himself, put on the eyemask, and sit in his chair as if he were at a cruising altitude above the Atlantic on his way to London.

He said he loved lying back in comfort, with nowhere to be and nothing to do. He liked his first-class jail in the sky.

Near where I live, there is a ferry that takes people all around New York for just a few bucks. My lovely wife, Noriko, and I enjoy taking it on summer nights across the East River. We sit on the top deck and ride from the Lower East Side to Brooklyn Bridge Park. It’s a gorgeous ride. We head over in the early evening, eat a picnic, and head home in the dark. The city on either side of the East River lights up and the black water sparkles in the night.

I typically hate traveling by boat. But the ferry is such a short ride that I love it. I don’t like boating for long periods of time because I feel trapped. I’ve never understood why people love it. But now, I think, I do. They like the comfort that my friends described: one of being interred. It’s a form of mental bondage and discipline. They tie themselves up and then relax into their confinement, finding freedom and release from their imprisonment.

I do not have this trait. I’m no fan of ropes, boats, or planes. But I do love the feeling of being free for a while of any obligation. Being a writer is like having a term paper due in perpetuity. There is always something I want to develop, expand, or create. But I also want to hide from the world. I want to sneak off and be where I can’t be held accountable for doing nothing, not even by myself.

But every time I’ve tried I have failed. Escape from myself is impossible, and the harder I try the worse I feel. I work. But I still try. I languish. I work. I languish. I work. Perhaps that is my prison? This is not something to be fixed, I realized. It just is. Not all of life has a solution. And one man’s prison is another man’s pasture.

Hoping you find solace in the prison of your choosing,

I am,

Sean Sakamoto