I remember the first time I ever flew in a plane. I was flying with my brother to go visit my grandparents in sacramento. i must have been six years old, he was ten. We were unaccompanied minors, and we had to spend our layover time in a dingy grey room in the airport, sucking on jolly ranchers and looking at grown-up magazines. The flight attendent on the second leg of that journey was very nice, and she liked the health-food animal crackers that my mom had packed for us. I liked her so much I was disappointed when she wasn't on the return flight a week later- she lived on the plane so I expected her to be there, after all. I remember telling people that it was our first time in an airplane and then people would act all big-person impressed. We got to wear little metal wings (the were metal then, and they had a stick-pin fastener, unlike the plastic stickers they give kids today) and they had goody bags with stuff for us to do during the flight.
I remember the first time I rode in a subway. I was 19 years old and living on my own in Berkeley. My boyfriend came for a visit and he convinced me to take BART, which sort of doesn't count as a subway but that's okay. We took BART to the city from the east bay and had a great day wandering around. Up until then I wouldn't admit that I had never ridden a subway before, but after that it wasn't such a big deal. I still get a little nervous when faced with a new mass transit system, but I can usually wing it okay.
When I was 22 I went to Europe for first time. I got off the plane and had in my hand a mangled piece of paper upon which my friend had written the words: garr du leeon. That was the destination I had to tell the cab driver. I found a cab, they found the train station, and I was on my way to visit my friends outside Vichy. I was scared to bits that I would be sent to the wrong place or have some horribly humiliating tourist experience happen to me, but nothing happened. I made it to where I needed to go and eventually learned enough french to ask for a cup of hot chocolate on the return train to Paris.
When I was 27 I went to New York City for the first time. Now that I live on the east coast it's sometimes hard for me to imagine that there are people in America who have never seen manhatten. Honestly, until I met sweets I had absolutely no desire to ever come to the east coast. His stories whet my appetite, and here I am. That first trip to the city I just walked, all day every day. I walked up and down the island until the blisters on my feet were bleeding and my bladder was crying out in agony. It was almost transcendental. Now I live in Connecticut and I visit NYC almost every month for some reason or another. I like it, but I remember not even caring what it looked like. (In fact, when I was 25 I was on the New York City movie set on some movie company's set lot in Los Angeles and I decided that if that was what New York really looked like, I didn't much care to go there.)
Each new experience has taken me further away from that little girl who played in the arroyos outside Santa Fe. I remember that innocence. I remember that ignorance. I am not really sure that exposure to the wonders of the modern world has made me any better a person, but perhaps just different.
Last year I went to an opening for Native American artists in Manhatten. My dad had a piece in the show, so I went with him to enjoy the fanciness and silliness of the city for an evening. There were about 30 artists featured in that particular show. I remember being introduced to various non-indian art collecters at the show. They all would smile really big at me and ask me "Is this the FIRST TIME you've ever been in NEW YORK?" "No," I'd say. "I live in Connecticut. I come here every few weeks." They would then look disappointed. My indian credibility was shot. I lived in Connecticut. I spoke english. I knew how to take the subway. I'd ridden in an airplane before. I was getting a master's degree at an ivy league school. The next time I see those people, I will have to ask them if it is THEIR first trip to New York.
I'm not sure there is a point to this entry. I guess I'm just thinking about what happens to people once the firsts are over. There will always be more firsts- for us it will be first marathon in a few weeks, first baby someday, first home, first trip to who knows where, ets. But it's those major firsts that really distiguish who we are and what people think of us. I dated an Alaska Native guy for a long time and he would talk about the elders he knew who would talk about the first time they ever saw a white person. talk about firsts! hah. "Is this the FIRST TIME you've ever seen an INDIAN?" then I can be all big person impressed and pin a little feather to a lapel and add that to my list.
The reason I was thinking about all this is because I had a strange experience today. My car has a bumper sticker on it that reads "Proud to be Apache." Today, a car passed me on the right, driving very slowly, and just as they were almost past the driver stopped his car and turned to get a really good look at me. Unfortunately, I was chewing my nails at the time and probably didn't give him a very good impression of what a real Apache looks like, but still, it was wierd. Was I his first?