We got up at 6am NJ time to go to the airport early in hopes of addressing egregious treatment by VIRGIN AMERICA, which NO ONE should EVER fly. Two days ago we were in seats 17A and 17C for this 6-hour flight. After checking in, we were in seats 11B and 13E. Middle seats! Not even in the same row!

No one at VA has a clue as to how or why this happened, but of one thing they are certain: we can’t change it. This brings out all my latent paranoia. What is wrong with this plane that requires such mucking about–filled with lepers, perhaps? Who is in 17A and 17C now, and why were we bumped for them? Were we singled out, or was every pair of travelers separated?

I actually posed this last question at the gate, and the gate agent claimed not to know. That’s right, she did not know whether or not every single pair of travelers on this flight was intentionally separated. Heck, I know the answer to that.

I don’t miss the days of yesteryear, when we dressed up for flights, were fed real meals, and often flew on partially empty planes. I miss the days when we could check our bags for free, rely on seat selection “sticking”, and not be lied to in silly ways by gate agents. Maybe five years ago.

This airplane won’t crash, but if it does, we will die not only frightened, but alone. Perhaps we can shout our goodbyes. In that case, I hope that all my friends with social networking skills will post my wish that every airline employee whose job includes separating travelers without notification, or who devised or endorsed that idea, or who colluded in its implementation, or who profited from it, to relive our last moments every single day of their lives, the rest of which will ideally be filled with shame and pain.

Not just paranoia. Vindictive anger.

I think it’s part of my southern upbringing. We Southerners are Loud and Proud even with our record low ratings on educational outcomes and public health, and record highs in race-based policing and percent of citizens incarcerated for victimless crimes. That is to say, we are not obsequious. We don’t even yield to reality.

I don’t usually claim, or even want to claim, this heritage, but it sometimes claims me. Dismissive disregard, heedless disrespect, casual dismissal, those are arrows pointed at my heart. If I am not a spineless worm, I will fight, nay, refuse this treatment.

Yet I cannot. Cognitive dissonance. Extreme stress. Slightly abrogated by blogging.