I hadn't expected much from this flight. In fact, as some of y'all may remember from my posting in the Prayer Closet, I wasn't even sure if I was going to go to Mexico 'til, oh, the night before I left. The taxi driver who picked me up at 5:20am asked why I was going to Mexico City, just early morning smalltalk on the ride to the airport. He was silent when I replied, "Y'know, I'm not really all that sure how to answer that question right now."

But I made it to the airport, checked my bags, and boarded the plane. I was seated in a row with a 20-something straight couple who were practically occupying one seat, but before takeoff a flight attendant came over and said "The last row on this side is completely empty if you want it."

And yes, seats A, B, and C were completely empty. So were seats D and E across the aisle. Seat F, way over next to the opposite window, held a small pink form, primly dressed, white gloves, black shoes, white tights, wearing a bright orange plastic sign: "UNACCOMPANIED MINOR".

I had to laugh. A few weeks ago over at Big Orange, I posted a comment about how I inevitably end up sitting with either unaccompanied minors or single parents traveling with very young children. It's like there's a flag in my TSA file or something. I don't mind - give me a wailing child over a proselytizing evangelist or corporate executive any day at all. I smiled, said "Hola!" - and picked up my book.

My deep, dark flying secret? I HATE takeoff. Landing's fine, flight is fine, turbulence at altitude - no worries at all. Takeoff terrifies me. I understand the physics of flight; my ex-USAF dad made sure of that when we traveled when I was a child. I love traveling, and even like air travel - once we've reached 10,000 feet. Takeoff, though - <shudder> - no fun at all.

As the plane picked up momentum hurtling down the runway, I glanced over from the book that was utterly failing to distract me from our imminent attempt to defy gravity, and fixed my gaze on the little pink form, who seemed to have become smaller in the intervening few minutes. She caught my gaze with eyes filled with nothing less than sheer terror. I willed myself to hide my own panic and locate within myself some plausible attempt at looking enthusiastic. She relaxed, albeit minutely - but her eyes did not leave my face. I held her gaze the entire time.

As soon as the first chime sounded, indicating that we were high enough for portable electronic equipment and flight attendants to be moving around, I shifted seats to the aisle. "Do you like flying?" she asked. "Yeah, I really do. I fly a lot, though, so it gets old pretty fast. What about you?"

"I've never been in an airplane before."

"Wow. Are you going to visit family in Mexico?"

"Yes. I'm going to see my grandparents. I've never seen them before either. They can't come to America."

Now - let's summarize for a moment here. Child. Unaccompanied. International flight. She's never flown before. Flying to be with people she's never met in person. My twinge of anxiety at takeoff passed as soon as the landing gear was up with a thunk, but for her, takeoff had to be the very least of her fears.

I never made it back to my book. Instead, I spent five hours learning from a firsthand witness about what a disaster US immigration policy has become, and how for all the talk about walls and fences and employment screening and raids and penalties, a disproportionate burden of fear and trauma is inflicted on people who neither choose their home nor are equipped to handle the uncertainty or hazards of living in the liminal space between two worlds. Very small people - sometimes dressed in pink, with delicate white gloves, and big terrified brown eyes.

We asked each other a lot of questions in those five hours. I asked her age - she's barely older than Kid Pax. She beamed when I told her about him and pulled up a photo on my laptop. She traveled with a US passport, but I dodged looking inside it in order to protect her & her family's privacy. I never even asked her name. Instead, I let her peruse my passport, where she was fascinated by the different shapes and colors of stamps from the trips I've made. "Do you get them if you go to different states, too? I never leave Oregon much."

She asked if I knew anything about the Virgin of Guadalupe. "My mama used to visit her when she was a little girl, and also when I was in her tummy. She says I'm supposed to go see her now. I don't think my mama can go see her anymore, but I can."

No, I did NOT ask why. In my mind, I've created a beautiful Latina woman, elegantly dressed in a pink dress with white gloves, and I've given her the ear condition that kept me off airplanes for over a year. It's a lovely myth, one that I find far more palatable than the alternative - that her mother can't return to Mexico to visit her parents, to visit La Virgen de Guadalupe, because doing so would mean jeopardizing all that she has in this country, including the life and education of this very bright, very articulate young - very young - woman with whom I was chatting.

I don't know anything at all about her family - I intentionally didn't ask. Instead, I told her about my family, my son, our cats, the trip we'll take to Mexico ourselves this summer.

For five hours, I had another kid. I etched so much of our conversation into my memory, wishing my eyes could be a window into this experience for the sweet mother of this child. She should've been able to be with her little one as she made this pilgrimage back to the land from which her relatives had come. I thought a lot about this little one's mother, and what it would take to put a young child on an airplane by herself, bound for a land she's never seen, speaking a language she vaguely understands, but cannot read or write.

I couldn't do it. Not Kid Pax. But I can't even imagine ever having to do it, either. Privilege - privilege that's nothing more than an accident of my birth and his - makes that thought simply unfathomable.

On more than one occasion, a thought flitted through my mind: Who has the real 'family values' here? Is it the men in suits who are arguing about who can come up with the most draconian policies to apply to this kid and her family? Or might it be the mother who put her baby on a plane to spend a month with her own parents, people she may never see again in this lifetime?

We talked about the Virgin of Guadalupe, Nuestra Madre, to whom I have a particular devotion. I told her of my plans to go to the Basilica the next day, my first full day in Mexico City. I pulled up a few pictures of my trip to Mexico from this past summer, and of some of the Mary stuff we have at home. She was most transfixed, though, by the pictures of Amidala and McAuley, our two nine-month-old kittens. Of course. She's a kid - just a normal kid who lives here in town. She's just a kid.

We read the in-flight magazines - or rather, I read them, and she tried to translate. She's never learned to read or write the language her family speaks at home, but she promised me she'd work on that during her month in Mexico. "You need to know both languages really well." "If I do that, can I travel all over the world like you?" "You bet, kiddo. You can do anything you want if you work hard in school and learn all you can. If you can read and write Spanish, it's even better than just speaking it. You really will be able to do anything, and go so many places." And again I thought of a young Latina woman, visiting the Basilica in Mexico City, asking our Holy Mother for guidance, and for a better life for her child.

A couple hours into the flight, turbulence hit. Nothing major, but the seatbelt sign went back on. "Are we going to crash?!??!" "No, no - this is just like the bumps you feel if you're on the bus. It's just a little bumpy, and they want to keep us all safe." So we talked about turbulence, and about how sometimes things can be very, very bumpy, but if the pilot keeps the plane's nose up and keeps moving forward, everything will be absolutely fine.

I really do believe that about air travel. I pray every day now for it to be true of this little girl as well. Oh, Señora, may it please be so. May no unforeseen turbulence interrupt this little one's flight or change her destination.

As we approached Mexico City and began our descent, fear filled her eyes again. "Are you scared?" Tears welled up as she looked over at me. "Yes, but not because we're landing. You said the plane would land just fine, right?"

"Yes, the plane will land just fine. We're safe now, and the pilot will be driving the plane like a big car with wings around the airport in just a few minutes." A giggle escaped from this fearful child, and then she said "I don't know anybody there."

I wish I could've walked with her off the plane through immigration, through customs, and out the door into the arms of a couple who I'm sure love her so very, very much. After all, they gave up their daughter to a land they can never visit. They have no doubt lived in faith for this past decade that they'd be together again, even if just through the intermediary of a small child, dressed in pink.

I know the rules regarding unattended minors, though, and knew that we had until disembarking to keep talking - and then no more. So I told her about a bunch of places in Mexico City, and said that if she's scared, she can remember the pictures I showed her of the Basilica, and know that her mom's prayers are there too - as are mine. She smiled, and asked about the Kid's favorite subject in school.

Because after all, she's just a child. What does she know of Customs? Of immigration?

Dear God, she's just a child.

Nuestra Madre, la Virgencita, yourself a young mother who journeyed far from home to protect the life of your as-yet not birthed child, you know this story better than I can ever imagine it myself. Watch over this little one in the next few weeks while she's there with you. But because you are a mother yourself, stay with this little one's mother these weeks too, as she misses her child's birthday, as they're separated at Christmas.

Have mercy on us all for how we treat each other, but especially the little ones among us, caught in grownup battles, trapped behind grownups' impermeable imaginary doors.

Pax, and Amen.