The Plantation Project

2.

Caleb

The drive to the airport the following morning was terrible. I was tired, sleep deprived and cranky. A very bad combination when one had a long flight ahead.

Thankfully the flight was on time and it wasn't much later that I was seated beside a learned looking man. It was apparently my lucky day because till now I couldn't spot any babies who could disrupt the long nap I planned on taking.

The captain announced that we were about to take off. I watched through the window as the wheels slowly lifted off the ground and the flight rose amongst the clouds. The Eiffel tower twinkled in the distance below, almost mockingly. It was probably its way of saying that no matter how much I tried to avoid it, it just couldn't be ignored.

I rested my head on my seat and closed my eyes. I was completely and fully drained. I had come to Paris with the intention of staying for about a month but that fateful phone call had changed everything. And now here I was rushing home after completing a months work in two weeks.

It angered me to hurry something that needed patience. I was not satisfied with the photos I took though my manager assured me that they were fantastic. I knew they were fantastic, but they weren't unique. Most of them were cliché shots taken in a hurry. They simply weren't me.

The call had been from my mother. I was actually surprised that she had my number. It was approximately eleven years seen I had last spoken to either of my parents. I had last seen them even before that.

My father was a man who still lived in the civil war period. He was the owner of a plantation that churned out tonnes of high quality cotton every year. He was a firm believer in all the old values that southern America once had, chivalry and honour over everything else.

My mother was also a true woman of the south. She was a dutiful wife, a responsible mother and a strong yet gentle figure in the house. Everything about them was elegant and perfect, almost noble to an extent.

And I absolutely hated it.

I had lost my father's love the moment I had announced that I had no interest in cotton or plantations. I simply did not share the same love for land that he had. My mother had been supportive then, convincing her husband that photography was a honourable profession too.

The fatal blow was when I came out to them at 18. Father had almost killed me then and there. But I had expected his reaction. What had really broken me was the utter disappointment in my mother's eyes.

Mr. Nathan Jonhson had very politely asked me to get the fuck out of his house that night. And I had. I already had my things packed. Mother hadn't even tried to stop me. In fact she had refused to even look at me.

That was 12 years ago. I had spoken to mother on the phone once or twice after but they were all her attempts to get me to join a conversion program. Apparently the gay could be purged out of me by some pastor. Ridiculous.

I had left Nashville, Tennessee for good that night with the intention of never going back. There was nothing left for me there except bigotry and hate. I had been accepted on a scholarship to the California Institute of Arts and that became my true home.

Suffice it to say that I was beyond shocked when I heard her voice a few days back. Somehow her voice appeared a lot more weary to me than I remembered it to be. She informed me that my father was sick, very much so. He had asked to meet me.

It was difficult to believe her but I did not have the heart to refuse. After all she was my mother. I loved her. I had promised her that I would be there as soon as possible and hence why I was on a flight back to America.

I awoke with a start. The captain was announcing something that my sleep clouded mind could not comprehend. I blinked and sat up straight.

"Put your seatbelt on," the man beside me spoke. "We will be experiencing some turbulence."

"Oh okay," I said and smiled at him.

"You are Caleb Johnson right? The photographer?"

Surprised, I turned to him and nodded. I was well known but mostly amongst fellow photographers. It was very rare for someone else to recognise me.

The man extended his hand and we shook.

"I am a fan. Your style is truly amazing. I am a professor of ethnic studies and I came across your work while studying about the Rwandan genocide. Your "20 years after" series is simply genius. I have been a fan ever since," he said with a broad smile.

I smiled back. That series was particularly close to my heart too. It was based on current situations in Rwanda, 20 years after the genocide where in just 100 days about 84,000 Tutsi's were killed by the Hutu majority government. The surprising thing is that today many Tutsi's lived next to their Hutu murderers in complete peace and harmony. The subject had intrigued me to no end.

Having a good neighbour on a flight is truly a godsend. We talked for a long time about topics so diverse that my exhaustion was soon forgotten. The man was a treasure house of knowledge. It seemed as if there was nothing he did not know.

I almost felt sorry when the announcement for landing was made. It was after all rare to find people like him. We exchanged numbers and I promised to be in touch.

The plane landed with a thud. The BNA airport of Nashville, Tennessee lay before us. I was lucky to get a direct flight here. Apparently all airlines were flying more planes to Nashville for some country music thing going on.

A weird sense of nervousness mixed with dread made my stomach twist as I collected my luggage and walked out of the airport. Unwanted memories of my departure to California suddenly filled my mind. It was here in this very airport that I had sworn to never return.

Now that I had, I did not know what to expect. I could only hope for the best.