Flying High Now

I read in the Tribune recently that my alma mater department, the Institute of Aviation at University of Illinois, is closing down. I meet this news as bittersweet, like dark chocolate, or when a girl makes you breakfast but it turns out to be vegan.

I did, of course, switch majors to English & Creative Writing, which is what I graduated in (a double-threat at the unemployment line). But I came in as a student of the Institute of Aviation, as a wide-eyed 18-year-old back in aught-four, and I spent over 2 years flying planes in their program (poorly). Founded to fill the need for commercial pilots after WWII, the program apparently eventually became an excuse to admit idiots. Their admits, the Trib reports, were known for having the U of I's lowest GPAs, lowest ACT scores, lowest success rates, etc. The powers that be said they were sick of the descent, if you will, the school's reputation was buffeting from being yoked to these students. I raise my cup to them. My plastic red cup.

Anyway, Jeff just sent me our old work from Rhet 243: Creative Nonfiction, and the essay I wrote (five years ago) was about my experience flying (and not flying), and the Institute itself. So I figure now's as good a time as any to take that trip down memory lane, and waggle the wings at the trusty blue and orange Piper Archers, flying one last time from KCMI, into the sunset of posterity. Orange and blue posterity.

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