Thanks to My Grandmother, The Sky is the Limit

Do you have memories of a special flight? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

These days, people show up at airports wearing pajamas, sporting flip-flops, tank tops, and sweatpants, with hair tied up like they’re headed to a sleepover, not a 30,000-foot-high journey through the sky. Flying has become so casual, almost careless, like hopping on a city bus. Book it on your phone. Scan a QR code. Order a ginger ale while cruising high above the clouds and try to forget, watch, or avoid being included in the latest viral video of Passengers Gone Wild.

We complain about TSA lines, middle seats, and bag fees. We forget that not long ago, stepping onto a plane, especially for Black folks, was an event, a privilege, something you did in a suit or a dress, not a hoodie and Crocs.

Flying hasn’t always been like this. It certainly wasn’t when my grandmother, Annie Mae Petties, boarded her very first flight in August of 1967. Back then, air travel carried a kind of magic and dignity. It was a rarefied experience, complete with attentive service and souvenirs, like playing cards. Pillows and blankets were standard. I still see it clear as day, because there’s a photo of me at nine years old sitting next to her on the plane, proudly grinning from ear to ear. My aunt came aboard with us and took the photo after we were seated. Before there were selfies, there were Kodak moments.

Back in the day, you could walk to the waiting area and say your farewells at the gate, no boarding pass required. Over time and with changing circumstances, the sense of occasion has gradually been replaced by crowded cabins, bring-your-own snacks, and a rush to get from point A to B. Deregulation in the late 1970s opened the skies to competition, and discount airlines made flying more affordable but far less glamorous. September 11 changed how we moved through airports. There’s certainly nothing glamorous about full-body scans, X-ray machines, pat-downs, and the indignity of removing your shoes to pass through security. Thankfully, that shoe restriction was recently lifted.

But this was a different era. And this trip was special. While I had flown many times before, it was my grandmother’s maiden flight, a Delta Airlines journey of more than 1,600 miles from LAX to the Shreveport airport, about 30 miles from our house in Marshall, Texas. My grandmother and I had spent the summer visiting my aunt in Compton. In case you didn’t know, back in the day, Compton and Inglewood were suburban havens for middle-class Black folks living in the Los Angeles area.

Trains were grounded. Trains had tracks. Trains made sense. Airplanes? Not so much. For my grandmother, airplanes belonged in the same category as outer space — interesting but not necessarily meant for humans. She thought it was unnatural — unsafe, even. 'If God had wanted us to fly…' You can fill in the blank.

For the record, my grandmother wasn’t the flying type. She was a railroad woman through and through. Married to my grandfather, who worked as a foreman for the Texas and Pacific Railroad, she understood trains. Trains were grounded. Trains had tracks. Trains made sense. Airplanes? Not so much. For my grandmother, airplanes belonged in the same category as outer space — interesting but not necessarily meant for humans. She thought it was unnatural — unsafe, even. “If God had wanted us to fly…” You can fill in the blank.

But something shifted that summer. While we rode the train for two days to get to California, the return trip to Marshall presented itself as the perfect opportunity to broaden her horizons. With some coaxing and cajoling on our part, a whole lot of prayer on her part, my aunt and I finally convinced my grandmother that she was ready.

My grandmother showed up looking as if she were heading to Easter Sunday service: gloves, leather mid-heel pumps, and a matching purse, a celadon silk-and-linen suit, a hat tilted just so, and matching 'ear bobs,' as they called earrings back then.

And I do mean ready. When the fateful day arrived, she showed up the way women of her generation showed up — with dignity, style, and nerves tucked neatly behind a gentle, but determined smile. My grandmother showed up, looking as if she were heading to Easter Sunday service: gloves, leather mid-heel pumps, and a matching purse, a celadon silk-and-linen suit, a hat tilted just so, and matching “ear bobs,” as they called earrings back then.

Looking at the photo, you’d think she’d been flying all her life. You’d think she was fearless. But I knew better. Behind that smile, she was shaky. She was anxious. Her fear was real. The night before, she’d fretted about what food we should carry onto the plane. Looking back, I think cooking was her way of calming her nerves. In those days, a full meal was included with your ticket, not just a snack box, but real food—even on shorter flights. Some jumbo jets even featured lounge buffets, where passengers dined on smoked salmon and oysters. Fine dining and flying high above the clouds. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t a matter of fact. It was luxurious.

In those days, a full meal was included with your ticket, not just a snack box, but real food — even on shorter flights. Some jumbo jets even featured lounge buffets, where passengers dined on smoked salmon and oysters. Fine dining and flying high above the clouds.

And oh, those tickets! They were paper. Real tickets. They arrived in the mail. Sometimes you sent a check and waited weeks for confirmation. Or you called a ticket agent on the phone, an actual human being who would talk you through the process, not a chatbot or a website with “fares from $99.” Flying required planning and intention. And when the day came, you showed up dressed like it mattered. Because it did.

At the gate, after one last prayer for the pilot, the plane, and the weather, she straightened her suit, smoothed her pressed-and-curled bob — steel-gray with just enough black for contrast — and high-stepped onto that plane like she belonged there. And the truth is, she did.

That one bold step was symbolic of how she lived a life of quiet determination. She didn’t stop flying after that first trip. She kept going, through the 1970s, into the 1980s, until the end of her remarkable 83 years. In her sixties, she learned to drive, got her first car, and became one of two Black Avon ladies in Marshall. She insisted white folks call her by her initials and not her first name. She lived life on her terms, afraid sometimes, but she never stopped moving forward.

The same forward-moving spirit carried her children and grandchildren across oceans and continents.

Her only son became a merchant seaman, circling the globe countless times. Her youngest daughter, my mother, lived in Paris for several years with her Air Force husband. And me? I’ve traveled to Africa, Europe, the Islands, and nearly every state, and never once hesitated to get on a plane. The fear she once had, she never passed down.

In fact, she passed down the opposite. A spirit of courage. Adventure. Boldness.

Even now, I see her influence stretching into new generations. A while back, my niece texted me a selfie of herself mid-skydiving jump, proudly grinning from ear to ear, celebrating her birthday. I laughed out loud. Her great-grandmother might not have embraced or envisioned that move for herself, but she most certainly would have quietly encouraged Kendell, “Go ahead and jump, baby, but be careful.”

Flying has lost some of its grandeur. Boarding passes live in our phones. Air travel is cheaper, faster, more crowded, and more common. We take it for granted. We complain about TSA lines, middle seats, and bag fees. We forget that not long ago, stepping onto a plane, especially for Black folks, was an event, a privilege, something you did in a suit or a dress, not a hoodie and Crocs.

Every time I fly, I think back to that summer of 1967, to the photo of my grandmother and me. Annie Mae Petties taught us all something that day. Overcoming isn’t the absence of fear. Life isn’t about never being afraid. It’s about dressing in your Sunday best, steadying your nerves, straightening your hat, and stepping onto the plane anyway.

Do you have memories of a special flight? Share your thoughts in the comments below.