Life at 47,000 Feet

Jordan Dunn

Description

One man's path to finding peace with his sexuality, God and Family.
Life at 47,000 Feet is an autobiography from the life of Jordan Dunn. It chronicles his lifes journey from the time he realized he was gay at the young age of 9 until he was finally able to fully accept himself as being gay at the age of 37. This book illustrates his inner battle with growing up in a conservative Latter-Day Saint home and exposes both his failures and triumphs along his journey to realizing Gods unconditional love for him and finally finding peace in life.

Sujets

• Religión
• Biography
• Peace
• Journey
• Religion
• Faith
• Family
• Autobiography
• Gay
• Paix
• Aviation

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 25 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665743013
• Langue: English

Extrait

LIFE AT 47,000 FEET
 
Finding Peace with Sexuality, Religion and Family
 
 
 
 
JORDAN DUNN
 
 
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2023 Jordan Dunn.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and
may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4302-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4303-7 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4301-3 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908094
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/05/2023
CONTENTS
1.     The Flying Bug
2.     Simulator Training
3.     Severe Turbulence
4.     Finding Smooth Air
5.     Touch-and-Go
6.     Divine Intervention
7.     Mayday
8.     Ground School
9.     On a Mission
10.   Diverting
11.   Getting an Upgrade
12.   Departing
13.   My First Copilot
14.   Earning My Stripes
15.   Welcome Aboard
16.   Second Copilot
17.   Holding Pattern
18.   Stretching My Wings
19.   Tailwinds
Afterword
CHAPTER 1
THE FLYING BUG
 
G rowing up in Utah in the 1980s wasn’t too bad, at least as a young boy. My family lived out in the country, in the middle of my uncle’s cattle fields. Our home faced west, and in that direction, we could see only farmland and Interstate 15 lacing its way to the southwest. The farmland usually consisted of cornfields that farmers would use for silage to feed their cows in the wintertime. I thought the cornfields were beautiful and created a sense of security around our home. It was a good thing I didn’t see Children of the Corn till much later in life.
To the south was an area of uncultivated land that separated our house from my uncle’s. It served as a flood basin of sorts, for when the farmers used flood irrigation in their fields. It would inevitably flood our yard as well. But the flooding didn’t bother me as a kid. In fact, I looked forward to it. It was like having our own water park in our backyard. My sisters and I would ride our bikes through the water, lifting our feet up from the pedals so we wouldn’t get wet. But it was a futile effort; our back tires would spray wet, muddy streaks up our backs.
To the east, where our backyard was, there was more farmland. But the Wasatch Mountains, climbing almost fourteen thousand feet above sea level, were a beautiful backdrop to that side of our home. I would lie on our trampoline in the backyard with my dad’s hunting binoculars and watch the airplanes from the Cedar Heights airport fly over. We lived right under the downwind leg of the flight pattern. In the summer, the large crop duster airplanes would take off at first light to begin their work, and their big radial engines would shake me awake as they buzzed over our house. I would jump out of bed and run to the window to catch a glimpse of them before they flew out of sight. I think they flew right over our house on purpose because the family who ran the airport and crop-dusting business were my dad’s cousins. My dad had probably jokingly complained once about them making noise at five in the morning, so they made sure to keep doing it. I loved it. My heart and mind were infected with the flying bug from the time I was a little boy. I also used to watch the big airliners on arrival into the international airport to the north and try to identify which type they were. But more on airplanes later.
Finally, to the north of our home was another patch of uncultivated land. It was overgrown with cottonwood trees and wild grasses. We affectionately called that area “the swamp.” There was an old abandoned home back in the trees. When we were young, my two older sisters; my cousin Nathan, who lived down the road; and I would get brave and go check out the house. But we never actually went inside. Although none of us would admit it, we were scared. We also created a fictional man who lived there, whom we named Old Man Waterman, and he didn’t like kids. As young as I was, even with the strict TV censorship of my parents, I had seen enough, and in my mind and imagination, he was real. And he would get me if I got close enough.
For work, my dad owned his own custom cabinetry business. He originally started with a partner named Craig. But that partnership quickly went south, as Craig was better at spending money than making it. So my dad bought him out and went at it solo when I was very young. Thanks to Craig, I’ll never be able to trust a business partner of my own, and after watching my parents run a small business, I hope I don’t ever have one. My dad turned his company into a successful business later on, but in the early years, things were tight financially. My parents did a good job of hiding it, though. Every birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas was perfect to me. I don’t remember ever having to go without.
My mom worked as a bank teller in town. I’m sure that helped make ends meet for our family, and I loved going to that bank. I would run around the two floors, up and down the metal stairs. I enjoyed the echo the sound made in the stairwell. I would peek into the different offices and run away when the occupants noticed me from the side of their doorways. My mom would threaten to ground us if we didn’t hold still till she finished her shift; I’m sure our behavior was embarrassing for her. The bank manager, Mr. Randolph, must have been patient with her and with us kids.
For the most part, my childhood was relatively normal. There were four children in my family. I had two older sisters and one younger sister. Our routine was to attend school during the week, and Saturday was chore day. My siblings and I would be assigned different jobs to help clean the house and yard. The plan was to get the chores done fast, because after that, we were free. Sunday was church day.
I grew up a member of the main religion in the area. At the time, I didn’t realize how unique that was. I never really looked forward to church. As a young boy, I had better things to do. But Sunday was the Sabbath, and we went to church. My mom would wake us up on Sunday mornings with an AM station that used music by the church or church members. My mom played it through the intercom system in our house, so on Saturday nights, before I went to bed, I would turn the volume down on the speaker in my room to get a few more minutes of sleep before my mom would open my door and turn it back up.
My dad was always involved in some position or another in the church. He would go early to take care of whatever business he was needed for. So it was up to my mom to get herself and her four kids ready. I don’t think we ever made it on time. My sisters were the slowest at getting ready for anything, especially church. But I was impatient and hated being late. Sometimes I would ride my bike just to be there on time and then to make a quick escape afterward. Otherwise, I had to wait for my mom. It seemed she had to talk to every single person in the building before we could get out of there.
Overall, it was a pretty good life. At times, I wished I lived in town and closer to other kids. But living out in the country afforded me opportunities that city kids didn’t have. I could ride my bike on any road and not really have to worry about traffic. I usually encountered only my uncle driving his tractor with a big bale of hay on it, going to feed his cows. In fact, when Nathan and I got Rollerblades, we would hide and wait for my uncle to come by on the tractor. After he passed, we’d skate up and grab on to whatever he was pulling behind him that day. We would hold on for dear life as he unknowingly pulled us along. In reality, we were probably going ten miles an hour, but it felt like eighty, and it was a thrill. I never really got the hang of the dismount, though. Whenever we were approaching where we wanted to go, Nathan, who was always in charge of our shenanigans, would say, “Get ready to let go.” But I always panicked, and the front wheels of my Rollerblades always found a rock or pothole. I would quickly jump up and pretend I hadn’t just majorly hurt my pride, both knees, my butt, and at least one of my hands.
When I was eight, I got a BB gun, because that was what boys wanted at age eight. I was instantly the terror of any animal that breathed, apart from cats and dogs. I loved them and would never have hurt them. I only actually remember killing one thing. It was a robin, which my dad specifically told me I was not allowed to shoot. I instantly felt terrible. It was eating cherries from one of the cherry trees in our backyard, and I didn’t want it to. That robin will be on a panel that judges me one day; I know it.
I also began working fo