The large man with rimmed glasses was standing in front of me. He was waiting for my choice. It was my first day of pilot training at Delta Air Lines and there were thirty of us sitting in class, thirty hand-picked from thousands of applicants.

The class was a sea of navy blue suits, red ties, short hair and square jaws. We all looked alike. A huge US flag hung on the wall alongside posters of Delta commercial jets. We all shared the same infinite passion for flying. We were young and hungry.

By a show of hands we noticed that 80% of us had come from the military, flying fighter jets, stealth bombers, or heavy cargo aircraft. I was not one of them. I was just an immigrant who had left his family, friends, and the only life he'd known for a shot at the American Dream. And with some hard work and a lot of luck, I was sitting here among the best of the best--and felt very inadequate.

What Delta had seen in me, I was still trying to find out. The hardest part of the interview had been to believe in myself--to believe that I was as good as those American born, military bred applicants. The day before the interview I had told Gina that start-up airlines like MAXjet were maybe as far as I'd ever go in my career--and for an immigrant, that wasn't bad. Maybe our kids would have better opportunities. Tommy could be a quarterback in high school, join the Naval Academy, and fly F-18 off of aircraft carriers before pursuing a flawless career with a major airline.

Gina sensed my doubts. After listening carefully she said something I would never forget: "You're Danny [Last Name]. You can do anything." This made me realize what I liked most about her: When I looked into her eyes and she looked back at me, she had this way of making me feel strong and weak at the same time. Two months later I was sitting in Delta pilot school. And I felt like a Prometheus who had just stolen Fire from the Gods.

Delta was every pilot's first choice. They were paid better and treated better than at any other major. Delta flew to more countries than any airline in the world and its large fleet and route structure were envied by many airline managers. Delta counted Salt Lake City as one of its crew bases and this had been a big draw for me.

Salt Lake City was considered a senior base and a tough one to get into when you were a new-hire pilot. There were three slots available for a class of thirty and all three were associated with the MD-88, the smallest and oldest jet type in the fleet.

If you were willing to be based in New York, however, you would have your pick of aircraft. While it took 12 to 15 years for a new pilot to fly international at other airlines, Delta had no less than 11 slots open for us.

Choosing to fly the Boeing 767 Luxury Liner out of John F. Kennedy Airport was extremely tempting. The pilots' schedules on that aircraft were filled with layovers in France, Germany, Spain, Italy, and even Africa since Delta was the only US carrier to fly there. There were rumors that the hotel was near the Eiffel Tower. I could even zip over to my folks with the new, high-speed 'bullet train.' More importantly, I could fly in the French airspace, an airspace I was once prohibited to fly in. And I could thumb my nose at the government that tried to shatter my dreams.

For a pilot, flying the B-767 for a major airline meant the pinnacle of a career. It meant going further than anyone I knew back home, anyone who had told me to stay because I wasn't good enough for America. Maybe like many an immigrant, I was now catching myself seeking approval from those I'd left behind and wanting to show that I'd been right all along--and good enough.

So after walking over to my table, the large man with rimmed glasses stood before me and waited patiently for my answer. The aircraft and base request would be done in seniority order. I was number 17 on the list. My plan had been to grab Salt Lake City but that chip on my shoulder was pushing me to claim the Luxury Liner. I thought about Gina who told me I should fly the 767 if I felt that's what I needed to do. Salt Lake and the MD-88 could always wait.

But Salt Lake could not always wait. There was no telling when I'd have the opportunity to be based there again. My company would soon be merging with Northwest Airlines and thousands of pilots would be joining our ranks. So I was now torn between France and Salt Lake--my past and my future. I was torn between reaching a potential untouched by all those 'non-sayers' and just letting go.

Salt Lake City, I said loud enough for everyone to hear. And just like that, the last 'SLC' slot was mine. There would be no prestigious wide-body aircraft to fly across the ocean on, no dinner by the Eiffel Tower, and no thumbing my nose at La Republique Francaise. But I had finally let go. I had moved on from trying to prove something, and I had set myself free from an unhealthy immigrant complex.

France had wasted enough of my time, I decided, and I didn't want the chip on my shoulder to impact my future. I didn't want to delay moving my family to Salt Lake City to chase a ghost or seek for an approval that would never come. And, honestly, I didn't need approval anymore. I was a Delta pilot and I was soaring with the best of the best.

And for a moment, I really believed it.