Dear Lindsay B,
Today you are 25. Twenty-five years ago today you made your way onto the scene, a little too early and a little too small. (Don't worry about arriving too early, by the way, forget about it. You have more than made up for it by being late to almost everything else between then and now.) Though I was not present, I know that your arrival was marked with joy and fanfare, as we first born are blessed with both.
Lindsay, it would be neat if we had an anniversary. If we did, we could celebrate our friendship with margaritas and an X-files marathon, all while play hand slap games on the porch. I would tell you that there was no Santa Clause, and you would explain sex to me. After, we would ride our bikes around the block to the lighthouse and then climb it. The last one to the top of the lighthouse would have to to forfeit shuffling privileges for the next ten games of speed, while the winner would get the big couch to sleep on that night.
Because 6 year olds are not overly handy about jotting down dates, however, we do not have an anniversary. With this in mind, please allow me to extend my tribute to our friendship on the anniversary of yourself.
Here's to you, Lindsay. I love you.
Your friend (for life!),
Rocker Barbie
P.S. Do you remember a couple years ago when we went Christmas shopping together? That was, seriously, the best time I have ever had shopping. Hands down. End of story. The best.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Dear Jason Jackson,
Dear Jason Jackson,
I think about you on Valentine's Day. Not all day, and I don't get emotional or anything, just a little bothered. A little bothered at myself, feeling a slight twinge of regret in my stomach, thinking about how I was mean. In addition to Valentine's day this year, I thought of you today as well, as I pulled a card out of a shoebox under my bed.
Not many girls can say they were sent rather expensive looking flowers via FTD in 8th grade. I can, though! I was surprised and thankful. If I were the only one who knew I had received them, and I had lived in a fairly reasonable household or had friends who accepted you, I would have probably walked over to your house as soon as they came and said thanks, or at least waved at the bus stop the next day. But those were not the circumstances. Instead of thinking the gesture was cute and juvenile, my parents wanted to know if I knew you had sent them, WHAT I HAD DONE to make you think you should send them, and reminded me about twenty times that I was not old enough to date and that I should not expect my telephone habits to change, just because I had an "admirer." My friend thought of you as nothing more than a (I’m sorry) fat troublemaker. My opinion of you was shaped by this.
Today I was looking for a photograph, but all was forgotten as I opened the card, dated exactly one year after the flowers were sent. Both the handwriting and spelling were atrocious, but the words made me smile. "I know they say third times a charm. So this will be the last time I ask. Will you go out with me. Tell me if you said yes tomorrow at the bus stop. If you say nothing, I will understand."
I'm not trying to make excuses for how I reacted, which was horrible. Originally, I told everyone about the flowers, because I thought it was sweet. The general reaction, however, was to laugh at your desperate attempt, because it seemed quite obvious to everyone else that I would never want to have anything to do with you. When these things were said, I was immediately sorry I had shared our secret, but felt I had little choice but to laugh along with everyone else. I never spoke with you, despite the fact that we walked a whole block down the same sidewalk at the same time each day. I ignored you, afraid that if someone saw us talking and remembered your gift, they would assume that I liked you. This liking, as I recall would have been a great offence, punishable by being ostracized.
The card that followed the following year, left in the handle of my screen door, was opened and then filed quietly into the shoebox it remains in.
Jason, please know that if those flowers came today, I would call you on the telephone and tell you how lovely they are. I would thank you for thinking of me, and ask you how you are. I would send you a thank-you note in the mail, with a smiley face sticker affixed to the envelope. I would appreciate them, and treat their giver with respect.
If you remember me at all, you probably associate me with rejection and rudeness. I am sorry for this, as I remember you as someone thoughtful and non-abrasive. After all, "if I said nothing, you would understand."
I am sorry,
Your old neighbor
I think about you on Valentine's Day. Not all day, and I don't get emotional or anything, just a little bothered. A little bothered at myself, feeling a slight twinge of regret in my stomach, thinking about how I was mean. In addition to Valentine's day this year, I thought of you today as well, as I pulled a card out of a shoebox under my bed.
Not many girls can say they were sent rather expensive looking flowers via FTD in 8th grade. I can, though! I was surprised and thankful. If I were the only one who knew I had received them, and I had lived in a fairly reasonable household or had friends who accepted you, I would have probably walked over to your house as soon as they came and said thanks, or at least waved at the bus stop the next day. But those were not the circumstances. Instead of thinking the gesture was cute and juvenile, my parents wanted to know if I knew you had sent them, WHAT I HAD DONE to make you think you should send them, and reminded me about twenty times that I was not old enough to date and that I should not expect my telephone habits to change, just because I had an "admirer." My friend thought of you as nothing more than a (I’m sorry) fat troublemaker. My opinion of you was shaped by this.
Today I was looking for a photograph, but all was forgotten as I opened the card, dated exactly one year after the flowers were sent. Both the handwriting and spelling were atrocious, but the words made me smile. "I know they say third times a charm. So this will be the last time I ask. Will you go out with me. Tell me if you said yes tomorrow at the bus stop. If you say nothing, I will understand."
I'm not trying to make excuses for how I reacted, which was horrible. Originally, I told everyone about the flowers, because I thought it was sweet. The general reaction, however, was to laugh at your desperate attempt, because it seemed quite obvious to everyone else that I would never want to have anything to do with you. When these things were said, I was immediately sorry I had shared our secret, but felt I had little choice but to laugh along with everyone else. I never spoke with you, despite the fact that we walked a whole block down the same sidewalk at the same time each day. I ignored you, afraid that if someone saw us talking and remembered your gift, they would assume that I liked you. This liking, as I recall would have been a great offence, punishable by being ostracized.
The card that followed the following year, left in the handle of my screen door, was opened and then filed quietly into the shoebox it remains in.
Jason, please know that if those flowers came today, I would call you on the telephone and tell you how lovely they are. I would thank you for thinking of me, and ask you how you are. I would send you a thank-you note in the mail, with a smiley face sticker affixed to the envelope. I would appreciate them, and treat their giver with respect.
If you remember me at all, you probably associate me with rejection and rudeness. I am sorry for this, as I remember you as someone thoughtful and non-abrasive. After all, "if I said nothing, you would understand."
I am sorry,
Your old neighbor
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
Last night while in bed, someone who loves me sent me a text message to let me know you had passed away. I read it, rolled over to burry my face in pillow, and willed myself not to cry. It was hard, but I succeeded. Putting my energy into a more fruitful activity, I began to think instead. I thought about how you had influenced me to write, question, and learn. I thought about copies of your paperbacks on my self and how I had acquired them, of the best “Vonnegut conversation” I had ever participated in, about the (timely) Rolling Stone article that someone had just written about you, about your dead wives, your long life, your insistence upon realism (the state of mind, not the movement), and WWII. I thought about the American education system, high school English curriculum, 70’s college students, photos of you at your desk, how a generation can idolize someone while their progeny underrates them, and about how I should have probably chosen Slaughter house Five to construct my instructional unit on, instead of Catcher in the Rye.
Finally, I wondered if George W. Bush had killed you. Not in the actual sense, though I would not put it past him to justify murdering someone, but in the sense that, perhaps, you could not exist in a world that he controlled for one second longer. That if, perhaps, had he only seen one term, you would have been with us until you were 105. I couldn’t help but think that maybe your well-articulated idealism (based in a lifetime of very real experiences) could no longer function in the society in which you lived, and so your body had no choice but to shut down. This saddens me deeply.
Mr. Vonnegut, you will be missed, remembered, and read. Less frequently, but more importantly, you will be understood, and those you have inspired will put your ideas into action. It is this legacy that I thank you for.
Your Friend,
A Woman Without A Country
Last night while in bed, someone who loves me sent me a text message to let me know you had passed away. I read it, rolled over to burry my face in pillow, and willed myself not to cry. It was hard, but I succeeded. Putting my energy into a more fruitful activity, I began to think instead. I thought about how you had influenced me to write, question, and learn. I thought about copies of your paperbacks on my self and how I had acquired them, of the best “Vonnegut conversation” I had ever participated in, about the (timely) Rolling Stone article that someone had just written about you, about your dead wives, your long life, your insistence upon realism (the state of mind, not the movement), and WWII. I thought about the American education system, high school English curriculum, 70’s college students, photos of you at your desk, how a generation can idolize someone while their progeny underrates them, and about how I should have probably chosen Slaughter house Five to construct my instructional unit on, instead of Catcher in the Rye.
Finally, I wondered if George W. Bush had killed you. Not in the actual sense, though I would not put it past him to justify murdering someone, but in the sense that, perhaps, you could not exist in a world that he controlled for one second longer. That if, perhaps, had he only seen one term, you would have been with us until you were 105. I couldn’t help but think that maybe your well-articulated idealism (based in a lifetime of very real experiences) could no longer function in the society in which you lived, and so your body had no choice but to shut down. This saddens me deeply.
Mr. Vonnegut, you will be missed, remembered, and read. Less frequently, but more importantly, you will be understood, and those you have inspired will put your ideas into action. It is this legacy that I thank you for.
Your Friend,
A Woman Without A Country
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