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