Francis Mican mailed me a letter and while reading it, I cherished every word. There is nothing like getting mail that isn't a bill. Reading her words reminded me of a "My Turn" essay I wrote for Newsweek, but that wasn't accepted. (They have a .004% acceptance rate -- something like 600 entries a week). Anyway, I post it, because when I wrote it, like Francis's letter, it made me happy.
In the spring of 1987 I received the greatest gift of all time ~ a pen pal. The letter arrived via the mailbox and cost the sender 22 cents. The girl who wrote me wished to ignite a friendship after we met at a language festival. I was in ninth grade and she was in 8th. She attended a junior high school even colder and snowier than the one I grew up knowing. True to biology, Sara was more mature than me and although I was a big, bad freshman, she was a diva with words, creativity and karma. I cherished her letters and devoured them weekly. The letters we sent back and forth from Clay to Adams Center, New York, kept me sane throughout adolescence.
I’m now thirty-five years old, have two official email addresses, a cell phone, a few blogs, and dare I admit it, many online, social accounts where I keep up with friends, colleagues and students I’ve taught. Throughout many hours of the day and night I receive messages with updates, questions, stories and memories from all over the globe. The tolerance I have for these social networks, however, ebbs and flows with my ability or inability to “keep up” with them all.
There is something special about receiving a letter in the mail. I’m not referring to the once-a-year family update that is sent to all the addresses from those books in the kitchen drawer. The type of letter I value is the one where a writer sits down and takes the time to let the receiver know they are thinking of them.
When I had the great fortune of studying at Binghamton University, I made it a habit to connect with friends and family through letters. I cherished hearing from others via sloppy penmanship, stubborn errors, and stamped envelopes. Enrolled in a semester abroad at Regents College in London, too, my flat mates grew jealous at the volumes of letters I’d receive from the United States. The words from home mesmerized me and I’d write back to everyone with as much vivid detail as I could, knowing that through my letters I was making a place in the Universe. I continued this tradition during graduate school, as well. It was habitual for me to sit down with a cup of coffee and write an old friend.
Yet, today, I am ashamed. Except for with Sara, letter writing seems to be a thing of my past. In my closet I’ve ferreted years and years of letters sent to me within several old, running shoe boxes that I can’t bring myself to throw away. In black Adidas tombstones, red, white and blue Reebok coffins, and two-toned Saucony graves rest an inked history of an era that is no longer. These poetic keepsakes sit next to a similar bag of letters my grandparents posted to one another during WWII and throughout their courtship.
I’d be a liar if I called myself a Luddite and one who refuted the modern cyborg-truth of today's technology. In fact, it's the opposite. I’m enthralled with modern communication and its use for creative exploration. I’m online more than I should be.
Yet, today when I go to the mailbox – the one at the end of my driveway – I only find advertisements, bills and solicitations. Sometimes a card arrives to celebrate a birthday or holiday, but usually the only individuals thinking of me are the same people who think of millions of me in mass-mailings.
I miss the days of reading and writing letters, and feel sorrow for students who are no longer conditioned to the thrill of such communication. We’ve grown accustomed to the immediate gratification of the internet highway and our language has become more cryptic because of it. My niece, a middle school student, emails me, “O.M.G., R U 4 Real? U THNK my B.F.F. generation isn’t KEWL?” I respond, “No, it’s just that I’m nostalgic for slower days.”
My pen pal Sara and I continue to write back and forth, which we’ve done for over twenty years. We’ve begun sending our correspondence in ongoing journals and currently are on our fourth one. I might not scribble as much as I used to with her, but I admit our written friendship keeps me balanced.
It was Sara's talent as a young, life-hungry writer that first hooked me onto the value of words and I give her partial credit for making me the man, teacher and student I am today. I once was jealous of what she could put to paper and for years I worked hard to catch up with her gift.
Recently, a student emailed me with news she’d no longer be using MYSPACE or FACEBOOK to keep in touch. She wrote, “I’m going retro and will only use my email account to communicate.” A sigh crossed my face and I wrote back, “If I was God, the President or Oprah, I would do one thing. I’d send everyone a stamp so they could mail an old fashioned postal hug.”
Letters are a forgotten art form. Our modern electronic connections don’t have the same value and gusto that the United States government provides from their white trucks and gray satchels. A letter sent in the mail cannot be replaced.
