The daily trek across campus to check my mailbox is a laborious one, if only because I never get any real mail. Never mind that the so-called combination locks on these boxes were medieval torture devices in a past life. The student union, where our mailboxes are located, is almost as far away as you can get from my dorm without stepping off campus. I try to limit my mail-checking trips to days that I�m already over there.
Mail only really comes two or three days a week anyway. I get my TV Guide on Tuesdays instead of Mondays because the campus mail people like to drag their feet about distributing what they get from the post office. On Thursday, I usually get some trash about joining the Navy. My mom says they call the house all the time, which is damn ridiculous considering the fact that I haven�t lived there in several to many months and the fact that I�ve told them on numerous occasions to go away. Stupid Navy won�t take no for an answer.
For some reason related to the fact that, as they�ll remind you, the mail room is not actually a branch of the United States Postal Service (convenience? What�s that?), the facility is closed on Saturday (and of course Sunday), which means I only really get mail two days a week.
Sure, there�s the occasional starguide or free DVD I�ve sent away for, but those things just sort of show up when they feel like it. And every few weeks, my sister will send me a letter of epic proportions that was composed in the bowels of my former high school and basically rambles on about how much she hates high school and how mad she currently is at our parents. Those at least have some entertainment value.
The real diamonds in the rough, though, are the unexpected arrivals. For example, at Halloween and again for Valentine�s Day, my grandmother sent me thoughtful care packages full of candy and treats. My grandma really is sweet. She usually tries to update me on what�s new with all the cousins and she never fails to mention the weather in the handwritten note she includes with the treats. My grandma rules.
My other favorite thing to see when I open that little box is an unexpected letter. Last summer as I was preparing to leave home forever, I came across a letter from an old friend. This woman, Kat, taught at my middle school and we developed a nice rapport in the most engaging after-school discussions ever to be had in that place. We kept in touch throughout my early years in high school. I�d drop in when class let out early for inservice days and we�d catch up on the latest teacher gossip or analyze the most recent Law & Order episode.
Then I moved to Alabama, an experience that filled me with dread. Kat told me to keep my head up and be open to this new experience, but I wasn�t really listening. I had a rough go of it for the first few years, but the turning point in my young life (my personal coming-out journey) really changed my perspective and allowed me to see the world in a completely different (and certainly more tolerable) way. And as I was doing some purging in anticipation of the move to college, I found a letter Kat had sent me not long after I made the move.
It was an unexpected discovery, one that inspired me to fire off a lengthy (albeit late) response. While I was conscious that much time had passed, I easily found my groove and gave her an exhaustive update on recent events in my life. I wasn�t sure I�d hear anything back. I just wanted to thank her for teaching me more than either of us probably realized at the time. Lo and behold, another letter found its way into my hands last October. I was thrilled. I devoured it. I sent another eager reply.
And then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until today. During the ten-minute lunch break I have before my 1:00 class, I stopped by the mailbox and squealed with delight to behold not only the expected ramblings from my sister, but also another letter from that teacher who�d touched me seven (good Lord, it�s been SEVEN YEARS) years ago.
It began:
�Dear Pat,
I�m trapped in a conference room in Peoria for young adult literature. I think she is completely out of touch � telling us about these children�s difficult home lives. Like she would know � she hasn�t taught for years; oh, I mean she teaches in a college. I don�t believe there is a more insular environment.�
No apologies, no tears. No introduction. Just the story, in medias res, the way it should be. The way I hope to be.
I guess they weren�t kidding when they said teaching was a full-time job.
Someone got here by searching for: drunken first hookups Reading: Just finished A Density of Souls last week. I love when it all comes together at the end, even if the entire experience is a little surreal. Listening to: America's sweetheart Norah Jones. Watching: Sports Night. Eating: Hopefully not sugar, because last week's trip to the dentist (my first in four years) resulted in the discovery of an insane twenty-two cavities. Ugh. Candy hearts by the bagful is apparently not the best idea. Oh well.
