A letter to my first love, on Valentine's Day, thirteen years later

Dear you-know-who-you-are,

It's been thirteen years. How are you?

I'd like to say that I rarely ever think of you, but that would be an egregious lie, especially recently. You're married now. The only reason I know that is because of a few clumsy social media searches, which was hard to accomplish as you're quite hard to find. You were always hard to find. I keep finding you by mistake. I don't know how much you know about me any more. I know you found my linked-in account and had a look. I'm sure it was probably rather typical - theatre, teaching, graduate school - all the things I set out to do in college; I'm doing them. I've spent thirteen years doing them. I'm proud of that. I hope you're proud of me, too.

I'm not entirely sure as to why I'm writing to you, except that I've been thinking of you a lot, more than I have since you left. I keep asking why, I keep trying to remember if anything particularly eventful happened at this time in 2001, if there's some chrono-fingerprint left on my memory that I can't shake. But I keep coming up empty.

I'm single now for the first time in eight years. That might have something to do with it. I've been rather happy, I'm leading a pretty great life. I don't feel discontent or bored or sad. I'm not stagnating. But somehow, here you are; a ghost anchored to my heart. I realize that in the faint omni-presence that is your memory, I miss the magic we had. And I realize thirteen years later that falling in love truly is a magic. And love at first sight - that's down-right arcane. But we had that, didn't we? And that's pretty special.

My scar, the one you left, is fine. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't throb, I wear it as I ought to - as a badge of life experience that I survived proudly. Did I leave a scar on you? It shames me to say that I honestly don't know. Would it be gauche to hope that I did? Would it be heinous to hope that I hope you've been thinking of me as often as I have been of you?

Thirteen years. You were supposed to be long erased from me by now. You were supposed to be a faint memory that I recalled while listening to Coldplay, or the odd moment caught in the rain. But here you are, with so much space in between. I realize that I legitimately don't know you any more - the 31 year old you. And I don't know if you'd recognize me either. I've changed...in some ways, quite a lot. The irony is that you had a lot to do with that, though you weren't around to see it.

Before I go getting sad and pathetic and the tears start slopping into my beer, let me just say that if nothing else, I hope you're happy. Truly happy. I hope you're living a life that you love, that you're with someone you love - with every small particle of who you are now. And selfishly, I hope you remember me fondly.

Could you do me a favour, though? Would you release me? Would you please vanquish whatever homing device you left? Because I can't keep returning to the thought of you every time one of my relationships end, thinking "Well, that wasn't it." Would you please? I'm not passing the buck, or relinquishing my responsibility - I know what I've done wrong in my relationships, and I own that. I'm working on being better for the next time. But somehow, you have something to do with it too. And until I figure out how exactly, I won't be able to lose myself again, I won't be able to let a new magic take over. I've tried now, a few times, but when I reach down inside, to let the magic take over, it's gone. Because it's still with you. So if you could just let it go, I'm certain it would dissolve.

And then I'll be able to start over.

With love and fondness,
Me

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An Open Letter to Shonda Rhimes

Dear Ms. Rhimes, (may I call you Shonda?)

Firstly, allow me to say I'm a big fan. I think the scripts you continually smith on both Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice are among the best on television; quirky, fresh, and continually empathetic in creative and touching ways. I also think that your shows have been, since their genesis, leaders in diversity - and I cannot tell you what that means to me, personally. There are more actors of various colors on your shows than the rest of prime-time television put together; from your leads right on down to your extras. You've got a veritable human cornucopia of race and ethnicity, and it thrills me to no end!

There is one thing I'd like to say to you - and this isn't a criticism, so much as it's a plea.

Please, please, PLEASE - Shonda, I beg of you - do NOT write off the lesbians. (I mean that literally, I'm not being euphemistic) Do you realize that Grey's Anatomy is the only show on network TV that has a lesbian couple? And not just a lesbian couple - a non-stereotyped, empathetic, interesting lesbian couple. Do you realize how long people like me have waited for this? Do you know how *awful* sifting through 5 seasons of the L Word was?? It was like chewing glass and having to say "Thank you," through the painful lacerations continually opening and re-opening in my mouth, while swallowing at the same time.

I know Jessica Capshaw is away on maternity leave. I love that Callie needs to stay in Seattle, because let's face it, she has a lot to learn. But please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, keep Callie on the Sapphic side of relationships. I'll freely admit that I love Callie and Arizona together - but I'm not going to tell you how to write your show. If Arizona comes back and the relationship picks up again - GREAT. If not, I know for a FACT that Seattle has a HUGE lesbian population for Callie and Arizona to mine. But I don't think my little lesbian heart can take another trip with Callie to Mensville. Especially with (no offense!) the incredible heterosexuality of Seattle Grace ... lots of boy/girl meetings in supply closets, you know? It could be its own drinking game.

So please, Shonda. Do this longing lesbian a solid, and keep Callie on the female side of life. I can't stand another "bi-curious lesbian dalliance" joke made in the past-tense. I just can't.

Oh. And also, thank you for keeping Amy Brenneman on television. I love her a lot, and kudos to you for keeping her working, and televisionally married to Tim Daly. Whom I also love, and am glad he's working too.

This lesbian is for you and your continued success,
The Polar Bear

PS - I apologize for the gross over-usage of the emphatic ALL CAPS. It's ridiculously unruly, but as the science of fonts has yet evolve, it's all I have to work with.

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*Speechless*

Uhm ... I just returned from the Lilith Fair concert to find the following letter in my facebook message inbox ... I don't think I've ever been more touched in my entire life.
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Hi! I don't know if you remember me, but about 5 years ago, I was a camper at Camp James and if I have the right person, you were the drama specialist. I just wanted to send this message to thank you for really making Camp James my home, because in my returning years, I ended up doing quite a bit. 2 years after you left camp, there was a lot of talk about closing it down, so I petitioned to keep Camp open and the publicity it generated got the mayor to take a decisive roll in keeping the camp open. After "saving" Camp James, I stayed there for several years until I was too old for the camp. From there, I became a staff member and I am now working as Counselor in Leadership Training (or CILT). So once again, thank you for working at Camp James, because if you hadn't, than I wouldn't have returned, and I would have never gotten to meet so many amazing people and experience so many amazing things. Your presence has changed my life!

Sincerely, 
Nate O.
P.S. I still have the award/elephant you gave me hanging on my wall (next to my "2007 Overall Camper of the Year" award)
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This kid is one of my all-time favorite campers ... he must be about 15 by now. And for him to write so eloquently and freely and warmly - it brought me to tears.

I wrote him back and told him that of course I remembered him, and how proud I am of him and all he's accomplished - his passion and conviction to fight for what he believes in. And how truly humbled and grateful I am for his letter.

I am so incredibly fortunate.

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An Open Letter to my Uterus

Dear Uterus,

You and I, we've been together a long time. Forever, really. Sure, I didn't know you existed for the first 11 years, but what can I say? You grew on me. We've been through some crazy things together, though, that's for sure. Remember the first full physical we ever had? With the Japanese Doctor who said I'd be really good at birthing babies? And it was all because of you, dear Uterus (and my good "birthing hips," of course)! Boy, do you sure know how to make a 16 year old feel proud!

We've also had our share of uncomfortable moments. Once a month, in fact. Some certainly more uncomfortable than others - but you know what? You're almost always on time. And for that - I'm forever grateful. I've never had to go on birth control to regulate you, or calm you do down - and that is a boon I can never repay. You've been saving my body from potentially cancer-causing substances for 16 years. Uterus, you're the best!

All of this makes what I want to say all the more difficult. I absolutely realize that when it comes to my womanly anatomy, I have it pretty damn good. And I know that.

But here's the thing. I ain't gonna birth no babies, Uterus. You and I - we're never gonna walk down that 9-10 month road. Planned or accidental - your job is never going to come to fruition. So why do we still have to go through the "fake labor pains" once a month? Why must you cause my back muscles to stiffen up, as though I'm actually pregnant? Why must you contort my body into a fetus position at the most inappropriate times?

Look, blood I can deal with. Do I love it? No. But I can handle it. It's 4 days of an inconvenience - and I'm okay with that. But the pain - the pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THE PAIN! Shoveling down four, 200 mg caplets of Advil a day just isn't my idea of a good time. And if we're not careful, Stomach may start complaining.

I'll be honest - I've looked in to trading you. Don't look at me like that!! What other choice have you given me? Because you're such a (relatively) wonderful uterus, I was hoping to trade you back to whatever divine creator there may be for something wickedly awesome - like teleportation, or the ability to fly. You are so totally worth a super power! And there are so many women in the world who didn't get the upscale Uterus that you are, and actually want to have children - it doesn't seem fair that I probably can, but don't want to; and they want to, but can't! Plus, you'd get used properly - like you should - instead of being stuck with a bum host who has no intention of reproducing. Do you see my reasoning?

But apparently, a trade is simply not possible. Seems like we're a good 50 years away from that biological breakthrough. So it looks like we're stuck together. And I'm okay with that - because again - you are a damn fine uterus. But can we please try to compromise? Maybe back off on the pain a little, and I won't pursue any kind of removal. Deal?

I really do know how good I have it. But your help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Warmest Regards,
PB

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Open Letters are great.

I totally have an ongoing love affair with open letters. I write them, I read them, I find them to be cathartic literary jewels that call out to my eyes for attention - and I give it to them freely.

The first open letter I ever wrote was in the 9th grade. It was an "open letter" to Jean Valjean (from the book, not the musical). I'm not sure why I wrote him a letter, except that it was some kind of English assignment. I remember writing the letter, and then giving it to my dad to read and copy-edit. He's actually the one who added the "open letter" title to my piece. The comment from my teacher with an arrow pointing to the title was, "Oooooh, nice!" As though she were impressed that a 13 year old would know what an open letter was. Too bad I actually didn't know.

But now I do ... and in case any of you are confused about the term, here's the definition:

A published letter on a subject of general interest, addressed to a person but intended for general readership.

One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was an open letter to Canada, where I plead, ask, demand, and attempt to guilt the great country of Canada into giving me a work visa. While this letter did not give me what I was asking for (damn you, Red Maple Leaf!), it did allow me to blow off some steam. Lots and lots of steam. In fact, Canada, your people are very good at writing letters expressing their outrage. I'm really good at writing letters expressing my outrage. Why can't we merge, eh?

I digress. (I digress a lot around here...)

A friend of my Monkey's sent her a link to a website called Timothy McSweeney's - it's a website of "open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond." In fact, you can send your open letters to Timothy for publication.

So why am I so emphatically excited?

READ:
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AN OPEN LETTER TO THE AGING HIPPIES DANCING AT THE TINARIWEN CONCERT.

March 26, 2010

- - - -

Dear Aging Hippies Dancing at the Tinariwen Concert,

There is not a culture in the world honored by your whack-ass dancing. You, woman with the long grey hair, dancing right in front of the stage, don't do that, what you're doing there. It's not good. And you, next to her, same thing. I know the music is good, but this is no way to respond. They are like wizards casting a spell on us. You should be mesmerized, rocking hypnotically, but you are doing some weird kind of twitch.

Notice how the band is dancing. Small movements, practiced movements, deliberate movements. They are elegant. Yes, they are moving their limbs and you are moving yours, but there the similarities end. You are not doing the same dance they are doing. You are not one with them, they with slight tilts of the hand, dips of the shoulders, you with some hand-over-hand-like-you-are-unrolling-toilet-paper-over-your-head dance. And you, lady next to her, you look like you are trying to flick cobwebs off your fingertips.

Why do I care? Because you are making me look at you, because you forced your way to the front just like you do at every single concert you go to. Then there is the look on your face, which is so goddamn smug, which you force me to look at, which you force everyone here to look at, because you are dancing right in front of the stage. You didn't discover this. You want us to know that you are worldly because you are dancing to this music, and you want us to think you understand the Tuareg and their traditions, and you share in their struggle because look at how profound your face is and aren't you just one with the music. No, you're not.

And then there is you, guy in the middle of the crowd. Why are you flapping around like that? Why are you taking up so much space? There are other people who would like to be close to the band. Yeah, the band is looking at you, of course the band is looking at you, but not because they see some kindred earth-brother. They see a spazzmatic ass. And why are your shoulders up around your ears? Unless you are dancing in a Bollywood musical, your shoulders should not be up around your ears.

You, guy in the back of the room, you're cool. Your dance is awful but you force it on no one.

Oh, lady, do not gesture to the rest of the crowd to "get up." It is not your place. This is not your show. I did not come for you, but you are stealing my attention. You have no right. Just because you probably went to Kenya ten years ago does not give you the right to speak for this band from Mali. They have earned the stage. I will listen to them. They have done everything and you have done nothing. I will get up when they tell me when to get up.

Hey. Hey! What is wrong with you? Look around. Notice anything? Everyone else is clapping! Why? Because the drummer who has practiced his ass off in a tent in the desert and who has worked so damn hard to make a life for himself has asked us to start clapping. So we are clapping. What are you—oh, my God, are you pretending to play the guitar? Is that what that is? It looks like you are strangling a swan. Lady, listen, there is no guitar right now. Why? Because the guitarist is clapping his hands!

Why do you think you can have this? The moon landing wasn't enough? Hendrix at Monterey wasn't enough? You have to be in front for this, too? Why do you think you are entitled to everything? Why do you think this is all yours? Just get out of the way, please. Move to the back, please and let us dance in front of the stage. We dance better than you.

OK, guy with the shoulders, why are you jumping? No one else is jumping. This is not jumping music. Stop.

Honestly,
Matthew Robert Lang

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Now. If that didn't make you literally laugh-out-loud at least once, then my sense of humor is so much better than yours.

But a word to the wise: While all of the letters have a cute/funny/sarcastic/humorist vibe - they are not all butterflies and red velvet cupcakes. In fact, two out of the five I read made my eyes tear quite thoroughly. One is an open letter to a man's inoperable brain tumor, and the other is an open letter by a mother to her relatives concerning her child's fits from Asperger's Syndrome. Don't say I didn't warn you.

What I love about these pieces, is that open letters require intelligence and poise, humor and self-deprecation to be pulled off effectively. Most "journalism" or media stories are completely uninteresting to me; stories for the sake of sensationalism and shock value. "Fear this!" "Be angry at this!" "Believe this!" "Worry about this!"

My answer to that: NO. I will not.

I will, however, take great delight, empathy, love, inspiration, and raucous laughter from my fellow human beings; reveling in their triumphs, failures, stories, pleas, observations, and griefs. Because we're all a lot more alike than we'll ever care to admit.

I hope you like them too.

Oh ... and just a little something because I love you:



You're welcome.

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Hey, remember that time...

When Pat Robertson told the whole world that the tragically devastating earthquake that destroyed Haiti was due to the fact that Haiti had struck a bargain with Satan?

Yeah. Me too.

It's been brought to my attention (yo! Thanks Jarv!) that a woman in Minneapolis named Lilly Coyle wrote a letter as the Horned-One to our friend Pat. Yeah ... for reals.

It says:

Dear Pat Robertson,

I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I'm all over that action.

But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I'm no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished.

Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth -- glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven't you seen "Crossroads"? Or "Damn Yankees"?

If I had a thing going with Haiti, there'd be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox -- that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it -- I'm just saying: Not how I roll.

You're doing great work, Pat, and I don't want to clip your wings -- just, come on, you're making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That's working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract.

Best, Satan

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And so to YOU, Lilly Coyle, this Polar Bear bestows my highest honor:

[I actually don't know what my highest honor is yet ... but when I do, it's yours ... readers, suggestions wanted]

To Lilly Coyle, The First Polar Bear Hero of 2010!

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this blog post is brought to you by:

Lilly Coyle
NPR
Christopher Jarvis

PS - if you'd like to see it on the NPR website, go here.

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