Lost letter office
I saw a meme recently that reminded me of a letter I received long ago, and kept briefly, and discarded. I hadn’t given a thought to it in the decades that have passed between, but like so many memories laid down in the first act of my life it remains crystal clear and detailed, where more recent memories blur into a hum.
Back in the 1980s, when Astronomy was still a print magazine that arrived in the mail each month smelling of glossy paper and ink, there was a section in the back where you could advertise for a pen pal. “Seeking correspondence with others interested in discussing observation of deep sky objects” they would say. I took the leap. “Seeking correspondence with others interested in astronomy and the TV show Star Trek.”
Two months, three elapsed before my ad appeared in print. Instantly a flood of letters from strangers arrived in the Freeman mailbox. Astronomy fans, sci fi fans, young and old from all corners of the US and Canada. The ones whose sole interest was exchanging lists of deep sky objects soon fell off, my telescope being a wimpy refractor. Others became fast friends, corresponding for years on any topic that took our fancy.
And then there was this guy. I don’t recall his name, only that he was in his thirties – not quite ancient in my teenage eyes but old enough to command the wary regard I held adults in at that age. He had once, he told me, been an avid sci fi fan like me. As he grew older he put such foolish things behind him and so, he assured me, would I.
So what was the meme about? Well, it wasn’t so much a meme as a short essay of a few paragraphs, about the tragedy of people who crush the child within in order to become an “adult” in society’s eyes. Do glittery unicorns spark your joy? That’s not very grown-up, is it? Read the stock market report, not the funny pages! Splashing in puddles, playing with clay, building sandcastles? That’s for babies! Stop bursting into song (leave that to the professionals)! Are you still reading that fantasy and sci fi garbage? Grow up!
What could impel my would-be correspondent to put pen to paper (remember, this was before the Internet), seal that letter in an envelope, pay for a stamp, and send it off to a complete stranger? I kept it in a drawer for a while – maybe I felt there was some sincerity behind it – then tossed it.
In the same way I discarded the idea I picked up and briefly entertained from a sex ed book set called Lifecyles that as I started to become a woman I would stop having fantasies where I was the hero and dream of being rescued by a man instead. (To be fair to my parents, who added these slim volumes to the family bookcase in the hope they would spark discussion of an embarrassing topic, I don’t think they delved too deeply into the contents.) It wasn’t my truth.
Every culture has its own signs and ceremonies to distinguish the threshold between childhood and adulthood. Long trousers, debutante balls, throwing out your beloved comic collection; none of these signifiers make a person grown up. Nor does the tedious minutiae of grown-up life in the 21st century that we call adulting, although signing a 30-year mortgage certainly gave me a kick to the truth about my own mortality! The maturity is a much more gnarly and indefinite grab bag that includes delayed gratification, self-love balanced against self-discipline, and the equanimity that accumulates over years of living in the world and becoming less startled by its repetitions. Most importantly, I think, maturity rests on a foundation seeing and regarding others as whole persons.
In other words, stomp them puddles in your unicorn galoshes.
