Gratitude Letter — Ms. Tubman
Dear Ms. Tubman,
I am writing this open letter as a new initiative to not only better my own happiness and wellbeing, but also as an attempt to better communicate and relate to others. The irony in this letter, however, lies in the fact that I don’t expect you to read this. I did a cursory look on the internet in a vain attempt to see if I could find any contact information for you.
The funny thing is that I don’t remember a whole lot about my fourth-grade year with you. Sometimes I do worry about my inability to recall memories from my youth. That is neither here nor there. What I do vividly remember is during my time in undergrad. I vividly remember getting an invite to your retirement party and wondering if I should go. I remember thinking that it doesn’t really matter, and you wouldn’t remember me anyhow. I remember being so concerned with my own college life that I hadn’t given it much thought.
My mother, however, was the one who convinced me to go to your retirement celebration. When I look back on that, I wish it had been me who was fully engaged with the idea of attending. Alas, it was not, but what most concerned me was rehearsing in my head what I was going to say to you. More aptly put, I was rehearing how I was going to explain who I was, roughly when I was your student, and so on and so forth. I expected that perhaps you would feign remembering me as an act of kindness or show-of-face, however that is where my expectations of reality lay. That is so often the case for me, figuring that I don’t matter, never mattered, and am surely forgettable. To be fair, it isn’t even an extension of ego or broken self-confidence, but rather a grace of living. I feel that having such high expectations is rather grandiose of oneself.
Nonetheless, I remember rehearsing the script I was assembling in my head. I tend to overthink, if you haven’t already gathered that, and was doing my best to help you to remember or pretend to remember who I was and congratulate you on your long and fruitful career.
What I remember most of all about you, what will always stick with me, is how all that rehearsing melted away in the best possible way as I walked through the door. I vividly remember you turning in my direction, and with zero context or prompting, exclaimed “NICK!” Not only had you remembered me, not only had you recognized me, but you cared that I existed and were excited to see me. I didn’t even know what to say. You literally left me speechless.
I wish I could recall what we spoke about after that. I probably congratulated you and we chatted for a moment about my college life and where I was heading. But none of that compares to how you remembered and recognized me. It still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it. Never in a million years had I thought that would happen. It must have been over a decade since the last time I saw you.
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What baffles me most is that I was never the loudest student nor was I the smartest or most charismatic or the most outgoing. I may have been the tallest, but I always strove to never stand out, to never bring attention to myself, to slink into the background of life so people wouldn’t criticize me, judge me, so that I might feel like I fit in for once. I always just wanted to be normal.
I guess what I am saying is that this experience meant a lot to me. For once, I didn’t feel forgettable. For once I felt like maybe my existence mattered.
There is a dark side to it, sadly, as well. Sometimes we wonder how other people see us and whether we live up to those expectations. Sometimes thinking back to how you remembered me and other figures from my youth, I wonder if I ever lived up to their expectations. I wonder if you would be disappointed in me, disappointed in the path I have traveled, disappointed in who I have become.
I think my greatest fear would be meeting myself as a kid. What would that kid that you knew think of me? Would he despise me for not finding the partner that I craved for? Would he be disappointed in my career and my mental health? Would he laugh at how at age 37 I am back to living with my mom until my divorce finalizes? Would he hate me for not living up to the fantasies I had at his age? Would he be discouraged that I hadn’t “figured life out” yet? Would he see me as a pathetic old man? Would he be ashamed of all the weight I had gained?
Or are these judgements something that I picked up over the years and sharpened one-by-one? Would he just be happy to see his older self? Would he be amazed at how much I have grown and learned through life? Would he be astounded at all the countries I visited, all the people I loved, at the fact that I was even married at all and tried my best? Would he be impressed that I lived on my own and owned my own home, even though my divorce has dampened that reality. Would he be kind and understanding?
To that end, I don’t have an answer. I am learning to unravel my own thoughts from reality. Perhaps all the negative self-talk, broken self-esteem, constant criticisms and judgements, and unwavering fatalism that I carry isn’t a universal truth. Perhaps even too, when truly confronted with myself, I wouldn’t be as resentful as I imagined.
All I can truly say is that you remembering me truly mattered. The rest is conjecture at best.
Thank you for caring,
Love Nick
