Evocative Narrative

Losing the Art of the Letter

     I wasn’t actually expecting anything to be waiting for me inside box 815 as I spun the dial back and forth between the tiny numbers etched into the metal lock. I had gotten into the habit of agreeing to accompany anyone to go check mailboxes--I had nothing else pressing to do so I figured it couldn’t hurt to check mine as well. However, underneath that agreeability was the secret hope that I would find some representation of love from back home in the form of a yellow slip sitting in my box.

During freshman year it seemed as though all my friends and roommates would traipse down to Chase Hall to check their mail and return with stacks of cardboard boxes full of homemade treats and presents. Without fail, my roommate Natalie got a package every week from one of her family members; one week it was Daddy, the next Auntie Jude, maybe the week after it was her best friend Sarah. No matter whom it was from, the contents remained pretty much the same. Inside the standard brown shipping box contained gestures of love and longing carefully wrapped in protective tissue paper. As she would sit on her bed in our room and discard the paper around our room like it was Christmas morning I was always overcome with the feeling of being a failure somehow.

 At Bates a package slip is quite literally a token, similar to the ones I received at an arcade when I was younger. Both are fashioned similarly; A package slip and a token are both gold in color and in order to receive one you have to accomplish some sort of task, in this case memorizing and learning to open one of the ancient lockboxes in Chase. However, while a token at an arcade represented how good you had gotten at rolling small wooden balls into a target, package slips indicated how much you were cared about, at least in the mind of a college student. That kid who opens his mailbox and has to hold out his hands to catch all the yellow slips that come spilling out? His family misses him more than he could know. Me with the mailbox that practically has its own echo? I guess I’ve officially been forgotten about.

     After being in college for over six months I had only received one package from home, which happened to come in the second week of first semester when my mom sent some bags of granola along with the pair of sneakers I had forgotten in my closet.  It’s not like I was really ever expecting to get a package a week like Natalie, we have never been a family of outrageous gift giving, necessities only. I found most care packages to be wasteful anyway, most of the brownies and cookies baked by mom with care overlooked for the fresh pumpkin chocolate chip cookies available in commons and the random gag gifts that my classmates received, chosen because they would temporarily put a smile on their face simply got discarded in the waste bin. My environmental conscience condemned all the packages and their wastefulness while my heart ached for a big box of crap with my name on it.

 So there I was, crouching in front of hundreds of old metal mailboxes, wildly spinning the metal dial back and forth, barely caring if I was getting the code right because I wasn’t expecting anything on the other side of the tiny vault anyway. It took me two tries to open my mailbox as it always does, for some reason I just can never remember which way to spin first. The usual sight awaited me within: a stack of letters and catalogs crammed into the small space. I grabbed the pile and began flipping through, looking for my name on any of these sheets of paper. One of the letters was to my box mate, as was the copy of Time magazine. Damn you Jack. The other letter was in fact just a bill from St. Mary’s that I would have to forward south to my parents. As I flipped to the J.Crew catalog that had been plaguing my mailbox all year I caught an eyeful of beautiful gold paper. Finally the golden ticket I had been perpetually hoping for.

Without a thought I raced over to the package center leaving my friend still sorting through their collection of mail at their mailbox. I was racking my mind to try and figure out what I could possibly be receiving after a half-year lull in presents. Obviously my mind immediately jumped to the ridiculous; maybe I’m the winner of some secret sweepstakes or my mom decided to send me some clothes she had bought me while shopping. Trust me when I say these things are equally absurd, my mom has about as much concern for fashion as I have a chance of winning a secret sweepstakes.

     While waiting in the usual long line at the package center I tried to reason with myself, it was much more likely that I was getting a care package from home. Although I didn’t remember mentioning anything I had left at home I figured that must have been the case. I eagerly tiptoed forward in the line as people in front of me carried away all sorts of boxes and packages with big smiles on their faces. I wanted that to be me so badly.

     Vinny greeted me with big hello as I thrust my golden ticket towards him. While he walked away with the slip to find my associated prize I scanned the contents of the package room. Shelves line the walls of the room, stacked with boxes categorized by last name filled to the brim with every shape and size package possible. It truly was a beautiful thing to look around at all those unopened packages, I imagined the immense amount of happiness that would result from receiving all of these. Vinny surely must feel like Santa.

I take that back, Vinny definitely didn’t feel like a jolly, gift-giving Santa Claus when he saw my jaw drop in horror at the sight of a small letter with my name on it instead of one of the wonderfully wrapped packages adorning the room.

     I felt like I had been duped, this must be some sort of joke being played on me in order to make me feel like an idiot for getting so worked up over the prospect of a gift. I barely glanced at the envelope as I marched back to my room with a storm cloud of disappointment looming over my head. Upon returning to my room I lifted the semi-crushed envelope out of my coat pocket to examine the object that had already caused me so much grief. I don’t know many other moments in my life where I have recognized my selfishness to the extent that I did in that following moment.

Scrawled in the upper left hand corner of the letter was a return address, that of my elderly grandmother. My name and school address was written across the middle of the letter in my grandma’s most careful script. Inside the envelope was a thick card with a long inscription wishing me the happiest of birthdays along with other hopes for me.  My grandmother had obviously taken a great deal of time writing this letter to me, the note filled both inside pages of the card and was written in small cursive, which I knew was difficult for her with the fragility of her hands. Each word was crafted with care and each sentence imbedded with wisdom. This letter was meant to be read over and over again, meant to be an artifact in my life. With tears streaming down my face I did just that, traced her thoughts and indulged in her words. Little did it matter to me that she had sent the card almost a month earlier than my birthday, it was the best gift I got that year.

  I often find myself being blinded by the appeal of instant gratification. As is prevalent in the rest of my generation, we pick the quick and easy over the long and difficult without thinking of the meanings of our choices. We pick fast food over laboring over our own meals, driving over enjoying a walk into town, and write a quick text to someone over a long, heartfelt letter. This card from my grandmother brought me back to the time when Bates mailboxes were not just the source of meaningless gratification that comes from ordering clothes online or receiving gag gifts from your friends at other schools, they were instead the most important vehicle of communication between people.

     Although I was disappointed that I never received a bunch of ‘golden tickets’ like all my other classmates seemed to, a single Bates package slip had instead given me the best gift of all. My grandmother’s letter ended up being one of the last things that I have to remember her by; she passed away shortly after my freshman year ended.  Her letter currently sits on my desk in my dorm room as a constant reminder that words matter, thoughts should be developed, and language has an everlasting impact.