Letters of Not
The letters I should write, then did, but won’t.
To the Asian ladies in the Chinatown park,
You are the best. I am the girl stretching after my run. I’m not Chinese, and you might not be either. But we are all Asian. And we all get lumped together by most people in this country we live in.
Here in NYC, I don’t have any family. I have friends and colleagues who are family, but they aren’t Family. And you’re not my family either, but I imagine you also know what it’s like to light incense at a Buddhist temple. I imagine that maybe your kids have gotten made fun of for bringing weird lunches to school like I did. But in reality, you have a different culture than me, from your own country and family and journey.
What I love about you is that here you are out in the middle of NYC, owning it. Your music and stretching and dancing.
Keep it up, ladies,
Valerie
To the respectful cat caller at Allen and Grand,
I’m writing to say that I really appreciated you telling me, “have a beautiful day, ma’am” the other day. There wasn’t even an exclamation point on the end of that. It was nearly somber. You know, as much as it infuriates me that women have to deal with annoyances, pressures, terrors and even harm of being looked at as a body, not a person… some respectful(!) appreciation during my morning commute is not entirely unwelcome.
So yeah, that was nice. Thanks!
— Val
PS — Wait, you called me ‘ma’am’ — does that mean I’m old? Am I no longer a hot young thing? I’m only 26! Shit.
Dear Beyoncé,
I’m breaking up with you.
This will be a huge shock to my friends and family.
Everybody has zone music. It’s the soundtrack of getting it done and making it happen. When I really need to be heads down and working — I listen to you. I listen to the live concert version of your I Am… World Tour straight through on repeat. If there were saint candles in my home, they would have your face on them. You are ***Flawless, and that’s why I love you. You will ruthlessly execute perfection. Every time. You play to my inner theatrics and appreciation for glitter and leotards. You have Sasha Fierce, I have you.
But here’s the thing. You are too perfect. And perfectionism is something that our culture is struggling with — ladies especially — myself entirely. It’s this whole “having it all” mess. I used to feel that perfectionism was striving to be the best version of myself, but what I’ve been realizing is that perfectionism is about striving to be the best version of what other people think. Damn.
I can love you, but I don’t have to try to be perfect like you. Because you can’t spell “Beyoncé” without “mega team.” Or something like that. You are immensely talented, beautiful and will always be an irresistible gravitational force on the dance floor. The minute you come on, I am there. But I have to stop pretending that I can be flawless. In fact, my doing it all takes away from all of it.
So please continue to Run the World, I’m sure the world will stay Crazy In Love with you until the End of Time.
Love,
Valerie
To my tampons,
What’s the deal? I don’t know what’s going on with your ingredients. I’m not entirely down with the level of waste that’s happening. But the idea of Diva Cups and magically absorbent panties weird me out too. I just can’t quit you.
x
Dearest roommate,
It would be so awesome if you cleaned up your dishes. They’ve been sitting in the sink for a couple of days weeks now, and you know this is a shared space. I am uninterested in experiments in the name of “science.”
OH WAIT. I live alone. Alone in my small, but singularly inhabited one-bedroom (hey, French doors count!) apartment in the Lower East Side. And you don’t exist. And I have pink curtains, because fuck it. And when I try to install something, I have to figure it out myself — or at least text my dad in Texas myself.
Speaking of my dad, he’s always wondering, “why don’t you just get your boyfriend to do it?” I could do that. Or I could use some service like Handy. Instead, I call him with questions about which type of screw I should use to fix my drawer that keeps hanging (charmingly!) at an angle. Instead, I’ve gotten really good at patching up the holes I accidentally make (you can’t hammer anchors into walls!). Instead, I eventually figure it out and do it myself.
Somebody told me once that every interesting woman they know has spent time alone. When confronted with nobody else, you have to deal with yourself. And time alone is not something that we Millennials like to get down with #fomo #dormsforgrownups. So here’s a note to my roommate, myself: I’d really appreciate it if you could stop feeling bad about loving the alone time (and all the spackle you go through). It’s really important, and you know, this is your space.
x
