Strongly Worded Letters

Dear America,

I can’t sleep anymore.

I’m too busy thinking about the man at the market who came up to me, close enough to whisper in my ear, “You have a fat ass, and I like it.”

I’m thinking about the stranger in the park who drunkenly proposed marriage several times while maintaining a death grip on my arm.

I’m thinking about the time I walked out to my car with a coworker, and as we were saying goodbye, he put his arm around my neck, pulled me close, and squeezed. I realized, then, that we were alone in the parking garage—closed off from the sight of anyone who might be walking by on the street outside. And he could do anything he wanted.

So I did what many women before and after me have done and will do. I made some non-aggressive, playful comment to diffuse the situation, pulled away from him, and went home. Because, after all, this is a person I have to see tomorrow. This is a person I have to work with.

I’m thinking about the temp job I had in college with the supervisor who would hand me a paper in such a way that he could run his fingers slowly over mine. I remember the feel of his gaze over my whole body as he said good morning. And I remember how he cornered me between two large filing cabinets, gave me a meaningful look, and licked his arm. (Was that supposed to be sexy???)

I told him I felt sick and had to go home. I called my temp agency and refused to go back. A couple of days later, the president of that company called me personally to apologize. Even at the time, I was surprised to get this response, surprised to be taken seriously. But mine was not the first complaint a woman had made—and certainly not the most serious. …And yet, this supervisor still worked there.

I’m thinking about the time I helped serve Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless at my church in the University District. I was making friendly small talk with a man, who then asked me (in less than polite terms) to meet him in the men’s bathroom for sex.

I said no.

“You’re a very negative person,” he said.

“Sometimes the most positive thing you can do for yourself is say no,” I responded, and then I walked away. I felt sick, unsafe. I told my girlfriend the story, but no one else. I didn’t want to make a scene or have him kicked out.

I’m thinking about the guy who wouldn’t take “not interested” as an answer. I remember how he rang my doorbell every day for a month (maybe more) and how I would duck down so he wouldn’t see me if he looked in the windows—he always looked in the windows. I remember how other people would look at me funny and say, “He’s kind of cute. Why don’t you want to?” Because he’s crazy, I’d say. Because I saw him out on the street directing an unhinged, rage-filled diatribe at the meter maid who was putting a ticket on his illegally parked car. Because something about him sets off an internal red flag. Because when I don’t answer my door, he rings all my neighbors’ doorbells to ask if they’ve seen me, if they know where I am. Because it’s my right to say no.

I’m thinking of the hundreds of catcalls and obscene comments I’ve heard from the time I was about thirteen on and how commonplace—even tame—my experiences are among my female friends.

I’m thinking how each incident left a nasty, oily residue in my thoughts and feelings about myself for days at a time and how lucky I’ve been that none of these situations went any further. I’m thinking how one in four American women experience sexual assault.

I’m thinking how even though my two X chromosomes are a mark against me, I’m still white, reasonably well off, and fairly sheltered. And I wonder what it would be like if I weren’t.

I’m thinking how I’ve shielded many of the men in my life from knowing these things. They would be beyond livid but powerless to change it. Women I know have done the same. But maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe we shouldn’t have.

Because now, I’m thinking how a man who embodies every dirty, disgusting thing I have ever seen or heard or experienced (and every dirty, disgusting thing I’ve been privileged not to experience) just got elected president. And I’m thinking how the most qualified person in several generations of politicians did not.

I’m thinking how angry, sad, and scared I feel, and I don’t know when this will feel any better.

I thought America was better than this.

I’m thinking I was wrong.

Sincerely,

RJ

Scratch that.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Jean

Dear Human Resources Department,

I am writing to inform you that the coworker you have provided me with is defective. I would like to return her in exchange for a dolphin.

Did you know that dolphins are smart? Unlike my coworker, they can be trained to perform simple tasks and entertaining tricks.

In addition, if you ask a dolphin for help, they will not respond with a list of reasons why the universe is preventing them from being effective. They will just happily continue with the work of being awesome.

As for team morale, a dolphin would be super fun at work events. And since dolphins have even been known to fight off sharks, I know I could rely on one to have my back.

Every time my coworker even thinks about doing a task, she leaves ten broken things in her wake. I am convinced that I would be much more efficient, and certainly much happier, if I could spend my days training and caring for a dolphin rather than troubleshooting her messes.

I urge you to strongly consider this request. I anxiously await your reply.

Sincerely,

RJ

Dear Electric Paper Towel Dispenser Manufacturers,

The old pull-the-towel-out-the-dispenser model was so terrible!

There were exactly zero barriers between my wet hand and the dry towel. Awful! Efficiency experts everywhere are crying because they have no jobs.

It’s much better when I can:

1. Spend a full minute waving my hand in front of a sensor—like an idiot
2. Attempt to dry my hands with the meager scrap of towel that eventually appears
3. Repeat steps one and two, because step two is a cruel joke
4. Have the joy of knowing I’ve just wasted electricity, valuable minutes of my life, and a small piece of my dignity

I would like to shake the hand of the genius who decided that advanced paper towel technology was necessary to humanity. Then again, I’m sure it’s a wet, shriveled hand that hasn’t been adequately dried in several years. So…pass.

Let’s just file this whole product family under “Technology that Doesn’t Deserve to Live” and move on.

But maybe I’m missing something… Maybe this useless, time-wasting invention has a greater meaning…

I get it now. You’re trying to get us all to slow down and appreciate the little moments. To smell the roses, as the saying goes.

Too bad your product lives in a public restroom.

I think this is what the Internets call a FAIL.

Sincerely,

RJ

Dear Thriving Design Firm,

I am responding to your inquiry for an experienced copywriter who will exchange hours for the use of your office space.

I would kindly suggest that your ad was mislabeled. “Freelance Copywriter” implies that some payment might be involved.

As an experienced professional copywriter with the highest standards of accuracy, I would propose amending the title of your ad to something along the lines of “Volunteer Copywriter.” I believe “volunteer” is the correct term for someone who agrees to perform a service for free.

I would further suggest that even a volunteer could reasonably expect a “thriving” place of business to provide a workspace in which to perform a free service.

As to your kind offer of a window desk… It just so happens, I already have a window desk where I do all kinds of free work. At home.

If you would like to come over and design some stuff for me (gratis, of course), I will let you use it.

For future reference, there are many cheap freelance writing sources that will charge you only pennies per word. Good luck with these “writers,” however. Anyone willing to sell their services for so little has questionable ability.

If you really want an experienced professional copywriter, SimplyHired.com suggests that the average salary is $63K.

Thanks again for your hilarious offer.

Sincerely,

RJ

Dear Menace to Society,

Every morning I picture your death.

I fear this makes me a bad person. But, oh well…

While you rev your ungodly hell-beast/motorcycle outside my bedroom window every morning at 7:00 a.m., my defenseless, sleep-deprived brain can’t help wishing for severe bodily harm (up to and possibly including death) to befall you. Posthaste.*

As the daughter of early risers, I am well aware that some people have been up for hours by 7:00 a.m. They merrily roll out of bed at 5:00, because God forbid the sun actually beat them to the punch.

Sleeping until 7:00 would be an extreme act of sloth, for which they would be filled with shame and horror… But guess what? THOSE PEOPLE DON’T LIVE HERE.**

You take your life in your hands by parking within rock-throwing distance of my bed, just as you take your life in your hands by hurtling full speed down the freeway on something that barely qualifies as a vehicle.

Why do you have a death wish? Perhaps you should find psychiatric help to work through this…

While you’re there, here are some other questions to explore:

1. What am I compensating for by driving the loudest contraption known to man? Am I some kind of attention whore?
2. Is my aggressive early morning noise-making a sign of anti-social tendencies?
3. Why don’t I bother to take my bike to a mechanic so that–at the very least–it might start on the first try?

Give serious thought to that last one. If I have to “fix” your bike for you, neither of us will like the results. You’ll find your precious motorcycle/instrument of torture in a crumpled pile of metal bits, and I’ll find myself in jail for destruction of property.

But you’d have to catch me first. And you’ll be on foot.

Sincerely,

RJ

*Please don’t ACTUALLY die.

**Please do park elsewhere. Maybe Texas.

Dear Fellow Airline Passenger,

There is a Golden Rule for air travelers: Don’t be crazy. (Followed closely by the Silver Rule: Don’t be stinky.)

Unless you want to disembark in Wichita handcuffed by the Air Marshall, keep your psychosis under wraps.

Of course, there’s lighting the fuse on the bomb in your underwear, and then there’s run of the mill crazy. Neither one is optimal at 35,000 feet.

I am thankful that your kind of crazy tends toward the non-homicidal. So that makes one lucky star for me. (I’m counting.) The rest of my stars are clearly crossed. That is the only way to explain our adjacent seat assignment.

You seem like a perfectly nice–if eccentric–man. Perhaps if we’d met somewhere other than this airborne petri dish of social awkwardness… But alas… All I can do is offer a piece of advice.

There is a way to tell a story that will enthrall your seatmates. And then there’s your approach:

You had me until “boil.” After that, I’m counting the hours to Phoenix.

Never let it be said, however, that I can’t fight fire with fire. You definitely have me out-foxed in the verbal diarrhea category. But I’m developing a little condition of my own: faux-narcolepsy.

What’s that you say? Faking a serious medical problem is crazy? Oh well… At least I smell like roses. One out of two ain’t bad.

Sincerely,
RJ