PS

I know I took liberties with this assignment and didn't end up writing what was asked.  It started out as one thing and became something else. I  had planned to do it over since it was so off the mark but never did, so this is what I have to submit!  I am next down the alphabet so I will be posting a new assignment tomorrow.  Huzzah!

Pen Pal

It’s in the evening and I’m still wearing the same decade-old reunion tee and home-sewn flannel pants that I’ve had on for the past three days.  I shuffle out the door and down to the mailbox.  I look forward to the next two minutes that are to follow.  No one will be asking me for anything, spitting up on me or wiping their nose on my pant leg.  I inhale deeply while I walk, enjoying my uninvaded personal space, ignoring the scent of sour breast milk that has crusted into my hair.  Though I appreciate the solitude, pulling the mail out of the box is always a disappointment—someone demanding money or someone advertising something I can’t afford…until one evening, I get something out of the ordinary: I get a letter. 

It’s a small envelope and in the middle, my name is printed neatly in block letters, my address underneath. In the upper right corner, is an unremarkable Forever Stamp.  In the upper left, is written J. McDonald followed by an unfamiliar address in a neighboring township.  I squint at the name, trying to access any sort of familiarity.  J. McDonald...J. McDonald.  I scan my memory bank while I walk up the sidewalk towards my attached townhome, parking lot and common driveway, the sun melting into the bare trees that only somewhat block the view of the freeway behind me.  I rip the envelope open to find a single sheet of lined paper folded into beautiful origami.  I hold it in my hand, then turn it over and examine the intricacy.  It’s so pretty, I don’t want to ruin it, but my curiosity trumps my sentimentality and I unfold the paper while slowly crossing the parking lot to my front porch.  J. McDonald, J. McDonald, I silently mouth the name, hoping to trigger some muscle memory in my lips or tongue, but I come up with nothing.  I open my front door so I can hear a baby squawk and sit down on the front step.  

The letter is written in pencil with the same neat handwriting that is on the envelope, a date at the top.  “Dear Ann,” it begins.  No one has called me Ann in a long time.  Ann sounds proper.  Ann sounds like someone who doesn’t buy thirty-two jars of baby food every week.  Ann sounds like someone who gets regular manicures and meets up with her friends for lunch. Ann goes to cafes, to bistros, even.  I read on.  

J. McDonald opens with the hope that they are writing to the correct Ann.  Oh, this is the correct Ann, I decide.  Ann is someone who receives letters.  

J. McDonald continues. Is this the Ann they grew up with, they muse, who they went to high school and attended senior prom with, who, in the end, they treated poorly and have regretted doing so ever since? 

I squint into the parking lot from my porch.  Who did I go to senior prom with, again?  I reach back into my memory but only bring back a fuzzy mannequin with a blank face wearing a tuxedo.  Jason? John?  Jared?  I need to be this Ann.  I need something.  Jared McDonald…Jared McDonald, was it?  And did he treat me badly?  I can’t remember, it seems like a lifetime ago.  He could have treated me badly, couldn’t he have?  He must have. I read on.   

J. McDonald wants to apologize for the way he treated me, “for the things he done.”  He wants me to know that he has changed, that he has found Jesus. 

Well, that’s nice. Good for J. McDonald.  He must be a swell guy.  Of course he is. 

J. McDonald writes on. If I am the Ann who he knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back? He doesn’t have much in his life to look forward to anymore, he claims.  

Well, I can relate to that, Jared.  Jeremy? Jack. Jack McDonald, that rings a bell.    

Am I the same Ann who he has loved for twenty years?  

Jack!  I’m flattered!   Heat rises to my face.  My heart thumps in my chest.  Wow, twenty years?  Jack McDonald.  Jack McDonald?  Was that his name?  Sure.  Wow, imagine that.  I must be something special!   Someone has been pining for Ann!  Me!  For twenty years!  Jack McDonald!  Jack?  Or was it Jerry?  

He goes on.  If am not the Ann who J. McDonald (Justin?) knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back anyway?  Being incarcerated is extremely boring and he needs something to continue living for.  

Jacob?  Jonath—

Wait, incarcerated?  

I reread his last sentence. 

All at once, it becomes clear to me that I have been written to by a prison inmate.  

He has included the best address to write back to, which is directly to the Camp Hill Penitentiary.  He ends the letter with a plea, that I write him, even if I am not the Ann he has been loving all these years.  He needs to know if he has found her or not, plus he needs something in his life besides prison, beside his cell walls. 

I look at the creases criss-crossing over the surface of the letter, the complicated chaos. From inside, I hear a baby wail.  I stare at my townhome.   Suddenly, I feel like I’ve never been more understood. 

Roger Federer...I mean, Venus Williams

I am transported to a time in my mind to Saturdays in my childhood spent lying on the tan carpet in our living room with my hands under my chin. The carpet is digging into my elbows and my fingers are sticky from an orange popsicle (the kind with two sticks). Despite the heat of the summer, my eyes are glued to the TV. My dad is watching tennis again. We don’t have cable, so tennis only comes around a couple times a year, and mostly on a Saturday. 

My sisters are likely swooning over Pete Sampras: something about his chest hair makes them giddy. I find him a bore, emotionless and a bit cocky. Serve and volley, serve and volley…blech. I like Andre Agassi. His long hair (apparently, it was a toupee!), short shorts, and earring dangling are shocking, but his tennis is beautiful. I carefully watch the way he moves, the way he returns Pete's serve. No one else can return Pete’s serve. I am fascinated by the movement of it, the emotionally grueling nature of it. I am clearly falling in love. 

Inevitably upon completion of the men’s battle, there commences a women’s match. In those days, it was Steffi Graff vs Monica Seles. Monica is screeching and crying out every time she hits the ball, as if every swing is meant to bludgeon Steffi to death. Steffi calmly slices the ball back, dancing across the grass of Wimbledon. I am drawn in by Monica. I am moved by her determination and precision. She moves back and forth, taking the ball early with her two-handed groundstrokes, the very strokes I would come to emulate in my adult years. I find myself holding my breath as the rallies lengthen and the tension builds.

"BORING!" one of my brothers moans, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen. My siblings would slowly file out of the room. Even my sisters readily abandoned their own sex at the loss of Pete Sampras’ air time. I am alone. I smile. I can finally concentrate. 

The crash of the Williams sisters on the tennis scene created a seismic shift on the WTA (Women’s Tennis Association). Their power game and overall fitness changed women’s tennis in dramatic ways. Many, like myself, fell in love quickly, while others begrudged these two women who were changing the game they loved.

In my senior year of high school, we were asked to make a vision board out of magazine clippings in my English class. Once the assignment was complete, our vision boards would be randomly selected by other members of the class and each of us would write a short paper about our assumptions of the creator based on the content presented. I rifled through National Geographic and Sports Illustrated magazines trying to piece together things I felt describe who I am. I have no recollection of the board I critiqued, but I do remember receiving Danny Lange's analysis of my vision board. It read, "I can safely assume this vision board was created by a woman because she likes Venus Williams." I was horrified and embarrassed that my good friend assumed the things I valued were feminine. 

The year is 2016. I am 32. I am in a conversation with someone about tennis, which is my favorite subject (the quickest way to my heart is to ask me about my views on tennis). He asks me who my favorite current tennis player is. “Venus Williams” comes to my brain, but I hesitate. My vision board experience is lurking back in the recesses of my mind.

“Male or female?” I ask. 

“Male,” he responds without a second thought. 

“Oh…uh…probably…uh…Roger Federer.” The conversation continues, but I am no longer interested. I had abandoned Queen V. I half-heartedly watch Federer. I have been moved to tears by Venus’s come-from-behind victory over Lindsay Davenport at Wimbledon. I am a fraud.

Women’s tennis is more compelling than men’s tennis in every way. I would rather watch women’s tennis over men’s tennis anytime, anywhere. It isn’t even a competition. I find women’s matches to be more dramatic, more emotional, and more human. I have woken up at 3am simply to watch Lindsay Davenport in the Australian Open try to make a comeback as a mother. I have witnessed Elena Dementieva take it to Serena William at Wimbledon only to falter in self-belief just long enough for Serena to mount a comeback. Elena didn’t believe she could beat Serena even though she was better. I have watched Su-Wei Hseih confound and confuse players ranked hundreds of points above her that are stronger and faster simply because she is smarter and delights in the game. Time and time again, these women amaze and surprise me. They let me down and they make my dreams come true (they let me down way more than they make my dreams come true). It is brutal. The relationship feels abusive, controlling at at times, but I’m in too deep. 

Please just leave me alone with my popsicle on the carpet with my chin in my hands. I want to be left alone. I just want to watch beautiful tennis. 

I Have Something to Say, SiR, MaAm.

Happy July 1st!

Our first writing assignment/exercise thingy is based in ANALYSIS, otherwise known as breaking down and making meaning out of something. I want us all to practice sayin' somethin'. Go on and say. SAY SOMETHING WORTH SAYING.

You can choose any topic for your piece. Some ideas:

Sports Team, Athlete

Food, Restaurant, Spice

Pop Culture, Celebrities

Music or a Musician

Your Favorite Baking Pan 

TV Show, Episode, or Movie

There are so many endless possibilities, but don't let that paralyze you..

Just Do It.

The length is up to you, but I recommend 500-750 words-ish.

I'm thinking to write about Taylor Swift.
But I may just choose to write about drinking through a straw instead.

Go team.