Open Letters:

From Me to Some of Everyone

In an open letter to the masked man asking for money on the side of the road,

“You scared the stuffing out of me! That looked like something you’d see on a crime drama. Your mask wasn’t even scary. What was that a glow-in-the-dark evil clown? You made me take note of the time in case there is a Crime Stoppers alert that has to do with you.”

In an open letter to the woman whose exposed chest/breast region made me think of two words, “akimbo” and “splayed,”

“It’s yo’ thang. Do what you wanna do and all, but I couldn’t figure out whether that whole look you had going on was purposeful. Also, I just don’t understand the physics of the way your shirt sat.”

In an open letter to the man inspired to dance at the urinal,

“So, my interpretation of events is that you didn’t know that there was an eleven-year-old in a nearby stall who could see you. He described in great detail your dancing and singing while peeing. Apparently you were really getting into it. The thing, though, that made him tell the story was that you put one hand on the bathroom wall, just slapped it up there. It was the hand that caught his attention.”

In an open letter to ODB,

“I wish that there were a corollary to ‘Shimmy Shimmy Ya,’ I wish that the chorus in this imaginary song rang out, ‘Ooh, baby I like it poached….'”

In an open letter to the corpulent man with an oppressive nose,

“I have to admit that I enjoyed watching you being ignored as you tried to summon a cashier who was attending other customers by waving your hand weakly in her direction. I could wonder why you didn’t hit the button on the self check that is to get store employee attention. I could also wonder what you thought that your peevish, audible sighing would achieve. But, in this case, I’ll speculate and judge instead. By the way, those stickers on the tomatoes tell you what code to enter.”

In an open letter to her son,

“I wish I could have been there when you read the embarrassing note that I left on your snow pants when you left them in the car and I had to take them to the office at your school. I mean that line about protecting you from ‘FROSTY BUNS,’ I am still giggling and I left you this note days ago.”

In an open letter to the woman who seemed to be attempting to poach workers from Qdoba,

“Had you not been holding up the line to offer the cashier an offer he couldn’t refuse, I would never have noticed just how used up you looked. When you got the name and email address of the guy behind the counter, then stopped again to make sure that you were pronouncing his name correctly, I wondered just what sort of employment opportunities you offer….”

In an open letter to the man in front of me in line at Starbucks who reminded me of Jesse Pinkman,

“First I was surprised when you ordered a white chocolate mocha and handed over your stainless steel travel mug. But it was your request for caramel drizzle that really took it to the next level.”

In an open letter to the eighth grade social studies teacher who asked us to write about what we would have done had we been slaves,

“I wonder what you were thinking when you berated the class for giving unrealistic answers to that question. I wonder if it had ever crossed your mind that perhaps you didn’t frame the question properly.  It isn’t even as if we had studied any primary texts or other things to help us put your question into context. I never forgot that assignment. Actually, this might have been one of the things that made me think that I wasn’t interested in social studies or history for years. The whole thing seemed as silly to me then as it seems to me now.”

In an open letter to DJ Assault,

“Even though I understand in my heart that your lyrics weren’t meant to be pondered thoroughly, I so often feel confused if I think about your words at all.’