Open Letters:

From Me to Some of Everyone

In an open letter to the woman eating a naked banana in two-inch chunks as she waited for her coffee,

“I could not look away. I am ashamed of this fact.”

In an open letter to man two out of three who stared directly into my crotch as I ran my Sunday errands,

“Isn’t Sunday the day of rest?”

In an open letter to the senior citizen who stared directly into my crotch as he shopped with his lady at Costco,

“Wait, is the fountain of youth in my pants? Otherwise, I have no viable reason for that sort of penetrating look.”

In an open letter to the three men who stared into my crotch as I ran errands yesterday,

“Gentlemen, each of you deserve your own open letter. I have so many questions. Like, what were you looking for?”

In an open letter to the two men who yelled in my direction as I rode my bike to Zumba class,

“What exactly were you trying to convey with your ‘Hey now’? What about your ‘Damn’?”

In an open letter to the man who was displeased that I don’t have a “blacks only” sign perched jauntily upon my pelvic bone,

“Two things. 1. I hope you enjoy being a lieutenant on the blackness policing force. 2. Do you realize that you have a tendency to use third person when talking about us blacks?”

In an open letter to a surprising scrap of paper I found featuring my own handwriting,

“I don’t remember when I wrote, ‘I bet that no-flush heffa’ didn’t wash her hands,’ but I can only imagine how upset I was when I wrote it. I bet you saved me from an uncomfortable moment.”

In an open letter to the woman who just coughed openly above my head at this event,

“I am struggling not to ‘call you out your name.’ I am barely holding on.”

In an open letter to autocorrect,

“I did actually mean leotard. I did not mean leopard.”

In an open letter to her son who keeps running off with all of the batteries,

“In theory, no one should ever run off with a single woman’s batteries. What if I really, really needed those.”