Open Letters (Theo)

This is a piece I wrote for the webzine Open Letters which was rejected. I thought I'd post it here instead.

Dear Theo:

Well, hey there. I know it's been awhile since I've written, and I'm sorry. Things have gotten a little busy here, what with the takeover and the contracts and the lawyers in and out of the office, blah blah I sound like the person I always told myself I wouldn't be, I know. So sue me. Wait, on second thought, don't do that. Just had a little experience here on the home front that made me think of you, so I thought I'd drop you a note and tell you about it.

Believe it or not, Jane's a senior this year. Which means I'm...almost old enough to be a college student's dad. Christ almighty, what happened? One day you're some 19-year-old living in a dorm and trying to convince your roommate to listen to Dead Kennedys, the next day you're shopping at Linens N Things for a twin size comforter and your daughter's asking if you need those milk crates in the garage.

Jane's turned out pretty great, by the way. Today I was trying to remember when the last time was when you saw her - when I saw you - and this hazy memory came up of us all going out and having an argument with Jane over whether she was old enough yet to stay home alone without a babysitter. So that was, what? Thirteen? Something like that. Which makes it five years or so. Which went by like the blink of an eye, while five years of going to college with you STILL seems like a goddamn eternity.

Jane is exactly what you always warned would happen, you little schmuck - she's turned into a complete and utter amalgam of Carol and myself. It pleases both of us to no end and it pisses both of us off to no end. Every time Jane roots through my old clothes in the basement and digs out some old punk shirt to wear to school, Carol just shakes her head and threatens for the millionth time to finally chuck all that old stuff out. And then every time Jane goes off to the mall or loads up on makeup for a night out, I do the same damn thing. Still, it works, somehow. Carol and I got through the messiness of a few years ago and seem to have found a nice balance that works for both of us. I mean, you never know. We have our problems, but we also have our hands full with Jane right now. And as bad as this sounds to say, maybe Jane helps hold Carol and I together. For now, anyway. Me, maudlin, forget it.

So with senior year comes...you guessed it, Prom. And when the subject was even brought up the first time I couldn't help but laugh out loud. You know, decades later I'm still making Prom jokes to my co-workers that I learned from you. And, like always, they amuse me to death and simply piss everyone else off. What was our fascination with Prom, anyway? I've somehow lost the origins of the epic Prom joke somewhere along the years. If I remember it correctly, I think it somehow involved that road trip to Kurt's parents' house our sophomore year, digging through his bedroom and finding that completely lame Prom photo, sneaking it back to school and making all those mimeos in the dean's office and passing them out to everyone. Is that where it started, or did we swipe the photo because the joke was already around? Not important anymore, I guess. Although if that's not important then I'm not sure exactly what from college IS important anymore. Which in some ways is a depressing thought, but in others quite refreshing.

Where was I? You'll have to excuse this old codger tonight; he's a little stoned and he just can't quite handle the pot the way he used to be able to. It's for special occasions, which tonight is, but not necessarily the "special" I exactly wanted. But more on that later.

So thankfully Jane came down on my side with this one, and declared to her mother and me that she would NOT be attending Prom, thank-you-very-much. And I was like, "All right, little sista!" I mean, I know we used to joke about how we were going to raise our kids to be complete freaks, but as the years have worn on some of that has actually stuck. I know it sounds bad, maybe, but I WANT my kid to be a little anti-establishment, you know? It's complicated. My duties as a father supercede whatever political points I may have, not for any kind of moralistic reason but because they're just an ingrained part of me. Like the night she came home drunk last year, man did I flip out. And there's this tiny little voice in the back of my head saying, "Oh yeah, Jason, but you went out and got wasted at 17 too." But that little voice is drowned out by the big booming speaker screaming about drunk drivers and stomach pumps and date rapes. I know I'm romanticizing, but it really does seem to me that kids have it harder these days, that they have to worry about things we never had to worry about. I know I'm making most of that up in my head, but still. My high school never had metal detectors. I never saw heroin when I was a teenager. And I sure as hell didn't have to worry about AIDS until I was a lot older.

I'm sidetracking. Jane, Prom, No. Freaked out her mom, which I was expecting but not nearly to the degree that it did. She begged. She pleaded. Carol actually tried to BRIBE Jane into going, can you believe that? But Jane was being completely hardcore about it, ranting about the suburban bourgeoisie and commodified pleasure. Totally straightedge, which was just so wonderful for me to hear. Maybe she'll grow up and be all right, you know? You never do know, I guess, which sometimes scares the hell out of me. You like to tell yourself at the beginning that it will eventually get better, that you won't stop worrying about your child every minute of the day, but hell, she's eighteen now and it hasn't stopped. Maybe it never does.

So Prom night came and Jane and her little skater friends decided to have an Anti-Prom night, some all-ages show down at this shitty dilapidated hotel downtown. God, if you had asked me twenty years ago if punk will still be around and that my daughter would be listening to it, I would've...I would've hit you over the head with a beer bottle, I guess. It's not the same now, of course. Her friends are all into this thing called 'emocore' which as far as I can tell is basically a bunch of pussies whining about their lives REALLY LOUDLY, which would've gotten them a good crack in the head if they had been around when you and I were hitting the clubs. The world's changed, for better or for worse. At least she's not listening to gangster rap, I guess. It's nice to see at least a little bit of what you and I worked so hard for, still glinting like little tiny diamonds in the shovels full of shit I see in the popular culture these days. Was there really a point in our lives when we thought we were going to start a revolution? Or is that my feeble mind playing tricks on me again?

They bought outfits! Which was the most hilarious part of all. They all went down to this thrift store and picked up these atrocious mid-70s Prom outfits, lime-green tuxedos with the big ruffly shirts, that they all wore to this show. You would bust a gut if you got to see them all. Oh, wait, what am I thinking? I took a digital photo of them and I can just attach it to this email. Did someone say revolution?

(And speaking of which, I'm not supposed to be telling you this but I'm stoned so I will. The whole reason MS got interested in buying us out in the first place is that we've developed this simply killer device that's going to be on the market in six months. I can't really give you more details - there's more lawyers sniffing around my life right now than there are pointy hats in Vatican City. But let's just say you're going to be really blown away when you see what it is. I mean, really blown away.)

So they went out, and they stayed out late, and Carol and I eventually went to bed. And Carol was asleep when Jane eventually got home, when I heard her trounce up the stairs and go into her bedroom. And I thought, I'll get up and pop my head in her room, see how her night was, maybe impart a few pearls of wisdom, tell her about how I didn't go to Prom either, share a little laugh at the expense of her mother. You know, father/daughter bonding stuff. So I tiptoe down the hall to her room, get to her door, almost knock on it when I hear crying. Jane is sitting by herself in the middle of the room, bawling her eyes out, her back to the door so that she doesn't notice me. And it suddenly occurs to me - Jane didn't skip Prom for any punk rock reasons - she just didn't have anyone ask her out.

This was maybe a half-hour ago, and now I'm sitting down here in my kitchen, stoned like a poet on payday, typing out this letter to you. Why? Because. Because my first inclination was to go into Jane's room, to hug her, to tell her that I know it seems like the end of the world right now but that it does get better. That eventually boys will clamor all over her for the same reasons they shun her right now. That eventually the tables will turn and the world will finally start treating you with respect and reward for the very traits that get you the shaft when you're younger.

But I didn't tell her that, and I didn't go in. It's not my place. And she wouldn't believe me, anyway. And I probably would've just ended up embarrassing her. There are some lessons in life that can only be learned the hard way, through trial and error. Sometimes there are moments of overwhelming sadness in a teen's life that must be experienced alone, part of that painful process of growing up and realizing what a shitty place the world sometimes is.

And standing outside my daughter's room, my hand lightly on the door, listening to her cry to herself, it really sunk in for the first time in my life that I can't protect her all the time. She's off to school in the fall and I'm going to be lucky to see her three times a year from now on until I die. And sure, you can instruct them, you can inspire them to lead a life that you think will be a good one, to teach them how to think for themselves, to make wise decisions, but part of the process of maturation is sometimes to simply make mistakes. And I realized that Jane is going to fuck herself over sometimes in the future. She's going to put herself in bad spots that she will need to get herself out of. And that I can't go and bail her out when they happen. A lot of times I won't even KNOW about them. Tonight, for the first time in all these years, I actually feel like a grown-up. And I've realized that it's not exactly the best feeling in the world to have.

Anyway, I can barely keep my eyes open anymore so I'm off to bed. I hope this letter finds you well. Will you drop me a line and let me how things are going in your life? I wonder about you all the time.

Jason.

Copyright 2000, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.