Day 364- The things you miss from the motorcade

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight when I got on the bus to go home the driver saw the book in my hand and said "The two highest compliments I get from any one who rides my bus is falling asleep and reading." He said he'd try to drive smoothly so I'd have an easier time with it. I've never seen this bus driver before (or, maybe I have and, like so many bus riders let my eyes slide past him without committing anything to memory) so I don't know if he enjoys his job or hates it, if he's gay or straight, republican, democrat or anarchist. The only thing I know about him is that he is kind and approves of my two favorite activities (sleeping and reading) and seemed to approve of me, as well. This remark buoyed my work-weary and cold little spirit, a small kindness that made my whole night a little brighter.

Lately my friend's trip home for the holidays has made me the temporary owner of a car. The freedom that comes with this is incredible; I can drive where I want to go without concern for route or schedules or fare or transfers, I can play music and sing (badly) as loud as I like, I can transport really amazing amounts of groceries. But I usually wind up angry at the rest of the drivers on the road, drivers who go too slowly or break rules or don't use turn signals. While riding King County Metro doesn't always give me hope for humanity- smelly drunks, screaming children, twitchy addicts and the general impoliteness of high school kids in large numbers are just a few of mankind's shortcomings I've been known to complain about- I do at least have to keep my anger to myself, as we're not all insulated by our little glass and metal vehicular bubbles. Reluctantly, often grudgingly, I connect with people on the bus; from the young aspiring DJ asking for my number (and mistaking my right-hand ring for a wedding band when I said no) to the tiny girl playing peek-a-boo with pink plastic beads in her fuzzy braids, to the old man who wanted to discuss international humanitarian law after seeing my textbooks, I find myself having conversations, interactions or observations of strangers every time I ride the bus. I think that, even at its most tedious, riding the bus leaves me feeling a little more connected to my community.

While I will continue to take advantage of Eric's car as long as he lets me, I think I will forever be a bus rider rather than a car owner. This isn't just because I can't imagine attaining the financial security necessary for car ownership in a city, or even because of my environmental objections to frequent driving, but because I think relying upon the bus keeps me from isolating myself behind my ideas of other people and forces me to observe and interact with individuals of ages and backgrounds I might never otherwise encounter. I'm surely romanticizing the entire experience (and will laugh at this, the next time I'm crammed into a standing-room only commuter route through the tunnel with eight teenagers blaring music through their headphones or a crazy crackhead lighting up in the aisle) but for now I'm smiling to myself at the kind words of an old man who approves of me, even if he doesn't know a thing about me, not even my name, except that I read on busses.

Mr. President, I know this seems like a strange thing to tell you on the second to the last night of my year of letters to you, but I started this project for a number of reasons and among them was this; I wanted to share with you the only thing I can offer that no one else can, and that is the small experiences of my average existence. You will probably never ride a public bus again, especially not as a stranger, and so I like to imagine that you might find some value in the story of a girl, feet aching from work and caught in a surprise cold front without a coat, boarding a city bus and being thanked just for doing the thing she loves most. That you might understand why such an experience matters. Maybe it's just the optimistic holiday spirit sweeping me up, but tonight I think the world is not so bad. I hope you think so, too.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 341- Christmas spirit

Dear Mr. President,

I've never read Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory. I'm not sure if this would earn me quite the same horrified look as referring to a picture of what was apparently the terminator as "some scary robot", but I'm sure it's some level of cultural failing. Tonight I went to listen as my very talented coworker read the story aloud at our bookstore. It was one of those perspective-changing experiences that reminds me how very not alone I am, no matter how often I'm convinced otherwise. Sitting in a small crowd that all laughed and cried at the same time, a group of people so different and yet so similarly moved, was exactly what I needed tonight. Maybe it's just the stress of finals week or the cold weather or the fact that every politician in the country (including you) seems to have gone Republican since November.

If you're not familiar with Capote's story, it describes the friendship between a young Capote and his much older relative, their adventures baking fruit cakes for beloved strangers and generally being misunderstood by the other members of their household. It's funny and sad and (having nothing else to compare it to, I can only assume) best when read by some one capable of doing all the character voices. Perhaps this, the Christmas tree on the Space Needle, and my roommate deciding to put the Christmas lights up in our apartment are nothing more than a happy confluence of holiday cheer, but the last few days have me actually looking forward to the holidays in a way I usually don't. The story made me remember my grandmother and appreciate both my strange family and my family of strangers. It made me miss my best friend more than ever. I think there's a reason why the joy of the holidays is so closely linked to lonely, nostalgic feelings. As we give ourselves time to feel the love we have for the people in our lives it's impossible not to also feel the loss of those loved ones who, for whatever reason, aren't with us.

I think this is why I don't want to talk about the tax cut deal you're making with Republicans. I know that not wanting to talk about it doesn't make it any less real (or any less of a terrible idea) but I just don't have the heart to criticize you for bad economics, bad politics and bad foreign policy every single day. As stressed out as I've been, I'm sure it's much worse for you. So I'm just going to enjoy my newfound (and likely short-lived) Christmas spirit, which is somehow both happily warm and terribly sad, and save criticizing you for tomorrow. Merry Christmas.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 336- In which everything goes wrong

Dear Mr. President,

Everything is going wrong today. I overslept and missed an important guest speaker in my morning class. I wasted way too much time reading internet news. I got a massive headache. A shoplifter at work got away and made me feel weak, slow and clumsy in the process (but at least got rid of my headache.) I'm an unacceptable level of upset about a boy, I'm terrible with money and I'm not even being a particularly good sister or daughter these days. I feel like an unqualified failure at just about every aspect of my life. So I can't write about tax-cut negotiations or human rights abuses or the death of the American Dream today. I'll probably be all over this by tomorrow, but tonight I have to write about positive things.

On the local level, the city of Seattle won National Novel Writing Month for the 4th year in a row. By 8 million words. (Not that I'm rubbing it in, or anything, LA.) Seattle continues to shine as a literary center for emerging writers, and while I did not participate this year (writing to you keeps me busy enough) I'm proud of my friends who did. Many approach November with more than a little disdain for the competition, which is won by every one who reaches 50,000 words by Nov. 30th, but I think that anything that combines charitable donations (Seattle alone donated $10K to youth writing causes) with a sense of community for the often solitary experience of novel writing ought to be applauded. Many great novels are born in these thirty days each year, and even those that will never see publication or fame or fortune will at least have the sense of such a tremendous accomplishment.

Nationally, NASA had me thinking they were going to announce the existence of extraterrestrial life, but I suppose an arsenic-based life form is pretty cool, too.

Finally, while this may seem a bit mean-spirited of me to count as a positive thing, Nigeria is pursuing a case against Dick Cheney for bribes paid to Nigerian officials by Halliburton. I don't imagine for a second that Cheney will actually ever see the inside of a courtroom, let alone be brought to justice, but still it's nice to see that sometimes that bad ones get theirs, too.

I'm in a better mood already. On a related note, a man walking two giant English Mastiffs just walked by the coffeeshop window, and I need to go pet them. The only thing that makes me happier than a city full of badass writers, an entirely new form of life, and a justice system (any justice system) with the courage to stand up to Dick Cheney is giant puppies. I hope you aren't also feeling like an abject failure tonight, but if you are, you should probably just play with Bo for a while. Trust me, it helps.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 330-Black Friday & health insurance

Dear Mr. President,

I've worked in retail for the last four years. Most of the time I hated it, but today is the day that usually made me love it. Especially in later years, as a manager, I'd rework my hours for the week and end up spending something ridiculous like 16 or 18 hours at work, setting up before the store opened, drinking way too much coffee, and generally racing around as though lives were at stake. I'm probably just a bit of an adrenaline junkie, but after Black Friday, the store got busier, the lines got longer, and everything just got more exciting as the urgency to build displays, refill displays, organize gift wrapping services, unpack merchandise for the floor and help customers once the doors opened increased. Working retail during the holidays was stressful and did not go well with having a "normal" holiday season, but it was the most fun I've ever had at any job. Today, while I still work in retail, I no longer have the same responsibility toward customers or toward merchandising. It was a little disappointing to roll in at 2 pm for a 6-hour shift catching shoplifters, especially knowing that my sister would be working 18 hours at the clothing store she manages. It's nice not to have lines of frantic bargain hunters surging through the doors at 6 am, but it lacks a certain glamor. (However, the sheer craziness of the shoplifter we caught today pretty much made up for any lack of excitement.)

That being said, in this economy, it was kind of nice to see all of the hilarious coverage of long lines, crazy crowds, and more than a few frantic shoppers who look like they train to find deals all year long. Yes, it still makes me a little sad, and yes, it still makes me wonder if our society has deep issues with priorities and materialism, but I like my job, I like that my friends have jobs, and I hope that many more jobs can be created this Holiday season.

I noticed today that you had to get stitches as a result of a basketball accident. My first reaction was something along the lines of "OH NO, POOR PRESIDENT OBAMA! I SHOULD ASK IF HE"S OK!" (which probably speaks to the near-complete delusion that we're somehow friends which I have developed as a result of all of this letter-writing.) And then I got to thinking about my hand. Yesterday, while cleaning up my thanksgiving dishes, I cut open my hand on a knife hidden in the soapy water. My near-hysterical reaction notwithstanding it really isn't that bad, I'm fine and I didn't bleed to death (or even come all that close) but it still hasn't closed up. Today I showed it to a friend who is also a doctor, and she noted that I should have gone in for stitches. To be perfectly fair, I'm terrified of doctors, hospitals, and generally anything related to blood, bleeding, or medical attention. I probably wouldn't have gone in even if I did have insurance. The fact that I'm uninsured, however, was a significant factor in my decision just to take care of it myself. I'm really glad that you are OK and that you have access to the best healthcare we can offer in this country. But, just for a moment, I couldn't help but step outside myself and realize that if it hadn't been me but my roommates or my sisters or my friends who needed stitches and chose not to get them because they couldn't afford it, I'd be pretty upset knowing that money stood between them and basic care. We've both demonstrated rather clearly that these kind of accidents can happen to any one at any time and that having the option of medical attention makes a big difference (or at least, I'd imagine our respective scars will look fairly different in a few months.)

Anyway, I am glad that you are OK and that your black friday was spent doing something leisurely (at least before elbows were thrown.)

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 324-Storytelling

Dear Mr. President,

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the way we tell stories, and especially about the things the telling teaches about the teller. Most of the people in my life are storytellers. A number of them are writers as well, and tell their best stories without speaking. Others have to be heard, their tales never sounding quite right without their pauses, inflection and gestures. Regardless if they are speaker or writers, or if their stories are fiction or fact, I have a tendency to judge people by the way they tell their own stories.

Some (and I think I often must, unfortunately, include myself in this category) tell stories to impress. We talk about our achievements and often exaggerate (or selectively edit) details in order to cast ourselves in the best light. While I like to think I know when to stop short of bragging or outright lying, I'm sure this inclination is not as effective as I imagine it to be. When I meet a person who is the hero in all of their own stories, I tend to get wary about them. Honesty can be subjective, of course, but the compulsive need to be liked is always a dangerous indication.

Others speak with more concern for their audience than for themselves. A few of my friends have this astounding, uncanny ability to entertain or move or capture a listener with their (written, spoken, fictional or nonfictional) tales. They know exactly which words to choose, which details to paint, to craft their stories to elicit laughter or emotion or connection with whoever they speak to. I could listen to these friends for hours as they cast themselves as heroes, fools or removed observers, placing the telling of the story above the way it reflects upon themselves. The details of any given story are never as important as the way it is told. These are people I tend to admire, to seek to surround myself with and learn from.

One of my favorite storytellers outside of my circle of people I actually know is a writer for The Stranger, Paul Constant. Recently he wrote a piece comparing Tucker Max's memoir Assholes finish first with former President Bush's Decision Points. In it, he points out the self-aggrandizing way each man ignores the consequences of his actions and imagines his own heroics while, (with no small amount of sadness) also noting that Max, unlike President Bush, at least manages to muster the smallest amount of self-critical reflection by the end. Reading Constant's review and considering the way I judge people by the way they tell their own stories, I considered your own writing, and especially the way you tell your story to the American people. I have to say, Mr. President, that even when I do not agree with you, I always appreciate the way you explain things. Your honesty and self-reflection make me trust you, and I think that you have that rare ability to tell truth with more concern for how the audience will feel about it than how it will make them think of you. This sets you apart from your predecessor and also reminds me why you were able to reach out to so many people across the political spectrum.

I hope that when you get around to writing your own memoir of your time in the White House that you are able to do so with more self-reflection and awareness than President Bush. The story of your Presidency will not be about what you accomplished or what you decided, the battles you won or the times you were right. I believe that the telling, and not the tale, will be the most important and most revealing, even should events take a turn for the highly unlikely and leave you just as desperate to rewrite history as your predecessor.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 317- Eating Animals

Dear Mr. President,

Today, after finishing a friend's NaNoWriMo project, I started reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer. As a life-long vegetarian, I'm not 100% sure why I'm reading this book. I won't claim more than a passing understanding of the horrors of factory farming, so I do recognize that I have plenty to learn from this book, I'm just not sure why I need this information. For one thing, i don't need to be persuaded that eating factory-farmed animals is bad. I don't eat animals and I go out of my way to avoid animal products that come from factory farms. Perhaps the information will help me persuade others to do the same, but I've never been comfortable with the kind of honest proselytizing that is really required to turn omnivores away from eating animals. (I did name the hamburger patties while working at Jack-in-the-box, but that was mostly in jest.)

As Safran Foer describes the sheer amount of land animals and fish killed each year to cheaply feed Americans, however, I can't help but feel like maybe I'm not doing enough. I can't reduce the number of animals I consume, so maybe I do have an obligation to try and persuade others to eat less, as well. Then I remember the intense anger many have had to government anti-obesity measure and even the Let's Move! campaign. People do not like being told or persuaded or guilted into changing their eating habits. My friend Eric gets angry when I even read the ingredient list on the processed product he calls food. Is my discomfort (or another person's indignation) at challenging the food choices others make greater than the suffering these animals face or the havoc such practices wreak on the environment?

I think that the reason the whole system seems so overwhelming is that people aren't willing to take responsibility for their part in supporting it. Very few people I know are ever directly exposed to the atrocious treatment of factory farm animals or the sea life destroyed in the process of fishing. And the glimpses we do get tend to be pushed aside. Safran Foer makes an excellent point while discussing our irrational aversion to eating dogs, despite the huge number of dogs put to death every year, because of our emotional connection with dogs. Why is this compassion extended to dogs and cats but not cows and chickens?

So much of our economic and social lives are tied up in the consumption of animals that I can't possibly ask you to suggest that the country eat less meat. It would be political suicide. But in your own life, in your own home, I think that's a decision you could make without any negative consequences. So I'm asking you, Mr. President, to decide as an individual, as a citizen, to cut back on your own support for the abuse, slaughter and environmental destruction caused by meat production. If you can't do this, I hope that you at least take the time to really think about your participation in this system, what it means to you and what it means to the animals, humans and to the environment.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 311- Another side of the story

Dear Mr. President,

While there may be a few who have forgotten why, exactly, so many of us disapproved of the policies of President Bush, I am certainly not among their number. The former President's recent publicity tour promoting his memoir has provided ample opportunity for him to remind us all why we were so glad to see the sunrise on January 20, 2009. I understand his need to tell his version of events, to make the case for his decision and attempt to persuade many of us to forget the things we knew. I have tried to give the former President the benefit of the doubt. I believe that his Presidency, for all of its many, many mistakes, occurred during some of the most difficult years in modern American history. (The role those mistakes played in said difficulties is certainly not inconsiderable.)

Still, listening to his attempts to defend his record is difficult. A man who basically avoided the press and refused to justify or explain any of his decisions while in office manipulating the incredibly short-term memory of many Americans (and especially of the media) is difficult to watch. I may be so upset that little short of a war crimes tribunal will actually satisfy my need to see President Bush answer for his crimes, but certainly the situation warrants more than the softball questions of Matt Lauer. I have to question my desire to see the former President interrogated. On a practical level, it would be entirely unproductive. No one tortured under his orders will be healed by seeing him answer questions. No one made homeless, injured or killed by the inept handling of Hurricane Katrina will be restored. No one laid off during the recession will be reinstated.

I think my desire to see President Bush explain himself comes from my suspicion that his worldview entirely justified the decision of his Presidency. Because I cannot imagine a world where what he did (and failed to do) is acceptable, I need to understand his perspective. And so, while I will not read his memoir, I will continue to follow his media appearances in an attempt to understand how, exactly, he sleeps at night.

One day, years and years from now, I hope that you will also write a memoir of your time as President. I enjoyed your first two books immensely, and I think that, even if I struggle with your justifications for the decisions I don't agree with, I will at least appreciate the quality of your writing.

(And I'm certain you won't go with quite so insipid a title, if only because it doesn't seem possible.)

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 300- 2 Presidents

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight Jimmy Carter came to my bookstore to sign his latest book. The excitement I felt at your visit last week probably can't be matched, but this came pretty close. It was an honor to have President Carter, of course, and worth every inconvenience that comes with secret service protection. Of course, (and I'm sure you're used to this by now) any high-profile visitor tends to draw out the craziest and most desperate people in the area. Tonight was no exception. One woman brought a 17-page letter and followed a Secret Service agent out to his car asking if the President would really read it. I won't lie- it was hard not to see a little of myself in her. I may never have written you a 17 page letter or hounded you (or your agents) in person, but I can empathize with that desire to be heard.

So now I've seen two Presidents in one week. The purpose of the events were vastly different, of course. You came to get out the vote, President Carter came to sell books. It would be unfair to compare the two events, of course. Still, for some one who observes the Presidency from such a distance, it was a thrill just to be in the same room. I really hope that I don't seem as crazy as that lady at my store tonight; I'm sure that she had valid reasons for her letter and her persistence, even if her tactics were probably not the most reasonable.

And with that, I think that I'm going to try and get some sleep before class. It has been an exhausting week, for all of its thrills.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey


PS- Readers! Check out President Obama's interview on The Daily Show ! Sorry my last two letters have been a bit on the short side, I should be back to normal by tomorrow.

Day 291- $423

Dear Mr. President,

I just read an article on the cost of retail theft- which is, apparently, down in 2010 from 2009- and averages out to about $423 per family. This kind of makes me feel pretty awesome, not because I enjoy paying more for things because of thieves, but because I like to think I play a tiny, tiny part in making that number smaller. Especially recently. For the first few months working at my new job, I felt almost entirely useless. In the last few weeks, however, I've had some success and, with a lot of help from my coworkers, finally feel like I'm making some progress. I suppose every one just wants to feel like the work they do serves some purpose. I don't imagine I'm unique in getting a thrill at seeing my profession mentioned on CNN, or that the work we do is on par with the work of real law enforcement, but it is nice to know that we make a difference, too.

The comments posted on the article are sort of amusing. Plenty of angry commenters suggest that, in this economic climate, theft is a sane and rational response. I've encountered this mentality before, especially while working for a large corporate bookstore. Stealing from businesses (seen as wealthy) is OK, because they can afford the loss. I hear it still from thieves who shoplift while also making a purchase, citing their perception of the inflated prices as justification. (Pointing out that theft causes price inflation doesn't often have much persuasive effect in these casses.)

This bizarre rationale always makes me angry. It isn't corporate CEO's who are getting shoved, struck and even stabbed by the more violent shoplifters, it's me, my coworkers and people like us who are probably just as poor (or even more so) than many of the shoplifters. If there is one thing my job has taught me it is that everyone steals. Rich, poor, middle class. Black, white, or any color. College kids, housewives, the homeless, spoiled children looking for a thrill. Everyone steals. And, as this article illustrates, the people who pay the price for this theft are not the companies being stolen from but the consumers who pay higher prices as a result.

I feel like this mentality is reflected in the arguments against social services and, recently, health care reform. People don't seem to understand that the cost of crime and illness and suffering is passed on to all of us, one way or another. When I go to work everyday, I'm not thinking about serving any higher purpose, either. It's enough to me to enjoy what I do and to try to be decent at it. The fact that I'm also trying to save consumers more than $400 a year just kind of makes my job a little more interesting.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 287- Misogyny

Dear Mr. President,

In my many years at various bookstores in various cities, I've encountered more than a few authors and politicians I disliked. Dick Cheney shopped at one store I worked in, which also hosted signings by conservatives like James Baker and Ann Coulter. Some authors are just rude- a historian I previously had nothing against once turned me off of his World War Two books forever by yelling at me over his book's not-quite-prominent-enough location. Glenn Beck was scheduled to do an event at my Seattle Borders, but luckily re-routed his tour and was unable to make it. I'm usually pretty good at staying calm even when I don't like an author's politics, or when they turn out to be completely arrogant and self-absorbed. For every Philippa Gregory or Alex Kershaw there are the Margaret Atwoods, Laurie Notaros and Don Cheadles, who have enough grace and good humor to make up for it. Tonight, an author who seems to make his money demeaning women was in my store signing for a huge crowd of frat boys and, sadly, more than a few women. I dont understand what women possibly see in this man's humor that would make them want his autograph. (I wanted to punch him in the face just for looking at me, but, luckily for him, it's a recession and my job is worth slightly more than that.)

I watched the line twist down the staircase, and between the large groups of (largely white) gym-toned and fake-tanned frat boys, I'd catch glimpses of the girls. They all seemed to be a variation on the same theme of long hair, heavy make up, too-short shorts or too-tight dresses with designer bags and long artificial nails. With impossibly thin limbs and shimmering highlights, they wore expressions of affected disinterest as they texted on phones in one hand and clutched copies of his books in the other. On the paperback of his first memoir, the author stands pointing at a blonde under his arm, her features replaced with the words "your face here". I've often longed to be more beautiful, but tonight, watching these lovely, sad creatures in all of their splendor, I have never been so happy to be homely.

While considering the mystery of this man's appeal, I came across this article on political misogyny. The recent popularity of anti-choice female candidates like Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, and Christine O'Donnell has given me serious pause about my desire to see more women in high office. I would like my gender to have more representation in government- but not by the political equivalent of those tanned, bleached and very thin girls standing in line to meet Tucker Max. I'll fully own my nerdy plain girl's mistrust of those who make being pretty their full-time jobs, but I think that there is a significant difference, for example, in the politics of Senator Snowe and those of the Palin/O'Donnell crowd. American women are far too diverse to ever be expected to vote for the same party, but it is so difficult to understand women who don't stand up against the subjugation of other women. Women who don't even take themselves seriously, let alone offer voters reason enough to. I want to feel the bonds of sisterhood, some common struggle that connects me with women like this, but I just don't. Does that make me just as bad as Tucker Max? I think in some ways it must. I don't know what kind of feminism there might be that could possibly include all of us, but I know for sure we're never going to find it worshipping men like him.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 271- Jimmy Carter

Dear Mr. President,

I've been a particular fan of former President Carter since he wrote his book Palestine: Peace, not Apartheid. His courage in speaking frankly about human rights abuses so many other American leaders are happy to ignore impressed me. When I heard today that he'd taken ill, I was worried, but it sounds as though his book tour will resume. I'm glad that he's healthy enough to continue, especially because his tour include as stop at my own bookstore, on a night I work. While the events staff have hinted that making a "Jimmy Carter's #1 fan 4 life" T-shirt might not exactly convey the appropriate level of decorum, I will be nonetheless enthusiastic for the President's visit.

Other news today has reminded me why President Carter's willingness to speak out about the oppression of the Palestinian people is so important. The results of the autopsy of Furkan Dogan, the Turkish-American boy who was executed by Israeli soldiers on the Mavi Marmara reveal that he was fatally shot in the face while already lying down and wounded. It's heartbreaking evidence of the violent way Israel's government is willing to respond to the threat posed by humanitarian activists. I'm sure your administration has seen the forensics report, and the findings of the UN mission. I hope that you find the courage President Carter has displayed, and call out these continued human rights violations for what they really are.

Tonight my thoughts are with President Carter, wishing him a speedy recovery, and also with you, in the hopes that you do not lose sight of what is really important.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 247- Hunger Games

Dear Mr. President,

The last two days I've been completely taken in by a work of fiction in that all-consuming way that still manges to surprise me when it comes in the form of a young adult novel. The Hunger Games series, by Suzanne Collins has had me reading by lamplight far past my bedtime and trying to shut out any nonfictional news of the real world. I had been mostly successful but, alas, enough reality has crept in that I'm aware something terrible must have happened to my college football team. (Thanks, Facebook.) Once my joyful shelter of fiction had been cracked I gave in and read the news.

Frank Rich's column on Iraq was maybe the wrong thing to read after nearly two full days engulfed in a world where the class divide is so extreme the rich and powerful force the poor to offer up their children to fight each other to the death to keep the rest of the population entertained or afraid. Several days ago I wrote to you about the end of the war in Iraq and an old friend responded angrily. He told me something that I had not known; a mutual friend who served in Iraq during the wars early years was in fact being redeployed there. The war, he was saying, is not over. Our friends are still being taken from us. I feel like Frank Rich was sending you a similar message.

I'll own that at first I was stung, stunned, unsure what to call what I felt. Was I angry? At myself for being naive? At you for being misleading? At my friend for pointing it out? I felt something close to guilt, as well, as though my eagerness to take you at your word was the reason that our friend was being sent back. Both friends are, for various and complicated reasons, people I have valued and cared for from afar, keeping their generous natures as far from me as my arms can manage. Perhaps my guilty conscience had more to do with the distance I have forced us to maintain, then, and not related to the war at all. I haven't been particularly close to any other soldiers; perhaps it is the personal cost I manage to keep abstract most of the time. I don't have to be particularly close to any of the men and women serving in Iraq or Afghanistan to feel like I know them. They could be my sisters or my nephew, my cousins or my friends and neighbors. They're someone's children, and they're sent off to kill or to be killed by someone else's children. What do we have to show for it? Two countries full of grieving parents and a number of very wealthy military contractors. I think, Mr. President, that my earlier letter to you was wrong.

Frank Rich and my friend from long ago got it right while I missed the point. You haven't ended the war, you have changed the name. The war will end when the mentality and values system that sent us to war in the first place change. I don't blame you, Sir. You were one of the earliest and most eloquent opponents of the war. When its command passed to you I am sure that necessity required you to compromise some of your more abstract positions. But the war was never an abstraction or a policy position to the people suffering in it. The half of me that feels angry would like to personally track down Cheney and Rumsfeld and John Bolton and all the other neocon architects of this conflict and ask them if they've had their fill of entertainment. The half of me that feels guilty wonders how much my own fear and its resulting inaction is to blame and how much yours is. Tonight, as I think of all the lives we've lost, all that we have irreparably destroyed, I know that there can be no escaping it with a new name or even a convincing work of fiction.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 239- Comfort reading and baiting Glenn Beck fans

Dear Mr. President,

My friend and coworker wrote a short piece on the reliable pleasure of reading Kurt Vonnegut for our bookstore's blog. Comfort reading, returning to a familiar author for the needed reminder of why I read, is something I often find myself in need of. His post recalled my own affection for Vonnegut, and my sadness at his passing. Vonnegut's writing shaped the way that many of my generation approached the world; his humanism and his compassion are certainly things that I strive to emulate in my own life. As Jon Stewart told him once, he made adolescence bearable. Thinking about him today I couldn't help but wonder how he would feel about our country as it is now. How disappointed he might be with us, and how much easier and more absurd the horrible things would all seem if he were still here to comment on them.

If comfort reading is how I escape temporary frustrations with the written word, than I certainly spent my morning occupied with its political equivalent. Sometimes, when the political world gets too frustrating, too disgusting or too bleak, I turn to the familiar comfort and reliable entertainment of baiting Glenn Beck fans. It isn't a nice thing to do, I suppose, and probably not enough of an intellectual exercise to even make it good practice for real debate, but I feel like I'm allowed a certain amount of pleasure on what is definitely one of the toughest days I've had in a while. And so, when confronted with the question "how is Glenn Beck a racist?" by one of his groupies, I felt compelled to answer.

I think what comforts me about arguing with Beck's ilk is that it offers a clear opportunity to articulate my opinions and positions to a clear opponent. Beck's divisive, bigoted and ignorant rants are exactly the sort of thing I stand in opposition to. They are an affront to my values, a poison to our political discourse and one of the last havens for the idea that Real America is the birthright of the white, english-speaking, Judeo-Christian middle class. And, despite all of this, I still believe Beck has every right to say the hateful and stupid things that he says (even, unfortunately, in the historical shadow of much better men.) This feeling is a comforting reminder that I have not lost all perspective for the sake of my partisan beliefs. That I still see the struggle between Right and Left in ideological and not apocalyptic terms. In short, as petty as it may seem, I am merely reassuring myself that for all the comfort of a clearly identified opponent, I have not yet sunk to his level. That Mr. Vonnegut taught me well, and his lessons have not been drown out by my impassioned, emotional reactions.

So much of my time discussing politics feels like war. Two (or more) sides stubbornly entrenched and unwilling to even consider their opposition to be human. Willfully entering a fight like this, just to remind myself that it can be fun, keeps me from sinking into the combative mentality too deeply. Maybe that's unforgivably smug and self-satisfied. I think, so long as Mr. Beck enjoys the right to keep spewing his nonsense, I will enjoy my right to challenge those who are buying into it.

I hope that tomorrow doesn't devolve into something really awful, that Mr. Beck and his supporters remember the great men who stood in that place before them and act accordingly. If not, well, as Mr. Vonnegut said, so it goes.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 200- Mad girl's love song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)


-Sylvia Plath

Dear Mr. President,

I want to write about policy tonight, but I just finished a book that I can't stop thinking about. I'm still walking the streets of Damascus, wandering in the desert with angels and saints and old friends from long ago. I'm also feeling like I've overstepped the boundaries of polite acquaintance, because, unlike some anonymous reader, I can put faces to some of the characters and I have heard their voices and I have heard their telling of the same story. You're an author, you probably experienced that strange freedom of telling your life's secrets to strangers. I don't know about you, but I think it isn't the same, telling it to people you know, or at least have spoken to in person. Maybe I just like to hide behind my keyboard. But still, I'm overcome by the beauty of my friend's writing, of her story, of the hope it gives me. I think it is, at least in part, because I see myself in the story, not me exactly, of course, but a part of me, the part of me that has always been afraid that I'll never feel like a normal person.

The author means a great deal to me, not only because of the kindness she showed me when we met, but because of the strange moment in my life at which I encountered her. I wasn't heartbroken, not all the way, but I was in the middle of a descent into the kind of love and grief over love that are never really distinct from one another, or from madness. I've been in this state several times before. I know all the signs. I know the feeling, that's something like finding what you've looked for all your life, only to realize it isn't at all what you wanted.

Anyway, I was just starting this vicious cycle all over again about the time I took a trip to Palestine. It was hard. It was eye-opening. I hoped it would be life-changing. While walking the path of Abraham, a prophet who I hadn't given much consideration, even during my brief forays into organized religions, I saw amazing things. Sites of power and history and faith. I met people who believed more deeply in these things than I could possibly understand. One morning, waiting for the group to get organized and explore Nablus, my cell phone rang. Up until that instant, I wasn't even sure I could get calls. It was the man I thought I was in love with. He was drunk. He needed to ask me for a phone number of another friend. I went to this place because, for my entire adult life, I'd felt drawn to it, while circumstances or bad choices seemed to prevent me from ever getting there. And, once I finally got there, my cell phone couldn't help reminding me of all of the things just waiting for me to come back. Things I knew I couldn't face as the same person I'd been when I left.

And I met the amazing woman who wrote this book, and she seemed to be, in many ways, what I wanted to be one day. Happy. Sane. Wise. An outsider who had accepted and been accepted in a new place, without losing her ties to home. The type of person I didn't think people like me were allowed to become. But most of all, she seemed to understand the conflicted nature of being an American in a place where America had done or helped to do really awful things. Of having yourself represented by a passport that got you special treatment, and the nightly news images of bombed-out buildings and dying children on TV. Of never, ever, being able to hide from your origins or to express the pride and affection you still have for your country, for all of the things it means to you that never get translated well. Of wanting to Do Good, (whatever that means,) and finding that you could never make it all right. That no one can. And I got to experience all of that all over again reading her book. It's good to be reminded that I'm not the only one who has ever felt so lost. That sometimes the fight just to figure out your own life, to keep your own sanity and to mend your own heart is more important, and harder, than we let ourselves say out loud.

When I was in Palestine, they gave me a new name. The people I met made me reconsider a number of things I'd been sure of. But my life did not change, right away. I went home and fell into the same patterns and was trapped by the oppressive sameness of my life, compounded by these dashed hopes for instant renewal and transformation. But, eventually, I got better, in no small part because I had begun to understand what I was looking for. Because I learned that change is hard. Change takes time and work and doesn't often look like the original plan. Change requires moving in utter darkness, pressing forward on uncertain ground with only faith to tell us that the path exists at all. Change does not happen all at once.

Ok, I guess this was a little bit about policy, after all.


Respectfully yours,

Kelsey


PS

The book I've been writing about is one I've mentioned here before; it's called The Bread of Angels and the brilliant author is Stephanie Saldaña.

Day 181- Vampires and Werewolves

Dear Mr. President,

On July 21 of 2007, I was dressed as Bellatrix Lestrange and, before an exuberant crowd of over 2,000, I revealed the first copy of the final Harry Potter book, and sold it to the first person in line. Less than an hour later, we'd sold a copy to every person who'd waited in line, and my roommates and I headed into the metro to go home. I'd been at work since 9 am, and it was close to 2:30am. Three men approached us on the platform and, seeing that we were reading the Harry Potter books, offered us $50 a book, cash. So you might see why I wasn't at all surprised to read that Elena Kagan was asked to comment on the Edward v. Jacob "controversy."

I want to be disappointed by this, but I can't help finding it sort of endearing. Don't get me wrong, the Twilight phenomenon has never appealed to me at all, but the young girl who went to the midnight shows of all the Star Wars special editions, or who, (even as a poor 21-year old) refused to sell my $21 copy of the Deathly Hallows for $50 so that I could stay up 12 straight hours reading it, understands those fans, to a point. I can't help but be impressed that these stories, intended to do little more than entertain children, have swept up much of the adult population in a shared experience. The people who hate Twilight, or who joke about it, are as caught up in this phenomenon as those who love it. Maybe the bookseller in me is always gratified to see people excited about reading, but I think it's more than that, too. I think that, having lived in so many places in my life, and always feeling a bit transient, it is comforting to know that we're all looking at the same sky, so to speak. That, on July 22nd, 2007, when I looked around on the metro, I was seeing the same sea of orange covers that friends and strangers alike were encountering on planes, in classrooms and cafes all over the world. That art, which is glorious in its celebration of our differences, the unique experience it offers each of us, also allows us to see how much we have in common.

Certainly, as a bookseller, I have also witnessed those who have been taken in too deeply by their fantasies and fandom, who have lost sight of reality and may never recognize it again. I don't know that fiction can be blamed for offering such an alluring alternative for those who find reality too painful. And, while I respect the Senate and the process of judicial confirmation too much to wish it to appear trite or silly, I am confident that werewolves and vampires will be far from the most ridiculous or undignified things that Kagan will be questioned about in the coming days.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 145- Tin-foil hats and Scud missiles

Dear Mr. President,

Is something happening to Lebanon soon? I don't mean to sound like some crazy, tin-foil-hat wearing conspiracy theorist, but I couldn't help but notice you and Vice-President Biden have reached out to Prime Minister Hariri twice in as many days. This seemed odd, in and of its self, but then I read about the missile drills Israel is staging this week, which are being taken by the Lebanese government as preparation for war. Hizbollah's ties to Iran might also indicate that something is possibly about to happen to Iran, instead. Either way, I hope I'm just being paranoid. If I'm not, just in case it doesn't go without saying, I'm hoping that you exhaust all of our options to help avoid another conflict that will only cause the innocent to suffer.

When I worked at Borders in downtown Washington, I once rang up a woman for all of our remaining copies of Killing Mr. Lebanon, a book about the assassination of Rafik Hariri. Her distress was evident, and so I asked her about Mr. Hariri, who, she said, had been her boss. She tearfully told me about working in his government, how much she'd admired him, and how much she missed him still. It was moving to see her affection for this man, both on a personal and on a political level. Her grief came, in part, at the immense loss her country had suffered. This was not long after the 2006 war that destroyed so many lives and so much of her country. Maybe it's easy to say this, when the tragic history of this place is given a face in my memory, but I think Lebanon has been through enough. We (and, more importantly, our allies,) could maybe let Beirut stand for more than 4 years before trying to knock it all down, again.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 108-Fwd:

"I wanted to give you all some disturbing information on our wonderful president. I work with the Catch-A-Dream Foundation which provides hunting and fishing trips to children with life-threatening illnesses. This past weekend we had our annual banquet / fundraiser event in Starkville. "As a part of our program we had scheduled Sgt. 1st Class Greg Stube a highly decorated U.S. Army Green Beret and inspirational speaker who was severely injured while deployed overseas and was thought that he didn't have much of a chance for survival to come. Greg is stationed at Ft. Bragg and received permission from his commanding officer to come speak at our function. Everything was on go until Obama made a policy that NO U.S. SERVICEMAN CAN SPEAK AT ANY FAITH-BASED PUBLIC EVENTS ANYMORE. Needless to say Greg had to cancel his speaking event with us. Didn't know if anyone else was aware of this new policy. Wonder what kind of news we all will receive next. You're just starting to see the Obamanation. Your religion is on the list next."

-A chain e-mail sent to my mother.

So today's letter is a bit silly. It's been a dark, depressing news week(/month/year) and nothing cheers me up like a good e-mail from the crazy part of Michigan. Does any one out there know of any equivalent crazy talk emails from the left? Do we do that? If so, how do I get them?

Dear Mr. President,

My mother has a friend from her high school days who regularly forwards her e-mails full of right-wing nonsense. She has resisted, many times, the urge to respond to these e-mails with logic or facts that would contradict them. At my request, she often sends me the most absurd, because we enjoy a good laugh. Mother-daughter bonding, you might call it. Today's e-mail is about your apparent intervention to prevent members of the armed forces from speaking at faith-based events, an assertion repudiated by even the most cursory fact-checking. Though laughable, this e-mail is mild in comparison to many that circulated during the campaign. One memorable message from the same woman, with the subject "Can Muslims be good Americans?", insisted that you worshiped "Allah, the moon god of Arabia." More than a few suggested you might be the Antichrist, a claim I found particularly unsettling, as it involved convincing self-proclaimed Christians that the book of Revelation described the coming of a Muslim man in his 40's. I looked into this further, not so curious as to how people could believe this, (after all, once you're willing to believe in the Antichrist, it probably isn't wholly out of the realm of possibility for it to be any one,) but as to how they could be misled about the text that is central to their religion, an item so ubiquitous that it can be found and read in more places than any book besides Harry Potter. Didn't any one think, before they forwarded the message on, to open their copy of the Bible and see if that was really what it said?

I don't like to think that people act without logic or rationale. I may disagree with them, but I want to believe that people are fundamentally motivated by the same basic needs and desires. The internet constantly provides ample material to make me seriously doubt this conviction. Clearly, these rumors aren't something you can really fight, no one who believes you're a faith-hating/Socialist/Muslim/ The Antichrist, is going to be persuaded by a public denial. How would one prove or disprove any of it? (Maybe you could read Revelation at a press conference? They might think you changed it. Also, they probably don't watch presidential press conferences.) Dignifying it with a response, at all, is clearly not the right course. I suppose this is all the other side of the Presidential coin; you may be reviled by crazy people on the internet, but you still get to have JK Rowling at the Easter Egg roll.

The problem, of course, is that the people who send and believe these e-mails aren't abstractions. They're our high school friends or our grandparents; they're voters or taxpayers or citizens. They can't be reasoned with or persuaded. They pass it on, by clicking forward, or by telling their children, or by changing the text books for an entire state. How are willful lies about your birth certificate or religion any different than the misinformation Michele Bachmann spread about the Census? Or Mitch McConnell, about your financial reform proposals?

Some days, these e-mails stop being funny and just become disturbing and very, very sad. I'd like to have more respect for my fellow Americans, but it seems that many are willing and even eager to believe the worst and most absurd things they are told.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 77- the 5 year plan

Dear Mr President,

A few days ago my boss called me in for a conversation that should have been a simple 10 minute discussion and turned into an offer a promotion. I'm incredibly fortunate, especially in this economic climate, to be struggling to choose between the new job I'd resigned for a few weeks ago, or remaining with the my current company and be promoted. Immediately after talking with her, I sent out for advice from as many of my family and friends as I could. Their answers came back, begging more questions. "Where do you want to end up?" "What do you want for yourself in 5 years?"

This long-term planning has never been a strength of mine. I often feel as though I'm putting one foot in front of the other, taking one breath at a time, as though planning an entire day ahead is too much assumption. What do I want to be in 5 years? Happy. There are a number of concepts caught up in that; for instance, I don't think my happiness will be tied up in the amount of money I have, but I do think it will be directly related to how good I feel about my life. Am I helping others? Am I healthy? Do I have time for important things in my life? My head tells me that the quickest route to this is a high-paying promotion that will allow me the kind of freedom that financial security seems to promise; my instincts tell me that I need less stress, less chaos, that increasing my income will only increase my desire to make more money.

The more I considered this question, the more I realized I don't know, for certain, what happiness looks like. I've spent so much of my adolescence and young adulthood deeply unhappy for reasons I can't always access. I've been lonely and afraid and tired all the time. I've been paralyzed by big decisions, and avoid them as much as possible. I have lately looked around to take stock of my existence and found much of my behavior to be about survival, not happiness. Even my consideration for these two jobs is based more on how it will upset or please others, because I have no idea what will make me happy. How have I lost touch with myself so completely? I know I'm not the only one, and I know this because the self-help section of my bookstore is continuously full of bestsellers.

This can only lead me to believe that we don't, as a society, understand happiness as well as we should. Is it a matter of having lost sight of it, somewhere, or of having yet to find it at all? I don't know. I know that nothing I can earn or buy or consume or even vote for is going to secure my happiness. I know that whichever job I choose, I will wonder long at what the other would have offered, and will try to continue to make myself question what the future I want looks like, so that I'll know it, should I ever have the opportunity to choose it.

For now, I think a good night's sleep is the best choice I can make, with the hope that morning brings with it a small measure of clarity. I know that the next few days will not be easy for you, Mr. President, and I hope you know that the support and best hopes of so many Americans will be with you.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 68- Courage & Consequence

Dear Mr. President,

As an author, I'm sure you appreciate the challenges of writing honestly, and well, about yourself and your own experiences. Many authors attempt to do this, but I think very few succeed. Today, another example of such an attempt goes on sale. Last night, (really, only a few hours ago,) I was putting out Karl Rove's new book for display. Mr. Rove's book, Courage and Consequence was bound to pique my curiosity. For one thing, the title suggests that Karl Rove, in an attempt to broaden the appeal of his book, targeted the "Jane Austen" demographic, a group of readers rarely sought after by the publishers of political memoirs. Additionally, the blurb on the back of the book describes Rove's as, "a life spent in political combat and service to country, no matter the costs." I'll grant that as Deputy Chief of Staff, Mr. Rove served his country; the language used in the book, however, seem to indicate that Mr. Rove believes he has sacrificed himself for his country, somehow, and I fail to see the evidence supporting such a contention.

For the time being, as I am still a seller of books, I believe that every one, even Karl Rove, has a right to have their story told. No matter what my profession, I will always oppose censoring or suppression, even the voices of those that I disagree with. The smug, self-satisfied, extreme close-up of Mr. Rove's face on the cover of this book, however, tests this conviction more than any author since Robert Spencer. Whenever books like this come out, where the author is so clearly trying to retell a familiar story in a way that casts them in a more forgivable role, I always wonder how many minds they really feel they will change. Most of the people who buy this book will already agree with everything Mr. Rove has to say. A significant portion of rest will only be picking it up to find their name in the index. I can't imagine Rove will win over many skeptics.

If anything, I am most surprised at my own reaction to the publication of this book. I get angry, fiercely angry at the account Mr. Rove gives, casting President Bush as the misunderstood hero. I think I am angry because it doesn't seem fair that the conservative spin machine has extended so far into my bookstore, instead of keeping to the talk radio and TV news as I feel it should. I think I am angry because I am afraid that I might not be completely right, that Mr. Rove may have reasonable, even valuable perspectives on things I am unwilling to hear, as they may threaten my own beliefs. I'm not sure what the most productive way of dealing with these feelings might be, but for now I've settled with photocopying his face off of the cover and plastering it all over my boss's office. Mature, it is not, but at least I feel a bit better.

After your own time in the White House is finished, will you write another memoir, Mr. President? You seem to be more inclined toward writing as an end in its own, which is likely why your books sell so well and are so enjoyable to read. If you do, I hope you are able to bring the frankness of your first two books to your reflections on life in the White House.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 63- A great step into the unkown

Dear Mr. President,

I quit my job today. I'll be taking a position with another company, a company I respect. Still, I am heartbroken to be leaving behind my life as a bookseller, to say goodbye to so many of my friends and coworkers, and even my bosses, for whom I have a tremendous amount of respect. In many ways, I was too comfortable at my job, too content with what I had to push myself to achieve more.

In anticipation of the separation from my store, I signed up for a library card. The Seattle Library is a truly awe-inspiring building, rivaling the skyscrapers in grandeur, but open to all. Inside, I am reminded of the great things that government stands for, the collective good served by institutions like this one. I sit at a computer, surrounded by Seattlites of all ages, races and backgrounds. Some are looking for work. Some are learning. Some are just killing time. But we are united, in a small way, by this shared experience, this service we receive from our community.

I think libraries are a great example of how government programs can coexist with private industry. My bookstore will not go out of business or suffer because of competition from libraries. Many will continue to choose to pay for the ownership of clean, crisp new books, the day they are published. But for those who cannot afford to buy every book they would like to read, the government, recognizing that society is stronger when every one can access the stores of human knowledge, has provided an alternative.

I hope that I made the right choice today, Mr. President. I know you can offer me no assurance to that end. Facing the unknown consequences of our choices is the price we pay for the freedom to make them. I will enjoy my new job, but as I sit here, overcome with gratitude at my own good fortune and that such a place as this library exists, I know that I need to start giving back to the greater good. I'm making a commitment to you, in this letter, on day 63 of this year, to find a way to better serve my community, as well.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey