Chere 6- year old- self,
Oh, honey. Don’t cry. I know you don’t know English. I know you see these girls whispering at you. I know you just moved to Virginia, cold, lonely Virginia, away from sunny California, where you left all your friends. I know your only language is French, and nobody speaks it. And to top it off, upon your ears all day are hearing aids. Big, brown, ugly hearing aids, that everyone could see. And I know that when you’re first grade, you’re small and scared. Americans are just so different than French kids. To this day, I still see the difference very acutely. Don’t cry when Mommy drops you off on your first day. Don’t hang on to her arm, screaming, pleading, sobbing…You’ll catch the look of sadness and pity in your mother’s eyes, which will scare you even more. Don’t feel stupid for not understanding the assignment. Soon enough, you’ll catch up and be better than everyone in your class. It’ll work out, you’ll see.
Please. I beg you. Don’t create such horrible memories for me.
Bisous, I.W
Dear 8- year-old self,
After two years of not knowing the language, and being made fun of, you’re still feeling insecure. I know it. Things have worked out…you moved back to Cali, and were reunited with old friends… you should be happy shouldn’t you? But the bright, sunny Cali girl left and you still have traces of depressing Virginia on you. I know it’s tempting to stick your nose in a book during recess, instead of socializing. I still can’t believe you actually signed your drawing, -By Friendless Izzie. But it was good that you did that in the long run. That was the day that Sarah (who was walking on crutches because she twisted her ankle, not because she was missing a toe, stupid.) first smiled at you, then took you aside and asked to be friends. That was good move. Then sending her ten emails asking her why in the world she’d want to be your friend? Bad move. You’re lucky she has the memory of a goldfish, and we are great friends today.
By the way, it’s in sixth grade that you discover she has all ten toes.
Love, I.W
Dear 10- year old self,
You are a very stupid fifth grader, you know that? You’re going to a new school, where fifth grade is middle school. You don’t know anyone. And still you decide to come on the first day wearing blue pants and a ridiculous seashell- green tunic. Did I mention the ridiculous hairdo? One braid is fine, but twelve? What was Mother thinking, letting you go out in public with that hair. And making friends with the most popular girl in the middle school? Come on. It was so obvious she was using you. You were friends with the boy she liked. Don’t even get me started on the bozo hairdo at the Bar Mitzvah… no wonder they didn’t invite you to the after-party...
You should have stuck your chin up, instead of going home crying. You should have looked them right in the eyes, instead of staring at your feet. It was her confident demeanor that made her well-liked. Today, popular one’s getting herself into trouble, and her friends either got ugly or sent to boarding school.
Mother calls it the year of low self-esteem.
I call it the year of the idiot.
Love, I. W
Dear 12-year old self,
You think you’re so cool, don’t ya? You think you’re a smart little seventh grader. Best friends with popular girl Sarah. Hanging with the cool kids on Saturday. Teachers are wondering where their sweet, little social outcast went, and, heck, so are you! Having the nerve to actually tease the big eighth graders. Then when you get away with it, hon, that’s when your ego reached the limit. You stood up to that popular girl. So did her best friend, Sarah. You think you know everything. Well, guess what? There are some girls in the class you think are losers. You think they are over-religious freaks. Well guess what! Today, you’re best friends. And you wish you had been all along.
Remember, fifth grade, I told you to lift your chin up high? Well you did. A little too high. Humble up a little. And brace yourself for eighth grade.
Love I.W
PS: Open your third drawer. You’ll find envelopes. Open the second and you’ll find paper. Start writing.
Oh, honey. Don’t cry. I know you don’t know English. I know you see these girls whispering at you. I know you just moved to Virginia, cold, lonely Virginia, away from sunny California, where you left all your friends. I know your only language is French, and nobody speaks it. And to top it off, upon your ears all day are hearing aids. Big, brown, ugly hearing aids, that everyone could see. And I know that when you’re first grade, you’re small and scared. Americans are just so different than French kids. To this day, I still see the difference very acutely. Don’t cry when Mommy drops you off on your first day. Don’t hang on to her arm, screaming, pleading, sobbing…You’ll catch the look of sadness and pity in your mother’s eyes, which will scare you even more. Don’t feel stupid for not understanding the assignment. Soon enough, you’ll catch up and be better than everyone in your class. It’ll work out, you’ll see.
Please. I beg you. Don’t create such horrible memories for me.
Bisous, I.W
Dear 8- year-old self,
After two years of not knowing the language, and being made fun of, you’re still feeling insecure. I know it. Things have worked out…you moved back to Cali, and were reunited with old friends… you should be happy shouldn’t you? But the bright, sunny Cali girl left and you still have traces of depressing Virginia on you. I know it’s tempting to stick your nose in a book during recess, instead of socializing. I still can’t believe you actually signed your drawing, -By Friendless Izzie. But it was good that you did that in the long run. That was the day that Sarah (who was walking on crutches because she twisted her ankle, not because she was missing a toe, stupid.) first smiled at you, then took you aside and asked to be friends. That was good move. Then sending her ten emails asking her why in the world she’d want to be your friend? Bad move. You’re lucky she has the memory of a goldfish, and we are great friends today.
By the way, it’s in sixth grade that you discover she has all ten toes.
Love, I.W
Dear 10- year old self,
You are a very stupid fifth grader, you know that? You’re going to a new school, where fifth grade is middle school. You don’t know anyone. And still you decide to come on the first day wearing blue pants and a ridiculous seashell- green tunic. Did I mention the ridiculous hairdo? One braid is fine, but twelve? What was Mother thinking, letting you go out in public with that hair. And making friends with the most popular girl in the middle school? Come on. It was so obvious she was using you. You were friends with the boy she liked. Don’t even get me started on the bozo hairdo at the Bar Mitzvah… no wonder they didn’t invite you to the after-party...
You should have stuck your chin up, instead of going home crying. You should have looked them right in the eyes, instead of staring at your feet. It was her confident demeanor that made her well-liked. Today, popular one’s getting herself into trouble, and her friends either got ugly or sent to boarding school.
Mother calls it the year of low self-esteem.
I call it the year of the idiot.
Love, I. W
Dear 12-year old self,
You think you’re so cool, don’t ya? You think you’re a smart little seventh grader. Best friends with popular girl Sarah. Hanging with the cool kids on Saturday. Teachers are wondering where their sweet, little social outcast went, and, heck, so are you! Having the nerve to actually tease the big eighth graders. Then when you get away with it, hon, that’s when your ego reached the limit. You stood up to that popular girl. So did her best friend, Sarah. You think you know everything. Well, guess what? There are some girls in the class you think are losers. You think they are over-religious freaks. Well guess what! Today, you’re best friends. And you wish you had been all along.
Remember, fifth grade, I told you to lift your chin up high? Well you did. A little too high. Humble up a little. And brace yourself for eighth grade.
Love I.W
PS: Open your third drawer. You’ll find envelopes. Open the second and you’ll find paper. Start writing.
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