Just another letter…
Does it matter if this will never be read by the people it’s meant for?
Dear those who cannot read this,
I am sorry. You don’t know my name and you probably can’t comprehend my life. But that’s okay, because I don’t know your name or your life either. I’m writing this letter to apologize. I am in another world, with food and clean water and shelter and education and opportunities and hope. Where I live, we think death is a big deal; poverty is unjust and unnatural; high school diplomas are standard; war is distant and unreal. I live far away from where you live.
I cannot begin to pretend that I could ever grasp your life. But I still know some things. I know that we will never meet but that we are still linked. What I do affects you, but you have no choice in the matter. I’m sorry for my parents and their parents, who polluted your air. I’m sorry for my government, which is primarily occupied by its own affairs and sees your need as statistics. I’m sorry for my cars and supermarket, which make your home a commodity. I’m sorry for my society, which treats science and social justice as mutually exclusive, even when one can help the other. I’m sorry for my clothes, which could’ve been food for you. I’m sorry for my thoughts, which stack you behind a superficial life, filled with touch iPods and glossy magazines. I’m sorry for my words, which make me a hypocrite most days.
There is no real point for this letter… Can I confess something?
I’m also sorry for this letter -because its purpose is just to make me feel better. Selfish in the end, but please believe me, it is honestly given. I can only say that none of my life has helped you, that most of my life as made you worse off. Nonetheless, a piece of my heart is with you right now. It exists along side yours (not in harmony, not in humanity, not in history. In spirit. Uselessly.)
I give you my hope,
A North American Girl
