Ghosts of the future

 Before the Internet, before people talked about everything and anything, before depression and bullying were everyday topics that communities looked out for, I didn't know that what I was experiencing was different from how it could be. I didn't know that other people had better coping mechanisms than looking up at the corner ceiling and gasping deeply to try and stop tears. I didn't know that I didn't cause the bullying by wearing Holly Hobbie underwear in an era when WonderWoman was the way to go. I didn't even fully process that big fourth grader Vicky should not be pulling up my skirt to tell the world about my panties...we didn't talk about these things back then. And when I did complain, in fear, the response of that era was to "Laugh it off, Emily. If you don't make a big deal, they won't."

I needed hope. (Probably I needed a little Lexapro and the power of wheels to leave unhealthy situations, but that's another story...) So, in search of hope, I began a tradition of writing letters to Emily of the Future.

In my best cursive handwriting, a sadder, younger me wrote heartfelt letters to the woman I am now. "Tell me that you are brave!" I begged myself, "Tell me that you have learned to ride a bicycle on the curb like the T-birds club does, and that nobody accuses you of lighting matches on the bus anymore." Or... "Tell me Melinda (or Nana, or Dad) is healthy and that you have forgotten what the hospital smells like, that you have forgotten the beeps and the pit in your stomach waiting to find out what is going on." Later, I begged myself to promise I wouldn't forget how wonderful things were, even when they weren't, even when I was consumed by anticipatory nostalgia. I still have many of these letters. I even remember how I felt when I was writing some of them.

(writing with my older niece)

Now, though, I don't write to a future me. Somehow, I have faith in the future. Even when there are hard times, or losses, or exoding pipes, I have hope in my ability to endure and I believe that bad moments often lead to wonderful ones.  A mentor once taught me that "out of crisis comes opportunity", and I really believe that now. Instead, I write back to the tween me. I try to give her the reassurance I needed back then. And I try to be that reassurance for the real live modern-day smartphone toting Tweens in my life today, even though most of them don't know much about letter-writing, let alone addressing envelopes.

(How do you address an envelope to the future? How do you deliver a letter to the past?)

Recently, I had the opportunity to watch a top-notch, Broadway-level production of Amadeus at Playhouse 22. If you need plans for next weekend, before it closes, I can't emphasize more how AMAZING this production is. The talent is astounding. The script is brilliant. And the blend of humor and sorrow is deeply poignant.

The show is set as a kind of confessional for Salieri. Early in the play, he invokes us, the audience, "ghosts of the future" to hear his story, not to forgive him but to understand him. Slowly, the house lights go up and the audience is conjured. We are the ghosts from his future. Salieri longs for immortality-- through fame or notoriety, he yearns to be remembered forever. We denizens of 2015 do remember him, thanks to his connection with Mozart, not thanks to the mediocrity of his music. He, in fact, begs us future ghosts to celebrate him as the patron saint of mediocrity. (What would it be like if I returned an un-proofread student's work with the message "Pray to Salieri that you may be happy with a C level grade?" Guess not...)

In any case, I began to think about the ghosts of our future. Who are they? What will they want from me? What will I want from them?

I had a student die toward the end of my first year of teaching. Liesja was an honor level 11th grade student who loved learning for learning's sake and who transcended the cliques of high school in modern suburbia. Her death on the Garden State Parkway is still easy to research on the web, as are recipients of the Carpe Diem award that is given each year in her honor. However, the Internet was young back then and digital footprints were much smaller in the nineties than they are today.  Her letter to the future, her message to me today, is only found in my memory. I wonder what she could have said to the world if she only had more time.

Recently, I took on the role of a Ghost from the future. I was in the barrack that Murray Goldfinger had told me he was imprisoned in, across the ocean and across seven decades, in Auschwitz.  When I stood outside of that room, I just closed my eyes and thought as strongly and as deeply as I could: 

Little Murray, be strong.

These are awful times but you are a good person.

You are losing people you love now, but you will someday have children, grandchildren and great grandchildren even.

You are in a world guided by hate, but you will push forward into a world where you teach children about kindness.

Stay strong, little Murray.

We, the future, are counting on you.

I don't know how to send letters to the past any more than I know how to speak across the decades. But I know that I stood where he once stood, sending love and hope and strength. 

I wonder who is in the future talking to me. Who will be living where my house is in fifty years, or a hundred? What will future me have to say to this happy me who has a hopeful answer to anything (except deceitful plumbers)? What will future me miss that I should make sure to notice today?

Dear Future Me, 

I have tried to love and savor all.

I am blessed with family, friends, a career, music, cats, nature, faith, and the gift of words.

I hope you cherish this luck as much as I do.

Love, Emily of 2015

(Is my younger niece's love letter a kind of message to our future?)