Title is stolen from Misty. Many thanks to my right hand man.
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Dear Senator Moore,
There are many things I want to tell you. Firstly, I can’t vote, but my mother did, and she voted for you because she thought your campaign slogan was clever. I agree. And with your recent actions in the Chamber, she sure got “Moore” for her vote!
It’s amazing what a good campaign office can do, but that’s not primarily why I’m writing you today—don’t you think it’s amazing, senator, what a good man can do, particularly to a woman’s heart? It’s true. Since I’ve begun diligently bringing you sandwiches each day at noon, I’ve realized what the nuances can do for human relationships. Each ‘thank-you’ makes me swoon. Each extra napkin that you give to Senator Rodriguez—well, that’s just chivalry. And each time you break off a piece of your Subway cookie to give to me, my eyes tear up and I swear I’ll never love another man.
It would mean the world to me, Senator, if you would tell me how you feel about me. If you would kindly take five minutes of your busy, busy day to cross the street to the Grant memorial tomorrow at 5:00 and swear your love—or lack thereof. It would mean all the world to me.
Hoping to ruin some hapless tourist’s picture with you and only you,
The Sandwich Bringer
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Dear Senator Moore,
Oops. Totally didn’t realize that your real Sandwich Bringer was a boy—my apologies to Akbar; send my love to his parents and assure them that their son is in no way romantically interested in his employer.
Since you are no doubt wondering about me, I’ll tell you what I know—I am not, in fact, your Sandwich Bringer. We’ve never been formally introduced. I shook your hand once, but you were engaged in conversation with Senator Nelson and our eyes never truly met. The Sandwich Bringer seemed an apt metaphor for me, as in the words of Laozi, I “do little, but accomplish everything”. Mull that over for a bit. You’re the Harvard graduate, not me.
I love you because you do the opposite. You do everything, but realistically, accomplish nothing, and yet you have nothing but pride for yourself and your country. We are yin and yang, you and I. That is dao. I mention “dao” because I am Chinese—well, half of me is Chinese. My parents met in a youth hostel somewhere in south Bayern. My father was the son of a Lutheran pastor, and my mother was a former Maoist on the run from the law. Nine months later, my mother had emigrated to the United States, and my father was nowhere to be found.
You probably wouldn’t know this, because you have happily wedded parents and two older sisters, but it is difficult to be illegitimate in a closely-knit Catholic town. The looks, the stares—they’re enough to keep you cooped up in the house all day, trembling and drowning out the noise in your head with Gershwin tapes.
I have to finish up, because I’m posting this on the way to school. I’ll finish my thoughts tomorrow.
Affectionately,
Lovechild
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FROM: hottsccrplyr@hotmail.com
TO: t.moore@sen.gov
SUBJECT: Wo Ai Ni
I heard that you were in Beijing for the Olympics, so you might know what that means—我爱你. It even looks beautiful, doesn’t it?
I’m using my sister’s e-mail address because I’m a bit of a snooper. Did you know that she has two boyfriends and one of them tastes like mango? I did not, until today. What's more, I'm not sure that I wanted to know, and nor do you, but I think it strengthens long-distance relationships to go through something unpleasant together.
Rather than write you, I’d figure I would e-mail you, because I’ve felt guilty all day and e-mail is the more instantaneous of the two. You could probably figure this out, but I lied about my parents. I know who my father is. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I bet at this moment, he’s sitting behind his desk, playing Tetris—he’s a psychologist, but he’s not very good at solving his own problems, so he doesn’t have many clients. I was a client of his, once. We ended up fighting and the people in the lobby could hear it over the white noise machine and trickle fountain. I could see them leaving from the little CCTV above his desk. It’s mostly his fault, though, so I didn’t feel bad—I still don’t feel bad.
I read on your website that you grew up in Broken Bow. Funny, I have driven through Broken Bow! I ate a hamburger at the Hardee’s there that gave me food poisoning, and I was throwing up for three days after that. Hopefully when we meet you can give me a tour of your beautiful hometown that does not involve its restrooms.
Affectionately,
Lovechild
