Columns

Dear An Open Letter,

We haven't long together, you and I.

It's hard to believe it's been well over a year already. Well, not actually hard to believe. That's just a turn of phrase. A rather bad one, if you ask me. It rarely ever means what it says. But that's besides the point. I'm always besides the point; even, apparently, when writing a column that, believe it or not, means an awful lot to me. But that's okay; I make no apologies for that. Tangents are fun; they keep you entertained, because you never know what's coming next. Honestly? Neither do I, sometimes.

I remember when I first conceived of you, An Open Letter. I was sitting in behind those bookshelves at the back of the third floor in the James Hight Library. There used to be some really peaceful spots back there before the earthquakes. Lots of graffiti, too. I'll say one thing about student graffiti: it's pretty clever when compared to regular graffiti. I remember looking for some degree of inspiration in the scrawlings. It'd make a nice little story if I found some, but I didn't. You know how sometimes stories from your life form clean little narratives that work out really nicely, sometimes so nicely that they're actually painfully cliché? I had one of these stories, and I told it to a friend of mine the other week, and she laughed at me. I was so embarrassed that I walked back the story, and pretended that part of it was a joke. She'll probably read this now, know exactly what I'm talking about, and apologize or something. She need not; in retrospect, it was pretty funny. I don't think I'll ever tell it again, though. Let that be a lesson, I suppose.

So I was sitting there in the library, looking for a column idea, and when I first came up with An Open Letter, I wasn't actually that happy with it. But I knew, from that very moment of conception, that for all the ideas I would come up with afterward, and all the ideas that had come before, that I was always going to revert to that one. It might not've lived up to my unreasonable expectations, but it fit the bill. So for almost a year and a half now I've been writing you, An Open Letter, and you've served me well. You've been a joy, an escape, a frustration, a friend.

When most people pick up this magazine, and read this column, they probably skim through it, rarely finish it, and occasionally, they might rather enjoy it; but that's the extent of the relationship that people have with you, An Open Letter. You're just one column in a student magazine. They don't know what you mean to me, and I always planned to tell them. I always said to myself that, just once, before this was all over, I would write a column about column-writing. But it's something that, up until now, I've been very reluctant to do, because it's not exactly the kind of thing that people want to read. And yet, today I figured that, sometimes, you just have to be a little shameless; a little self-indulgent. The other week, someone described this column as "self-concerned". Yeah, well, damned right it is.

The thing about my life is, it's not actually that much unlike anyone else's life. I don't have any special stories to tell. I don't face any great hardships. But in just the last year, my life, like the lives of so many others before me, has begun to change. I guess I'm at that point now. My degree is coming to an end. My time in public education is over. I'm now looking at jobs... real jobs. I have relatives – who I have known all my life – that might soon die. I have pets – who I have known just as long – that might soon die. I have friends, beloved friends, who aren't all that far off leaving me. I have so much to gain, and yet so much to lose; so much I've already lost, and so many things I miss. Dear god, there are things I miss. I miss the simplicity of childhood; the days where I could just go home to my room, hug a soft toy and feel like that was all there was in the world.

I'll never get that back; nowadays, I barely have a moment to myself. I have a lot of work to do, a lot of responsibilities, a lot of things to think about. And in the past year, the sudden onset of these things has brought me an awful lot of stress... and an awful lot of fear. Is this life now? I guess it is. But it's scary, and I feel like a child saying that... but it is. It's scary, goddamn it. I'm afraid, and it's these fears and insecurities that have not made for the happiest of years for me. I've been irritable and negative, and at times just... really down. I've been worried about things I shouldn't have been. I've been upset at friends who didn't deserve it. All in all, it sounds like quite a bad year, doesn't it?

But it hasn't been. It's been a good year, actually. A really good year, in fact. I've learnt a lot of things; I've overcome a lot of insecurities, and in spite of all the stuff that I've had to worry about, I've had a lot of things to help me through, and keep me motivated. I'm not unique. Everyone has to grow up. Everyone has to mourn their childhood. It's not whether you're going to get through that; it's how you're going to get through that. I've gotten through it, and I'm getting through it, because I'm very fortunate to have a great family, loving friends, and a column... called An Open Letter. I say that because, for all the stress this column has brought me, it has been instrumental in taking so much more away. When you're forced to write for an audience of thousands of people – whether they care or not – you're forced to cheer up a little. There have been so many weeks where this column has made me put on a smile and tell a dumb joke, when I otherwise just wouldn't have. It's made me happy when I should've been sad. For that, I am extremely grateful.

Which is why, An Open Letter, it pains me so deeply to inform you that our time is almost up. This is the second to last issue of Canta for this year, and the second to last time that I will ever write you. I don't plan on bringing you back. I know it seems unintuitive, at a time when I've become so perturbed by so much imminent change, for me to change yet one more thing. Could I revive you again in the future? Absolutely I could. But I don't want to. I feel like the time has come for me to move on, and for you to be at peace, free at last from the critical eyes of abortion people and John Vosburgh. You've served me well, An Open Letter, and our work here is done. But don't you worry; it's not over just yet. Because next week, we'll have one last go at it.

Once more unto the breach, dear friend.

Yours Sincerely,
Ben Uffindell.