Edition #33: A Great American Summer

Plus, 2020 as told by a history textbook from the future, the company selling your lost luggage, an old letter worth reading

A Note From the Editor

On July 1st, I packed my suitcase into the back of an old Jeep (a quarantine purchase by my friend, Mallorie, who bought the car on a whim for an absurdly low price) and drove away from Manhattan towards a new, temporary life. I’d been adamant about sticking it out in the city through the pandemic, earning my stripes as a “true New Yorker,” but as my lease came to an end in the middle of summer, there was a tightness in my chest I couldn’t ignore. I was crying a lot, finding it impossible to maintain any semblance of silence in my mind, feeling resentful towards the very things I loved about living in the city. If anyone asked I would’ve said I was “fine! Doing well, actually,” but my body was telling me otherwise. The day I decided to put my things in storage and spend a month upstate, I felt 10 pounds lighter. The day we drove away from Manhattan, I felt like a bird.

There is no adequate way to describe the past 23 days other than to say it has been the inverse of my life in the city, and maybe of any life I’ve lived thus far. I drink my morning coffee on the back porch, staring at a thick brush of trees and dodging an assortment of strange bugs, listening to birds screech and sing. I ride my bike on the lip of the two-lane road dotted with wildflowers, unbothered by the force it takes to push myself up the hill, distracted by the valleys and the silence. I swim in a lake that resembles a clear glass bowl, and every time I dive into the water I’m reminded of the freedom of childhood. I take breaks in the middle of the workday to splay out on the grass in the backyard, to meditate or stretch. I spend hours reading in the hammock, and an equal amount of time staring up at the sky.

I’ve climbed a steep ladder, balancing haphazardly with outstretched arms to pluck sour cherries from a tree, then blueberries from a bush. I’ve pulled over to the side of the road to buy vegetables from a farm stand operating on the honor system, stuffing crumpled bills into the little cash box and walking away with a carton of ripe tomatoes. I’ve gotten to know the locals by way of daily observations at the lake— the young mother whose sensitive son clutches her hand as they walk to and from the car, the group of teenagers who flirt relentlessly with the lifeguards, and the ring leader of their group, who wears a long tank top over her bikini and sports hickeys on her neck without apology, like a badge of honor, the little girl with the bowl cut who doles out compliments to strangers without a hint of hesitation.

Two peculiar things have happened since arriving here. One, my physical pains have mysteriously diminished (I was recovering from dual injuries, both of which were taking far too long to heal and often felt immobilizing). Now I can walk easily on my formerly sprained ankle; I can sleep without waking up with an aching shoulder. And two, my inclination to post on social media has all but vanished. The timing is ironic, because at the start of quarantine I was intentionally active online, sharing punchy Instagram stories about how I was spending my time (inside a 500 sq foot apartment, pretending to enjoy running and eating entire cakes I baked for no one). But living amongst this beauty and bounty, in a scene that feels straight out of a movie about A Great American Summer, I can’t be bothered to snap a single photo.

There’s something liberating about knowing that the 1,000 people who follow me on Instagram don’t know exactly where I am, that I get to keep this slice of my existence for myself. It’s made me reconsider what it means to be alive, really alive, and whether there’s a way to go on living without an audience to bear witness. As Bianca Vivion so eloquently puts it in her essay on the subject:

I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.

My temporary life is a product of my privilege, my ability to work remotely coupled with the freedom that comes with being untethered by familial obligations. In short, this is not real life (I keep reminding myself of this fact), but it’s not a vacation, either. It’s an alternate universe, I think, one which will continue to exist after I leave, one that is not defined by my presence in its orbit. And I keep thinking that maybe, hopefully, I can borrow from it, that I can bottle up this sense of vitality and peace and infuse them into my existence, after.

Cheers, my dears. I’d love to know whether you’ve ever experienced a vastly different way of living, and what you took away from it. Also, I’m curious to hear your take on a life undocumented by social media. It is possible, in an age where your feed is your personal brand and social currency, to live wholly away from it? Is a life without social media better, or worse?

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Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming:

1. 2020, As Told By a History Textbook. Sometimes it feels easier to process the present through the lens of the future— time has this tricky way of softening most every blow. Maybe that’s why I loved this piece so much, an example of how 2020 might be re-told in a history book of the future. Reading it reminded me that a. we’re living through two of our nation’s greatest crises, parallel paths, and b. we’re lucky to be alive during such a significant period.

2. The Company Selling Your Lost Luggage. I always get a kick out of the “if only I had thought of that” or “all I need is one good idea” line of conversation spurred by an episode of Shark Tank, but the story of this company is a true qualifier for a simple, genius idea. If you’ve ever wondered what happens to your lost airplane luggage after it is deemed unfindable and you' are reimbursed from the airline, look no further than Scottsborough, Alabama (or, this newly launched eCommerce site).

3. A Teenager is in Juvenile Detention for Not Doing Her Homework. This story is a petri dish of America’s tendency to deal with complicated issues (mental health, poverty, etc.) with incarceration. Grace is a 15-year-old who was placed on extensive probation for fighting with her mother and stealing. Her probation included a daily morning check-in with her caseworker and that she stay home and complete all her school work, among other things. When the (lazy) caseworker reported to the judge that Grace had fallen asleep after their morning check-in, insinuating the teen was not completing her school work, her probation was considered “violated,” and resulted in Grace being sent to a juvenile detention center— despite the fact that Grace’s teacher vouched for her academic efforts. Grace wants to go home, her mother wants her home, but the judge won’t budge. Reading the letter Grace wrote to her mother from the detention center shattered my heart, and I can’t help but wonder what long term effect this mindless, power-mongering decision this will have on her life.

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Perhaps You Should…
Read An Old Letter (or Two)

I recently discovered Letters of Note, a cumulation of historic letters and the context in which they were shared, and have since spent an unreasonable amount of time scouring its archives. I highly suggest reading this letter from 1933 to start you off, penned by a 23-year-old aspiring writer seeking employment at the New Yorker. She’s charming and bold, no easy feat for a woman in the 30’s, and owns up to her conspicuous lack of experience with a confidence I hope to channel in all my endeavors. Case in point:

For the last eighteen months I was languishing in my own office in a radio station in Jackson, Miss., writing continuities, dramas, mule feed advertisements, santa claus talks, and life insurance playlets; now I have given that up.

They didn’t offer her the job, but she went on to write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, and later, several pieces for the New Yorker. Side note, can we go back to one-page letters using real words in lieu of jargon-filled resumés, please?

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**Bonus Content** (On Obscene Wealth)

Last week, Jeff Bezos added $13 billion to his net worth in a single day. You know, while 13% of our country is unemployed, facing evictions, and unable to pay for basic necessities like food and healthcare. If it’s difficult to conceptualize that sum of money because you’re a normal human being, this clever TikTok makes it easier. And after you watch, consider the meager donations Bezos has made relative to his massive wealth.

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A Comic by Holly | Things That Keep Me Up At Night

Every week for the month of July, my talented friend Holly is creating a hand-drawn comic for the newsletter. Suggestions for next week’s comic? Drop them in the comments below.

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A Quote From A Book You Should Read:

“When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.
"Oh, sure you know," the photographer said.
"She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.”

-The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

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This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.

Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.”