Dickinson Letter
This week, I dashed off a quick note announcing to our elementary school community that we are about to rent out a house just a half-block down the street from the school. Before sending it out to craigslist, I wanted to give families in our immediate community first dibs, as it were. When our kids were small, it was really important to me to be close to the school, and that little house was an ideal home base for primary school parenting. The house was a sanctuary for my girls and me, and we still hold it dear. So, we offered it to insiders first.
I received responses from people I know and people I don’t, but the number of responses like this How much is it renting for? and What is the price? was astonishing. No hello, hi, introduction, or signature. Nothing. Just: what does it cost? I started complaining about it to people—particularly David—immediately. Every email between the two of us begins with My Dear or Love and is signed with at least an initial, even if we are sending reminders to each other from across the room.
My complaints were complaints of decorum—it was rude, demanding, somehow crass. So, in my high-mindedness, I only responded to inquiries that had at least a greeting or a signature. That was a little satisfying. But, the feeling of disgruntlement lingered, so I figured I had better think about it a little harder. And, I realized I wasn’t just tsk-tsking because of the rudeness, because of lack of manners—though I was doing that, too—I was actually hurt. In looking back through those emails, I realized that with each one I felt a sting. I feel unseen, like a function, but not like a person. Though I characterized the behavior as rudeness, what I really felt was wounded—ever so slightly—by the lack of human acknowledgment, by the failure to speak my name or share theirs in even a tiny goodbye.
Though I love the formality of greetings and goodbyes—particularly in writing—I don’t always use them. In a flurry of email notes, sometimes it actually feels more intimate not to either greet or sign off. It feels like a way to invite the next comment, to suggest this isn’t goodbye, that there will be more soon. It actually creates more closeness by not formally opening or shutting the door.
But in these transactional interactions, that is not the case. A simple greeting and signature warm up the correspondence and help remind us that there are two humans with wants and needs and worries and concerns on both sides. It brings our humanity into the room, as it were.
But, here’s where I must confess. I think my flaws as a correspondent are worse, more hurtful. Sure, I always greet and signoff, but sometimes I fail to answer altogether. If I get an email from a stranger or even a relatively distant acquaintance, sometimes I just don’t reply. I always intend to reply, but somehow it often doesn’t feel that urgent. I will set it aside, remember it occasionally in the middle of the night, add it to my mental to-do list, and then let it slip away. But, in the context of acknowledging our shared humanness, isn’t that even worse? My neglecting to answer fails to acknowledge another person in even the most basic sense. All it would take is something like this:
Dear Friend:
Thank you for your email. I’m really busy today and want to take the time to think about it. If it slips through the cracks, please feel free to remind me because I really do want to respond.
all the best,
Wendy
Why don’t I just do that? In this crazy, fast-paced culture that is so connected but also so disconnected, I feel a renewed commitment to attentiveness. I want my notes to be the ones that soothe not sting. I want not to be the person who acknowledges and encourages the other person out there trying to live her life well, just like I am. Another week, another lesson. I will try to do better. I promise.
