Great 365 Day Purge - Day Two

January 2, 2014

Day Two of "The Great 365 Day Purge of 2014".

Today, I decided to toss all of the papers I'd saved from college, tucked away in the steamer trunk my father made me years ago. These papers range in length from ten to a hundred pages, those larger papers, of course, heavily padded with tables and graphs, and filled with the awkward, pompous, overly-intellectual use of "one" rather than "I".

One paper explores the possibility of exporting an Ohio-made product to Canada. Another, the potential economic development of a nation in which I conclude, "what remains to be seen is whether this nation's people are willing to take the necessary steps towards industrialization." My "marketing awareness journal" reminded me of the time when I wanted to be in advertising, writing jingles to convince people to buy the products I was pushing. But even then, I must have felt some tug of my future self, a self that knew that to promote a lifestyle of purchasing was to promote a life of loneliness and dissatisfaction.

A paper for Corporate Finance, complete with hand-drawn graphs of stock prices and PE ratios, recommended investing in clothing company Paul Harris. That company went bankrupt in 2001. A group project investigated how to market "lite" syrup. Another group project studied the culture of Saudi Arabia.

I had a paper on the "Chinese Culture". One on Dante's Inferno. Another I wrote about a freshman whose mother had died of cancer two weeks before the girl left for college, each paper hand-written in blue ink.

There was a paper that contained the typo, "they ass the west," circled by my professor in red pen, probably noted and left uncorrected in the hopes that the professor wouldn't pick up on the error: printing costs in the eighties were high, and, besides, the chances of securing access to a computer in the college lab were always risky.

Some of the papers are printed on continuous-feed paper, with tear marks at the top and bottom of every sheet. Some are on my mother's typing paper. Held to the light, I can read the watermark:

Eagle-a

Type-erase

25% Cotton Fiber USA

The printers I used were either dot matrix or daisy wheel or made use of a type-ball--a golf-ball sized device covered with all of the letters and characters necessary to producing a term paper. Font changes, obviously, weren't an option.

Part of me wants to keep these papers, to hand them down to my children. But as I scan them, I realize that I haven't read them in over twenty years and I'm not reading them now. And so I recycle them: At least ten pounds of paper in all.

As I go through these papers, I wonder about my decision to go into international business twenty-odd years ago. Four of us attended the same college at the same time, one mile away from home. My older sister were already in business, a major she shared with our mother, who put each of us through school by virtue of her position at the college. Our middle sister was in communications. I needed a way to set myself apart.

Having tried and rejected music as a major; having concluded that English/writing majors were "odd"; having taken Linear Algebra with my mother for a total of two panic-stricken days before dropping it; having shed tears over chemistry; having no head at all for dates, I decided upon international business.

Business, yes. But different enough from my sister's major.

Admittedly an odd choice for someone who likes to write. But back then, my values were different:

Today, I would advise no investment in Paul Harris, recommending instead, that buyers put their cash in the local economy. I wouldn't promote the use of "lite" syrup, what with its high fructose corn syrup, cellulose gum, sodium benzoate and sodium hexametaphosphate. I certainly hope I wouldn't speak in condescension about a nation possibly hoping to hold onto a shred of its local culture.

Today, I claim to be against big business. Yet, I wear contact lenses. I drive a car. My houses is heated with gas. I buy clothes...shoes...furniture...printers. I claim I'm against big business. But perhaps only when it's convenient to be so.

Other things in that stack of paperwork I tossed: A product catalogue from Creative Memories--a scrapbooking supply company...instructions from my first cell phone (I'm proud to admit that I got my first cell six years ago and am only on phone number two, and that, yes, it's a dumb phone)...an old article on collaboration...and a letter.

A letter.

August 29, 1983

My ever dearest Kelly,

How are you today, dear? Wish you are fine and well with your family circle.

I am very happy to hear from you again. Thanks a lot for remembering me always.

About my summer vacation. I spent it at home so that I can [sic] help my mother. I would like to greet your grandmother and brother a happy birthday I am just hoping that they enjoyed a lot during there [sic] birthday.

Our weather now is so hot and dry all around. The farmers are very sad for they cannot plant anything. There is a big shortage of water. That is why we are praying hard for the rain to come.

Yesterday was my birthday. Mother prepared some native food and I have my close relatives invited. It was a big fun. How I wish I have shared you.

I close my letter now, sending you my loving care.

This letter is from Marifel, one of the two children my parents sponsored years ago, both girls, both from the Philippines. Every six months or so, Marifel would write, her correspondence arriving in a blue- and red-striped airmail envelope. Inside, we'd find a thin onionskin paper, decorated around the edges with hand-drawn flowers colored red and yellow and blue. The letters would always be brief, written in pencil. At the bottom of each letter the words, "assisted by the worker," appeared in all capital letters.

As I struggle to rid my life of too much stuff I don't need...too much stuff I have never needed, this letter reminds me of people who daily struggle to get enough food and water, shelter and clothing.

And despite her thanks for remembering her always, I had forgotten about this letter; forgotten entirely about Marifel.

I wonder where she is today. I wonder how she is today.

I wonder if she married, if she has children, if she has enough to eat.

I wonder if she is alive, if she survived to adulthood, if she survived the recent typhoon.

I'm preparing to lock the letter back into my trunk, when I see at the top, the name of the school Marifel attended in 1983. And at the very bottom, I have her sponsorship and case numbers.

I smooth out the paper again. Is it possible, thirty years later, to reconnect with someone I only knew in letters?

I Google Marifel's school and learn that it's still in operation. I send them an email giving them as many details as I can, which are few.

After dinner, I return to my trunk for one last look. Tucked in among Mother's Day cards and letters from my husband, I find them: Nine more letters from Marifel.

The letters date from 1979 through 1983 and give me a snapshot into Marifel's life: With the five dollars my parents sent her for her birthday, Marifel's mother bought her a dress and school supplies; she placed third in the Ati-Atihan Festival, held in January, her summertime. Marifel only attended school in the morning and spent afternoons at home doing "house hold works." Her family had a goat and it was her job every morning to take the goat to the pasture. Marifel's mother was a laundress. Her father sold containers of water for fifty centavos, which is, in today's US dollars, worth one cent. In July, which began the rainy season, Marifel planted rice with her family. Her school year started in June. Her resolutions for 1983 were to work harder in school and to be more respectful and obedient to her elders. In 1983, her school flooded, making it difficult to learn.

There the letters end. I have no idea if there were more.

But the letters do contain more clues: Now, I have Marifel's last name now and her date of birth. Again, I wonder: Is it possible, thirty years later, to reconnect with someone I only knew in letters?

I'm about to find out.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+