Dear Little Jo,
I’m in. I got in. I mean I still don’t know whether to thank you or to kick your ass for going behind my back like that. And for not telling me even when you knew I was going up there for an interview.
It was only driving home from Duluth today with Sylvan and Mark that I put it all together, how you must have done it. I’d already figured out what you did. You packaged up all the letters I sent you—every one of those private, soul-baring letters, from day one to the end—and sent them in to the Admissions Committee as my Autobiographical Creative Essay submission. I mean I still can’t believe you did that.
The thing is you must have done it not before but after I wrecked everything between us. After everything with me and Shayna, and the butcherboys, and your mom, and then with Mark at the Texas Border—after all that. Because when you sent in my letters you must have already known about Uncle Viktor kicking me out of the house. You listed Mark’s apartment as my mailing address, and so that’s where their reply letter arrived. I mean I’m still trying to get my head around all of this, Jo.
So Sylvan and Mark and I drive up to Duluth together this morning, and we get an official tour of the whole place. I go into the interview without the slightest idea what to expect. I mean I am deathly nervous, but the three committee people—two women and one man, whose names I forgot two seconds after they introduced themselves—are nice right off the bat. Not in a fake way either. They’re each looking me in the eye, saying they’re so glad I came and they’ve been so looking forward to “putting a face to the voice.” Those are their words, putting a face to the voice. Which of course makes no sense to me at that point, but only later in the interview.
We sit down, and one of the women tells me they aren’t looking for particular, correct answers to any of their questions. They just want to get a kind of live confirmation of who I am.
“As you know, the Bridge to Education program is designed for a very specific kind of student,” she says. “We’re looking for a special blend of resiliency, adaptability, and tenacity. We call it fire in the belly.” This woman who is saying all this has got the biggest front teeth I’ve ever seen in real life. There’s a gap between them that somehow is making everything she says seem not ridiculous and corny like it’s sounding now, as I’m writing it out, but sincere and heartfelt. I don’t know how that works, exactly—how a gap between someone’s front teeth can make her seem sincere—but it’s working on me in the interview.
They ask me about my goals. Where in the world would I like to travel and why? If I were going to make a documentary film, what subject would I choose?
It’s surprisingly easy to answer these questions. I mean I just make things up. I don’t even remember exactly what I told them. Things just came into my head and I said them, and they were somehow true.
And then the second woman says she’s surprised I’m not talking more about becoming a writer. She says how enchanted they all were by my letters. How moved. “It was such a bold decision to send in your correspondence with Jo as your ACE piece, Adam,” she says. “I mean, for me, that’s the fire in the belly, right there. That decision in itself.”
“Not to minimize the literary quality of the letters themselves,” the man says. “The way the voice emerges slowly, over the span of months. Coming out of its shell.”
“Like a butterfly from a chrysalis,” the second woman says.
I mean writing this down now, it sounds like utter bullshit. But somehow I swear it didn’t sound that way in the interview room.
I was in a bit of shock I guess. I had been sort of panicking all week about not having written the ACE thing. I’d wanted to write something to bring with me, but I hadn’t been able to think of anything. In the end I’d brought my Walt Whitman essay with me, which I knew wasn’t personal or creative enough but I figured would be better than nothing.
But halfway through the interview they still haven’t asked for it. Instead they’re all complimenting me on my skills as a writer and a storyteller, and saying how brave and open-hearted it was of me to share my story with them. And they’ve said your name: Jo. Not just your name, Jonathan, but my personal name for you, the one that only I use for you. I mean it’s taking me forever to figure it out, but eventually I realize that you must have done it. I realize that it was you, Jo. All of it. You did it.
Sitting there in the middle of the interview, I shove the thought away as soon as it occurs to me. It’s too risky. I mean I can’t risk cracking wide open again like I did the other day with Mark. That black hole of missing home and missing you, all that homesickness blended viciously together? Not in front of these people.
But anyway the interview was pretty much over at that point. They asked me to wait outside the room. Mark and Sylvan were right there, all over me: What happened, what did you say to them, did they tell you one way or the other?
But it was less than a minute before the door opened again, and all three of them came out wearing these gigantic smiles. I would get an official phone call within twenty-four hours and written notice within five business days, but they were confident everything would work out, and they were delighted to offer me a spot in the program.
“Full ride?” Sylvan asked, and the man laughed and said, “Full ride. Tuition, residence, meal plan, laptop, textbook stipend. He just pays for his beer.”
“Once he’s of age, of course,” the first woman added, and everybody laughed.
I have to say the best part of the entire day was seeing that both my brothers were really happy. They were happy for me. That was already a big enough deal. I mean I always thought Sylvan wanted me to work with him and Uncle Vik. On the way home we stopped at Wings ’n Things and got a pitcher of iced tea. Sylvan made a toast to me, and he said, “A scholar in the Kurlansky family.” So I guessed he was happy not just for me but also because of me.
And I knew Mark had already told him about me and you, about me being gay. Mark told me weeks ago that they’d had that conversation. And so I knew the information about who I am was in the background of everything for Sylvan, but somehow it wasn’t diluting his happiness about me at all.
I’m trying not to think about college, Jo. Now that it’s all over and I’m writing this letter here on Mark’s sofa. He’s got this clock in the kitchen that makes a hollow ticking sound even though it’s a regular electrical clock. It sounds loudest when Mark’s working late, like tonight. Did you notice it when you slept here? You slept on the couch I’m sleeping on.
Jo. I’m trying not to think about college, and I’m trying not to think about you. I’m trying pretty much every second here not to fall into that hole again. I just keep trying until I’m so sore and exhausted from all the trying that I fall asleep. It’s taking a long time tonight though. What does Walt call them? Sullen and suffering hours. This goddamn clock.
I guess I am writing this letter in order to thank you though. After I showed you the worst of me, treated you in the worst way possible. Like always, you still kept in mind the future—my future even. There is no way in which you could have sent in my letters to benefit yourself.
It was for me, after everything I did. After everything, you were still generous. Vastly, extravagantly generous.
What is it Walt says? You said it to me when we first started writing, when you were introducing yourself. Spending for vast returns. Bestowing yourself. Not asking the sky to come down to your goodwill, but instead scattering it freely forever.
Jo, I shouldn’t even be surprised you were generous where it wasn’t deserved. It’s just who you are. But thank you anyhow. Thank you. Thank you.
Sincerely,
AK