Write About a Gift
Endowment - Mike
I’m holding Plato in my hand. It is volume 9 of a set called The Great Books of the Western World. The spine of the book is cracked, pieces of the red plastic cover torn off, and, as I lift it to open, the front cover separates. But I remember when it was new.
In the summer of 1961 my mother, brothers, sisters and I were all living with my grandparents at their house in Santa Ana. My father had recently joined us, having served six months of a one year jail sentence for check fraud. He was looking for work and trying to save the money for the family to move out into its own space. I was eager to start my first year at Santa Ana High.
One morning, I picked up the mail that fell in through a slot in the front door and began paging through a magazine that had arrived. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes were transfixed by a description of The Great Books of the Western World, a set of 54 books that contained the canonical writings of western authors from Homer to Freud. My mind raced as I imagined all of the ideas contained in those volumes. A postcard fell away from the magazine informing the reader that they could return it for more information. While I knew it was fantasy, I guiltily checked off the box for more information and secreted it into the mailbox at the end of the street. Though they couldn’t be mine, at least I could learn a bit more about them.
But karma kicked in. Two weeks later, a salesman with two huge leather bags appeared at the door, announcing that he was there to talk to us about the books. My embarrassment hit 15 on a scale of 10. I’d placed both myself and my parents in a humiliating situation. If reading had never been a family priority, spending money on books in our current situation was heresy. My parents listened patiently, politely as the salesman delivered his pitch and I fingered the books, chattering in feverish puerility about the authors. In the end, my father, who knew about the winnowing of dreams, signed the contract.
I doubt that I will ever understand what love is. Most of the time, I think it is mere illusion. But holding this volume in my hand now and thinking about the sacrifice my parents made that summer, it feels like something pretty solid.
Tony - Maya
I never met the man who credits me with saving his life. I think of him, though, nearly every time I glance at the stuffed animal bin in my bedroom. Yes, at 41 years old I still have a stuffed animal bin- or more specifically, an old hamper in which I’ve organized them. There hasn’t been a new arrival in years, but each of the hamper’s occupant has a backstory that has granted it permanent residence. Tony, named after the virtual stranger who gifted him to me, sits at the top of the pile. I say that Tony – the man, not the bear – was a stranger, but that’s not entirely true. In a way, we have an irreplaceable connection.
I was a month into my freshman year of high school when my mom mentioned that her colleague had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and given little chance of survival. The following day, during my religion class prayer chain, I cautiously raised my hand and asked to add Tony to the list. Our class prayed for him daily through nearly the entire school year. Eight months later, Tony received some inconceivable news from the doctors – he was suddenly, inexplicably cancer free. Tony, who had learned of the prayer chain, felt certain it saved his life.
Two years later it was me in the hospital, undergoing a grueling knee reconstruction. I arrived home post-surgery to a flower delivery with a yellow stuffed bear attached to the front of the vase. I was shocked to see it was from Tony. If I’m honest, teenage life had kept me occupied since that freshman year prayer chain, and it had been quite a while since I’d thought of him. But now, in a way, we’d come nearly full circle, and his thoughtfulness touched me in a way that I still can’t quite express.
Of all the “get well” gifts I received after my operation, the tiny yellow bear is the only one that remains in my possession. Twenty five years later, I’ve still never met Tony the man. But Tony the bear will always have a place of honor in my stuffed animal bin.
Package Never Received - Melissa
How long does it take for our souls to catch up to the reality we are born into? When does a liquid become a solid? Is it at the end of a frigid February in upstate New York? Does it conform as the stinging wind slapping against the sidewalk, guiding the fresh snowdrift against the front stoops, erasing the stairs? Did it firm as my soft, dreaming heart was released into a practical household.
The German world of “work hard and keep your cards close” didn’t come naturally to me. Still, asking for my heart’s desire never seemed an option. At Christmas time, our stockings were tube socks, not store bought. They were filled with walnuts and oranges, not cheap toys and candy. Things were done for purpose, not for sentiment. So, as a little girl, painfully shy, self conscious, short and chubby. I kept decadent dreams hidden and close, where I could protect them from judgment. I spent hours alone. Singing to myself, I drew or meandered around my mind. I lived for beauty and escape. I found it in a pink tutu and leotard. This too existed only in my heart.
I had no use for either of these things. My friend Heather did. She had a closet full of colorful and extravagant recital costumes. I would often spend the night at her house on Friday’s when my mother needed a place for me to go. On Saturday morning, I’d tag along on the weekly routine: Tap, Jazz, Ballet. I was jealous, jealous, and jealous. The pink leotard and tutu I imagined was my portal into that world. The dancing wasn’t what I longed for. I wanted to wear the ethereal, unapologetically girly costume. I longed to have a taste of the beauty I had created in my inner world. To have it seep out to shield me from the world of hand-me-downs and food stamps.
I never asked for this gift I wanted most. I was ashamed to. I knew this world was not for me. My mother and grandmother valued reading, intellect and responsibility. Pink things were frivolous. Dreaming was frivolous. So, my gift was a secret. But, my tender, dreaming heart still held out hope. Each birthday and Christmas I fantasized about the gift I would never receive. Instead, it was my dreaming heart that would be my gift and my protector.
Long Distance Exchange - Amelia
My best friend River moved to Arizona at the end of our ninth grade year. I struggled a lot with this, and still do occasionally, but it has gotten easier with time. I used to spend almost every weekend at their house, (which, looking back, I feel guilty for being gone so often) but now since travel is closed due to Covid, I haven’t spent time with them in person in over a year. Even though our relationship is not as strong as it was a couple of years ago, we retain the same understanding of each other, and it is easing to talk to someone who I have known longer than the rest of my friends, who knows more about me than most people.
Although we can’t spend holidays together, we still send each other gifts for our birthdays and Christmas. While they’re always a minimum of two weeks late, I always look forward to assembling packages to send them, and seeing what they chose to send me. A couple of weeks ago, they called me for a minute just to ask if I’d like one of the Tarzan Soundtrack, which I did not turn down. I found this amusing because I didn’t even remember that I liked that soundtrack, much less telling River that I did. Small things like this make me smile because they’re a reflection of how long we’ve been friends.
Before sending the package, I sit down for a couple of minutes to write a short note and paint the inside of the box flaps with patterns or things that we like, so that it is a little more colorful and interesting to open. I’ll let River know when I send it, and can tell when they’ve opened it, through the receival of a text saying “i love you so much,” followed by “you're my favorite person.” We don’t often outwardly express appreciation for our friendship, but this exchange reminds me that we still have a good thing going. Doing this serves as an annual reassurance that we have done our best to keep in touch, and that both of us continue to value our friendship.
