A letter from uncle Sean arrived today. Your dad isn't in the business of bestowing terms of endearment lightly, and, in this case, he still hasn't. Sean has earned the title "uncle," as he has been every bit a brother to your mom and dad. This is for you.
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Hi; we haven’t met.
I’m Sean, and I’m, well, let’s say a “friend” of your parents. Sometimes I do wonder; sometimes I wonder why they tolerate me, as I am me, and therefore somewhat intolerable. Prior to a couple of years ago, your parents might’ve described me as “that guy,” specifically that guy that shows up every once in a while, hangs out and has a good time, and then disappears for a year or so. Nowadays, well, at least I call first. Like before I start driving.
I will admit that I don’t know how to handle your arrival. It’s not a new thing for me, by any means; plenty of my friends have popped out a baby (I prefer the term “popped out” because, while I know the reality, I prefer to imagine that it’s like a popping a champagne cork, it’s more fun), but these are the Kalistas. While I may not always have been the best friend, I have always thought of them as two of my best friends.
But you’ll never know those people. Having a baby changes folk; not in a bad way, by any means, but being a parent requires a responsibility, a kind of…sublimation of self, to cater to your needs. You’ll never know Randy, the free-wheeling, art-film-watching, ex-sailor that I knew; You’ll never know Grace Ferris, who berated me (me!) for dropping a class / out of college altogether. I don’t know how your parents are going to change yet; I hope Randy still games, I hope Grace still talks a mile a minute. We’ll still be friends either way, but I can’t help but note the passing of an era. An era you’ll never be familiar with, a set of people you will know intimately, but not the way that I knew them: so I wanted to tell you about them.
I remember the day I met your dad. We were in a freshman-introductory group together, and your dad struck me. Not in a sexual way (not that there’s anything wrong with that…I don’t know, ask your parents), but in a way that, hopefully, you will come to know yourself: I’m a firm believer in snap judgments. When you meet a person who will be your friend for a lifetime, you will know who that person is. That’s the feeling I met when I met your father: “Well, might as well get to know this guy. I’m gonna want to keep him around.” And I’m glad that I have; your father is one of the most insightful people I know, who can look at an object, the exact same object from which I can only glean it’s practical/useful/potentially murderous value. Your father sees an aesthetic value, a spiritual value, a moral value, dimensions that aren’t beyond just me (a person who is, admittedly and perhaps somewhat legendarily, somewhat challenged in all of the above) in any given object. He has a sweeping appreciation for music and literature, while at the same time applying a thoughtful and critical eye. We could talk about videogames for hours, and I mean hours; for his birthday one year, we set up TVs side by side and played separate games. I know; don’t judge us. But your dad has the ability to get enthused about gaming in a way that I’ve seen few people get enthused about anything. Not to say that your father is some hyper-active nerd; but when the man loves, he loves. Enthusiasm is a rare quality, and it’s the number 1 quality I look for in a friend; take notes one that one, it’ll serve you well. After that, your father and I ended up in the same writing/speaking class, and I’ve never been so grateful for an academic scheduling error; somehow, they put a putz like me in the same writing class as your father. Your father is a writer in the way many people, published/famous/rich authors (writer > author) wish they were writers; most wannabes write, and people read. Your father writes, and he communicates. We used to exchange these emails/essays that I looked forward to everyday, not just because of the content, but because the way your father wrote challenged me, improved me; someday, I hope to impress your father with my written word in the way he has impressed me with his. For that matter, someday I hope to impress your father with the kind of generosity and warm-heartedness that I’ve seen from him, every time I see him.
I remember the day I met your mother. We were eating breakfast at adjacent booths, and it just happened to be my birthday (yet another reason to celebrate that particular date) I challenged her to eat a kiwi, skin on (it’s delicious, you’ll see). Now, a normal person would not only have declined that particular request, they probably would’ve tased me. But your mother, well…she has what we adults call “a set.” A set of what? Ask your parents; but your mother has them, and they are brass. Not only that, but she has an impressive and, perhaps, intimidating amount of brainpower. I don’t know a whole lot of people smarter than your mother, and that’s saying a lot; I don’t exactly run in illiterate circles (ok, so I kinda run in illiterate circles, but only so it makes me seem that much smarter), and your mom is in a class of her own. I like talking to her about politics, not just because she’s involved and knowledgeable, though she is both of those things, but because she makes me do two things I never do: question myself, and make me a little more hopeful. Question myself, because while she and I lay on opposite ends of the political spectrum, she isn’t a rabid crazy person and, believe it or not (and believing it might get harder as you get on into your teens) she makes salient and well-considered points that require me to second-guess my position, to make me compromise and work out what I actually think, as opposed to what I think I think. More hopeful, because while she’s making me actually think (any time you want to stop that and just agree with me, feel free) she makes me think that, y’know, maybe we can all come together and agree after all. Any friend who can make you believe in humanity a little, well…you’ll come to recognize the value.
I knew your parents when they were into “The Matrix.” What’s “The Matrix”? It’s an awful movie with philosophical pretensions, which your parents loved and, well, know one’s perfect (your mother died her hair black for the premiere of the sequel! I know!). I knew your parents when they played board games obsessively. I knew your parents when they tried to talk us into buying and moving into the house next door; I know, we should’ve. I knew your parents when they only watched serious indie movies, call it the “pre-Disney” era. I knew your parents.
You are Estelle Juliet Kalista, and from what I can tell from some (possibly digitally enhanced) images, you are beautiful. You owe every inch of that to your mother; thank her daily. Not that your father is a slouch; you will have ¼ Filipino eyes for which the boys will love you; thank him daily. Sometimes they will drive you nuts; they will have good reasons. You may not agree with those reasons, and from a life-long rebel this is hard to admit, but sometimes, even most times, your parents will be right. Not all parents: your parents. Make sure your dad reads to you, not that it’ll take much prompting but remind him that you’re a girl and therefore hard-core sci-fi won’t always be appropriate, and force your mom to teach you how to be pretty and smart; it’s a tricky balancing act, but your mom’s got it down.
You will not know your parents as I knew your parents; you missed their youthfulness, their growing periods, their lessons learned. But I’ve known them long enough to say confidently: you have the best parents. They will take care of you; my job is to be the rascally uncle, and make you athletic and somewhat rebellious. I will enjoy this.
Never stop being grateful for them. They will never stop being grateful for you.
