Dear Jenn of February 2014,
You’ve almost made it to graduation! Hang in there, kid. You’re doing great. And since I know you’re spiraling into doubt about the future, I thought I’d drop you a line from Your Alaskan Future to say: you’ll get here. And it’s gonna be okay. Sure, it’ll be cold and dark and scary sometimes, but like all challenges, these arrive with the opportunity for growth, change, and glaring, unsolicited self-awareness. Here are a few lessons you’ll soon learn:
1. Bunny boots are the most unflattering, fabulous, gender-neutral creation gifted to us by the gods of Arctic warmth.
The silly little boots you’re wearing that scoff at Baltimore winters will one January day let out a shrill cry and die at your feet. There is no hope for them.
So you will wear these white moon boots to brunch, on walks, to work, out dancing, on the bush plane that carries you throughout the Bering Strait, and to the gym. You will try not to get your bunnies mixed up with anyone else’s (and with the size of your feet, that usually means trying not to steal the boots of an eighth-grade boy). You will wonder about the tiny air gauge on the side that reads “KEEP CLOSED UNLESS AIRBORNE” and decide that some questions are best left unanswered.
You will love them like you’ve never loved any other white, rubber, two-and-a-half-inch soled boots. (Happy Valentine’s Day, bunny boots.)
2. You are not a reporter.
Second graders in Shishmaref are reporters. You will fumble with your microphone, forget to photograph that meeting, become self-conscious and hesitant as you approach that public figure for the interview your job necessitates. You shake your head and think, “Who put me in charge of the news?”
Meanwhile, an eight year-old girl will spot you from across the gym. You will try to hide, to no avail. In a town of 600, you stick out like a sore thumb. She will gather her numbers and this small army of tiny reporters will draw closer, confidently clustering between you and The One You Must Interview. And you will begin to question your own identity. “Hi.” “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” “I’m going to call you Janet.” “How old are you?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Why are you here?” “Do you remember my name?” “How long will you be here?” “How old are your kids?” “Why don’t you have any kids?” “That’s silly.”
When you finally escape their grip, you will realize how long it’s been since your last interrogation, and you will carry empathy with you as you finally approach The One You Must Interview. (You’re still not as steadfast as the kids, but hey, small goals.)
3. You will see more sunrises and sunsets than ever before.
You’ll remember that one cool September morning ten years ago when you and your dad woke at 5 and drove down to the beach, thermoses of coffee and cameras in tow. The moment was rare and perfect and the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean was impossible to capture.
Every morning now you will get a #BetsySunriseAlert and rush upstairs to the south-facing window, at first with a camera, and gradually without. You will gaze at each sunset as you prepare the 5 o’clock news—the way light bleeds into the frozen sea like watercolor. You will see them every day and never take them for granted.
4. You will become acutely self-aware in ways you never expected or even wanted.
You will criticize, love, hate, explore, miss, and find yourself. You will come to recognize what you look like at your worst, when you feel broken and lost, and at your best, when the world has surprised you with its treasures and you’ve surprised yourself with your openness. Remember, you are an achiever, an extrovert—restless, terrified and overjoyed by the possibilities of life. Have patience, step outside your own head, and be gentle. You will learn to take care of yourself.
5. There is nothing (within reason) you can’t attempt in Western Alaska. Even rock climbing.
You and Francesca (you don’t know her yet, but just wait) will become a bit obsessed with the Rec Center rock wall. Never having climbed before and foisting all responsibility on Fran for preserving your physical self, you will learn to communicate with the wall. Mostly by shooting it evil glares and thrashing limbs at it as you sail from an unsteady perch to the padded ground. “MY LEAST FAVORITE THING IS UNACHIEVABLE GOALS!” you will wail from beneath a pile of rope and the dust of your dreams of altitude.
But with every attempt, you’ll make it a little higher. Feel a little stronger. And you know what? One day you’re gonna make it. I can’t tell you when or how, but I can say that one thing with certainty. The further you venture, the more often you’ll fall, but it also means a lot more chances that you’re gonna make it.
The future always seems impossible until you’re there. A year from now, trust me, you’ll be freaking out about what’s next all over again. But it’s not that scary, and you’ll have some amazing new friends to help you through it.
So breathe deep, make some coffee, and cut it out with the 2 a.m. Wendy’s runs, okay? Geez.
Love you, girl. See you up north.
