Careful, you may be having an impact

Even in our shared anonymity, we are all someone

Words & images © Paul Ransom

Old love letters…so long buried in a box of mementos, for years unread, forgotten. Until – triggered by an upcoming house move and the consequent desire to offload surplus clutter – I rediscover them. For a few seconds I contemplate ditching them but pause instead to extract a page from the bundle, and the voice of a woman I have not thought of for years speaks again. Tender, vulnerable, graceful. 

Perhaps you too carry such treasures and, like me, have them stashed. Or saved somewhere in a private folder rarely opened. If so, I encourage you to dig them out. Not just for the ego stroke or nostalgia fix but because they may serve to remind you of something else you have likely misplaced.

More than a mawkish indulgence, reading those old missives dusted off and gave a name – several names – to a realisation too easily overlooked or misunderstood. At various points, and in the lives of numerous people, I was…something. Someone who mattered. Made a difference. Uplifted. Upset. The same, I am sure, will be true for you.    

Yet, how easily we lose sight of this. Downplay and dismiss it. Cards and letters in a shoebox. Or maybe we overlay it with ego. Notches in a belt. Fodder for the fantasies of conquest and rosy reflection. I get it. Vanity and low self-esteem, the melodramas of sentiment, and the multiple distractions of daily life can all serve to blind us to the effect we have on each other.

Exacerbating this, declarations like ‘you matter’ now read as cliché. Inspiro-porn for the meme machine. This too is part of our forgetting.  

Two days ago I also would have said, oh yeah, I’ve got a few old love letters in a box somewhere. I would have reeled off a few names, all the while aware I was forgetting others. This would not have been merely boastful, nor intentionally glib or dismissive. Indeed, there are still rooms in my heart for many of my amorous anthology’s now distant contributors. But yesterday, reading a small selection of their letters and cards, the disinterred words seemed once more like fully fledged human beings. Some of whom I adored. Some I was indifferent to. Others I hurt.

And here, dear reader, is the point of this missive. It is our humanity that we routinely diminish. The visceral core that loves and suffers and reaches out in the hope of connection. The always shifting, ever beguiling mystery of living. We sign off on this convenient blur less because we are cruel and stupid, and more because it has become our habit. To a degree, it makes sense. It is pragmatic. We even do it to ourselves, reducing our own complexities to easier, more saleable explanation. To the roles we act out. To the graphene of social media exhibition. (Like this.)

You may be tempted to wheel in your preferred ideological vehicle at this point. This evil, that madness, those idiots. Perhaps you have a handy conspiracy mantra or divine plan to cloak it in. With respect, these confections not only miss the point, but amplify the problem.  

As such, this piece, like my response to the aforementioned letters, is neither political, spiritual nor prideful. Rather, it is a reaction, freshly prompted, to the common practise of dehumanising. Reducing. Of forgetting ourselves.

Therefore, when I confess that a few dusty old billets doux reminded me that I once mattered – had an impact – I am humbled. Shaken from complacency. It is not just that a few women felt moved to declare their affections and say nice things about me. Rather, that all of us matter to someone. It could be that we are desired, or our example respected, or it could be that our assumptions and behaviours leave bruises. Cuts. Scars.

I didn’t mean it, we say. But that doesn’t always stop the bleeding.

Today, nineteen years after its composition, I contemplate the first letter pulled from my keepsake collection. On plain white copy paper. Typed. Arial 12pt. She was a student of mine. I think she was in my professional writing class. Older than most on campus. Brighter, more mature. Now I remember that I liked her. Not romantically, but because she was smart and creative and more honest than the younger ones. Yet I had forgotten that she was enamoured. Time and other factors had erased that detail. Consigned her to a box, unregarded. Her name missing from the memorised list. Very nearly edited out.

Yet, her letter was gracious. I was moving interstate when she sent it and she knew she would likely never see me again. I recall my surprise. The twinge of guilt. A brief awkwardness. Was that what prompted me to keep her words as treasure? As a reminder.

Either way, they brought her vividly back to mind. To heart.

If it sometimes feels like we live in a bubble, or that we are consigned to a thin sliver of algorithmic obscurity, we can be reminded by the senders of love letters that the divide is crossable. For we are all seen by someone. Perhaps by many. In turn, we will see others and, in passing, leave marks on each other.

Although our seeing is highly skewed – and may indeed be a projection of self – it is harder to conveniently explain away the scratches. True, most of my erstwhile admirers will have erased me as much as I have them. Some will probably have forgotten my name. But not others. Especially the ones I wounded. Accidentally, carelessly. Callously. Because I was weak and afraid. Arrogant. Blind.

Just as those I have loved or tried to emulate and impress – or who abused me and drew blood – left a warp in my glass, so I have shaped the prisms of others. Though the sweep of culture and politics so often leave us feeling inconsequential, and the sheer scale of the universe reminds us how tenuous and briefly flickering we are, there are those for whom our infinitesimal presence is not nothing.

Like you and I, they are probably flawed, irrational creatures prone to exaggeration and self-drama; which is precisely why we should pause. Be careful. Mindful. It may not matter in the end, but while it lasts it can feel like everything. The only thing.

My ex-student’s letter could easily be discarded as deluded and theatrical. An overblown moment of hormonally enhanced hope. My response to it could likewise be dismissed. You might even call us both absurd.

Yet, strip us of this mad entanglement, and what do we have left?

PS: This piece was originally published on our sister blog, As If You Were Listening.