Of flowers and teenage confessions

It was an absurd number. Back in his mind, he had always suspected that the amount of letters he had written during his presidency was more than the “average President” (whatever that was supposed to be) wrote, but looking at the note that his assistant upon his request to quench his curiosity had given him with the total amount of letters written by him, he nonetheless was stunned, shaking his head visibly in disbelief as he was sitting at his neatly organized desk, his favourte pen next to a letter in his dimly lit office.

These letters that were counted, however, were not the usual formal letters that were part of the job. No, this was part of a project that he had already come up with during his campaign. Ever since being in charge, he had his team handpick 10 letters out of the endless mail that he got from his constituents to which he personally responded. He had come up with this during his campaign trail as real contact and conversation with the people, the part of the job which he deeply cherished with all its unexpected conversations, friendly banter over a garden fence, profoundly meaningful stories taken from everyday life with all its chilling defeats and heart-warming glory, was beginning to fade and he more and more started to enter what he liked to call the “bubble”: the security escorting him from one place to the next, the strict schedule which didn’t allow for a stop at nearby coffee shop or a chat in the street, the stilited and often intentionally trapping questions by reporters, the stock answers he was expected to give, the debates which he felt too disconnected from the lives of the people they were to represent and during which even the most minute personal revelation or little quib tasted so of artifice that a few newspaper articles indeed commented on his frosty and positively disgusted demeanour during these events (, which he of course resolutely had to deny).

He knew this was part of the job, but still: perhaps it was because of his growing up in a big family or because of his hands-on & pragmatic approach by his mother who worked as a teacher, but not long into the campaign trail he felt an undeniable revulsion for this part and was, upon having won the election, elated (foolishly, as he soon learned) that this was now over.

That’s when his idea of the 10 letters a day started to take off: Every evening after dinner, he would return to his study and find 10 hand-selected letters from his constituents on his desk to which he personally responded. It was and had been always the last thing in the evening that he did before he went to bed. He had instructed his team to “give him a balanced view”, i.e. to not only give him “roses and stars”. “Give it to me straight”, he had said: “I survived the campaign, I can handle this”. And true to his word, every evening he got letters from all kinds of life with all kinds of opinions and sure enough, there was not a lack of criticism in the letters that landed on his desk. In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that they were giving him more negative letters than approving ones to keep him on his toes. For the most part he didn’t mind; some were simply airing their generel frustration and attacked his (in the word of one particularly outspoken letter) “almost breathtakingly impressive incompetence”, others were questioning certain conrete policies. He answered to all of these disagreeing in a polite tone, in the process of writing reasserting his belief that he had thoroughly thought these decisions through and that he was convinced that these were the best (not perfect, mind you!) options for the way forward under the current cirumstances.

On some days, when the world seemed to be a bit gloomier than normal, the colors of the plants in his garden behind his offce a little less glorious and the look to the heavens a little less consoling, on days when criticism fell down on him like hail, these letters stung a little more and he sunk depper in his chair. The matter of the fact was that on some issues, he himself felt unsure if the correct decision to a problem had been taken and none of the endless advisors that surrounded him (nor his gut) could confirm if this would solve the situation at hand. It was like playing chess in the dark: You could mull the things over all you want (which no one could accuse him of not doing - he was an endless ruminator), only when the lights went on, you would see where things stand and this doubt, amplified by at times searing letters, nagged at him.

Other letters asked directly for help. He of course could not step out of the bouds of the law (even as President), but often asked his staff if every arm of the government was doing its job and in some cases it turned out that the help that was asked for was possible, but not given due to some bureucratical hick-up which was now being fixed. These letters were partcularily gratifiying as an immediate help (oh, what a joy compared to the endless revisions of bills & laws) was given to a person in need and lives made a little easier. In other cases, all he could offer was a sympathetic ear and an earnest intent to include his wish in his future decisions. There were also letters of approval, thanking him for the work he was doing and encouraging him to follow the path he had outlined, which were a breath of fresh air amid the constant stream of criticism that comes with the job.

These letters came from all kinds of people, from all kinds of places and from all ages: In fact, it were the letter the of the children that caused him most joy and which often did not fit either of the categories described above. Some curious kids asked for an explanation of something he had seen on TV and heard on the radio and he tried to explain it to them, admitting that these things, though complicated, were explained at times in an unnecessarily complicated manner and he encouraged them to stay informed as this was the key to a functioning democracy. “Don’t tune out”, he would sometimes end. “We are working for you. We should be reminded of that every day.” Other kids send him pictures they had drawn, sometimes even of him (some were rather flattering, flattening his unusualy pointy nose, others, he felt smirkingly, rather did him a disservice) to which he replied with thanks and a little inelegant drawing by him. Others again send him copies of of tests they had passed, report cards they had received or driver lincenses they had passed: He rejoiced at these anecdotes of their everyday life, congratulated them and encouraged them to keep on giving their best and adding that he rooted for them. One teenager send him a confession of a tatoo that he had decided to get, which he had not yet admitted to his parents. He responded to her and advised her to speak to her parents, reminding them that they were also once young and had propably done things to upset their parents. If this doesn’t work, he added with a grin in a PS, show them this letter. His staff always shaked their heads at these letters from kids: “I don’t know what provokes these letter from them. You seem to be a mixture of the cool uncle and Santa Claus.”

All these letters (even the onces berating him), they were a kind of oxygen, an IV, with drips of a real life of the people he was representing and whom he was serving. They came with love, with joy, with hate and despair and with the minute, but invaluable stories of life: of a new flowerbed in the garden and its first crop (a single, almost edible potatoe! (if you were gutsy)), of a worried daughter about his father in combat, of a content retiree looking forward to spend more time with his family and of a proud mother who had saved enough to send her son - the first one in the family - to college. They were an escape from the rather academic, yet slow-footed discussions in the ivory tower of the Senate. With nostalgia he had read from the diary of one his predecessors a century ago who spoke in loving detail of his routine walks down the street amidst the people to the barber shop where he got his hair cut, shooting the breeze with the other people there and discussing the latest sport results. This sort of informality, of intimacy with the people had long gone, but these letters allowed him from afar to sense the pulse of the people, sustaining him through bouts of loneliness and doubt.

They to him were just as important as his daily briefings or the latest data from the stock market. Truth to be told, they were in fact even more valuable as these letters also informed his decisions. Soon, these stories that he read about every evening began to crop up in his speeches, began to drive his decisions, began to start discussions on necessary policies. No political statistic, no poll, nothing could capture the imagination like a story taken from life, taken from the midst of us. In some cases, he managed to fullfil the wishes that people had and he even invited the people whose letters he had answered to the bills signing ceremonies (an otherwise rather tedious affair) or press conferences, stating that these were perhaps the most satisfying moments of his presidency and the aspiration of all of politics: people helping people, coming together to make their life a little less burdensome & paving the way for a better future.

And here he was, one last time. This was the last evening as President. He had just finished his last dinner as president (potatoes, salmon & salad upon his request) This was his last evening in his office, at times a sanctuary, other times a room he couldn’t wait to get out of. He looked at a picture of his inauguration and admired the still full and black hair he had back then. “The years here”, his direct predecessor had told him before handing over the office to him, “are different. They are like dog years. You age a little quicker, but you’ll see ….”. And sure enough, there was no denying it. Looking at the picture on his desk, he could not help but marvel at the young-ish features of his former self. Maybe it was the other way round once you leave office with all the stress leaving you like squeezing out a sponge. Hope springs eternal, they say …

He had already answered all but one letter for today earlier that day as there was now little left to be done: some were thanking him for his time, others answering what he would be up to and if he needed a job since he was now getting fired as put it with a smiley, others saying rather ungratefully that finally their prayers had been answered. As always, his staff had not chosen to give him a farewell gift. It was quiet, something he always cherished about these late nights in his office after the hurly-burly off the day. The quiet office seemed to quiet his mind. Lights were dimly lit in the spacious office. He opened up the envelope and took out the letter. It read as follows:

Dear Mr President,

I don’t have much hope of you actually reading this letter, but just for good luck I put a stamp with your picture on it. That might just do the trick, I hope. It’s a a good thing they put out these stamps at the beginning of the presidency: The years, forgive me, have not been kind to you. Neither have, I hasten to add, the press nor the opposition.

But let me back up & introduce myself: I am Tom, 33 years old coffe-shop owner and living with my pregnant wife Laura & my lovely Leonberger Sam near the beach. She is 4 months along & she is getting a cute pregnancy belly though she wouldn’t like me saying it. Come to think of it, she most definitely would not want me mentioning her belly to the President. Well, on the slim chance of you reading this letter, be a pal and don’t tell her … In any case, we are already stoked and can’t wait …

Anyway, every day I take Sam with me to the coffe-shop, selling drinks to people enjoying their day at the beach. It’s a smaller shop (I’m not running a Starbucks here) with a good amout of local people stopping by. There are a few regulars who have come to my coffe for years with whom I (if time allows it) sit outside, chat about their families (I have been getting a lot of parental advice) and have a laugh. They often come late in the afternoon, stopping by for a drink to unwind and take in the scenery. It’s a good job which pays the bills, but from which I also derive a certain amount of satisfaction. Mind you, I am not a doctor saving lives, but you have a nice view from there and I like to think that people have a nice time here. I try to keep everything tip-top.

You might ask why I write you. In fact, I have been asking myself that question. I should make this clear: I have never been what you would describe a political person. I don’t think I am now. I am far more comfortable discussing the latest trade of any sports team than the latest election results, bills passed or stimlus programms delayed. I vote - my old man wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t - but not without any great conviction.

Still, there was something about you which struck me from the beginning (I had an eye on you from the beginning of your campaign) though I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’ll try though: You seem very likeable and I could easily imagine you sitting here in my coffee shop. Down-to-earth, you seem to have a sense of humour, are able to laugh at yourself and geniunely try to help people. You didn’t really seem to like playing the “game of politics” - you seemed happy enough to help people. I remember you signing bills, saying happily that these were not just documents, but documents which ensured that somebody’s life now got a little easier. You didn’t seem to care - I believe, you cared. Deeply. These qualities were qualities that I didn’t normally associate with most politicians and their long-winded answers of nothing. Mind you, you also have trouble getting to the point and brevity is not your strong suit. You are not a man capable of slangs - you seem to discard them altogether. But I feel you used to dig deep to give thorough answers to complex questions. One had to bear with you plodding along, but I felt you were going somewhere, that you arrived at something sincere and genuine. You thought of yourself as a servant, something that I could relate to.

Again and again I saw you fail with things that you wanted to achieve. Things that I thought were reasonable, things that I thought could produce a change for the better. Nonetheless you plugged away, even though the occasional picture gave away that you were grinding your teeth: frustrated, held back, visions not fulfilled even though you held the highest office possible. Didn't you get sick of it? The push-back, the horse-and-buggy pace, the pains of gradualism?

And I wondered (and wonder still): Is it worth it? Was it worth it? All the hair you’ve lost, the little sleep you’ve gotten, the worries you’ve surely had? And still there were things that you had your heart set on and that you didn’t manage to realize. Not to mention all the criticism and at times blunt hate that has been coming your way …

Couldn’t you make people just as happy selling coffee at the beach, allowing kids to pet your dog, sharing your sun screen with people who’ve forgotten theirs? Perhaps this questions is as much as for me. Perhaps I should aim higher, perhaps you settle lower? I don’t know the answer to that one.

In any case, if you have the answer to the question, I’d be happy to hear it and you can come by anytime to my coffee shop. The drinks are on me for your service to this country and the hard work you’ve put in to keep on the straight and the narrow. Sam is always happy to meet somebody new, especially if you bring a treat with you. He is so friendly that he would lick the hand with which you are taking money out of my cash register … Enclosed you’ll find a picture of my shop with the regular gang. You’d fit right in.

Thank you for everything. You've earned yourself a break.

Yours sincerly with deep gratitude,

Tom