Do not read this letter, pt. I

To the one burdened by a guilt they dare not speak of,

Do not read this letter. It will only leave you feeling confused and upset. I’m serious, by the way — this stuff is not fun. But if you must, then picture this: a bitter night in February. Raw gusts shriek down otherwise quiet streets. The breath of a bundled pedestrian leaves behind thick, lingering clouds of vapor. 

You and two friends are shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of a taxi, on your way to a bar downtown. It’s Friday, and better yet, Valentine’s Day — cause enough for celebration. Moreover, you’re a college student, and this week has been exhausting — exams, social anxiety and the stress of finding a job have taken their respective tolls on your mental health. Tonight, you deserve to have fun. 

The taxi begins to slow as the light goes from yellow to red. Your friend calls to mind something that happened at this same bar last weekend, and you laugh. In the midst of your laughter, you glance out the window and notice a gathering of people — about a dozen or so — outside an unremarkable brick building. These people are homeless, you surmise, awaiting entry into a shelter for the night.

You look away. The light is still red. the laughter has died down. You look back. 

There’s something off-putting about this scene, but what exactly? Homelessness is inevitable, after all. Unfortunate, especially on a night like tonight, but inevitable nonetheless. Then you realize: these people do not look cold. They simply stand there, blank expressions pasted across their worn-out faces, ostensibly apathetic to the bitterness of the winter wind. “Why don’t they look cold?” you think to yourself. “They must not be human enough to recognize their own discomfort.”

One woman in particular catches your eye — she’s older, wheelchair-bound and has no legs. 

You look away again — disturbed — as the light turns green. The taxi drives off, and the amputee — along with the rest of the group — fade from sight in the side view mirror. Soon, they will fade from memory. Alas, the party must go on, and the night is still young. A few minutes later, the taxi drops you off — about half a block from the bar. You curse the driver silently while hurrying to escape the cold. But worry not, because soon enough you’re buying a round of drinks and catching up with friends.

And remember, you deserve this. The lights dim. The noise rises. “Shut Up and Dance” plays, and you oblige, losing yourself in the music; in the letting go; in the forgetting. 

And just like that, it’s time to go. You stand outside on the sidewalk — shivering, teeth chattering — awaiting the taxi. You check your phone: it’s running late. “Just my luck. I swear this always happens to me. And tonight of all nights? In this weather?”

The taxi arrives, finally. The driver takes the same route as before, and you again notice that rather unremarkable brick building. This time, however, the group of homeless people aren’t outside — they’ve likely found shelter for the night, and you’re glad for that. Then, a few blocks down, something catches your eye. More like someone. It’s the same woman — the amputee — asleep, her wheelchair resting in the doorway of an old building. 

Now, you might expect that, upon seeing this poor woman stranded out in the cold, you felt deeply sympathetic — moved to tears, even. But no. You felt nothing. You gazed out the window at this woman, unable to believe that she possessed a sliver of dignity. Who can blame you? Does a person like that even have dignity? Does a person like that even exist? Surely, God designed this person to suffer; to be lesser than the rest, and surely this person has embraced their unfortunate fate with open arms. 

But what if that was you?

No, forget it. You shouldn’t be burdened by the misfortunes of others. You have a life to live, after all — a life you’ve worked hard for, a life you deserve and you’d be damned to let guilt stand in the way of your goals. Sure, this woman might’ve been dealt a bad hand, but she must’ve done something to deserve it. You never would’ve ended up like her — crippled, homeless and dare I say worthless — because you’re smart: you make the right choices. You work hard.

One week later

You lie awake in bed. Finding sleep a futile effort, you walk over to the window and peer out through the blinds. It’s still snowing, harder now than before, and a few inches have already accumulated, with the storm not expected to let up until morning. You enjoy the snow, so this forecast doesn’t trouble you. Gazing out the window, your thoughts begin to wander. “A snowstorm is quite poetic, actually. It really encapsulates the deep winter aesthetic ...”

“… IT WAS YOU. You were the amputee in the wheelchair.” 

“What? No.” 

“IT WAS YOU. When your gaze fell upon that poor, suffering woman, it fell upon yourself.” 

“Impossible. But I’m … I’m ME! And that woman, she was … she was wretched.”

“But what makes you ‘you’ in the first place? Did your soul choose to be born into the able body and mind that you possess currently? Did you choose to have loving parents? Strong role models? Caring teachers? Did your soul do anything to deserve these gifts?”

“Well, I don’t know … I guess … I guess not.”

“What about that woman? Did her soul choose to be born into a less able body and mind? Did she choose unloving parents? Non-existent role models? Uncaring teachers? Did her soul do anything to deserve this unjust deal?”

“No, it couldn’t have.”

“So what then differentiates you from her? If your soul did nothing to deserve privilege, and hers nothing to deserve pain, why then do you think yourself superior to her? The only reason you aren’t out there in this raging snowstorm, sleeping under the entryway of an old building, wondering why life had nothing but pain and suffering in store for you, yet no longer able to shed even a single tear over this fact, is because — by virtue of a happy cosmic accident — you got lucky.”

A long silence passes as the snow continues to fall softly. Then, it occurs to you: “I … I have to go.”

“Where?”

“To keep her warm and safe … if she isn’t, then neither am I.”

Hastily, you throw on your warmest jacket and slip into winter boots, then step out into the night…

This letter will be continued at a later date.

T.W.