A long time ago, I wrote a letter to a grandchild, a teenage boy. I had nothing unusual to say but writing letters on paper, in longhand or printed with a computer, is a thing of the past. Now our words are as fleeting as the dry leaves of fall. They may stay forever in the "cloud" but they are fragile, paper in pieces, history forgotten and unretrievable.
Recently I wrote a letter to my Congressional representative, since so much that is happening in Mexico is out of sight, and our ambassador is a wannabe cowboy whose main concern seems to be, well, being seen. So much of what happens here concerns the United States, but my specific topic was the damage to my health caused by a nearby refinery using fuel oil to produce gasoline. The contamination of our air is horrendous. And yet Mexico's constitution, mostly a document of good intentions, guarantees clean air and water as human rights.
On the same topic, I wrote a letter to the Secretary of State, Antony Blinken, and though I did not truly expect an answer from someone whose aides probably sift through and filter letters, I in fact did not get one. Not even an acknowledgement that a letter was sent.
My Congressman also did not answer.
Last week I sent a letter to the Nobel Peace Prize Committee, suggesting David Attenborough as the recipient of the prize. That letter went to Norway, of course, and God knows if I will ever hear from them. My mistake may be that I put my actual home address on my mail, since the Mexican postal service is in terminal care thanks to email, Whatsapp, and the rest of the virtual gang.
The most disappointing of it all is that it seems not to matter that someone takes the time and effort to write and mail a real letter, on paper, in black and white. I could say "stay tuned", but what for? I only have a vague hope that the Norwegians might actually contact me.
But maybe not.
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