Dear, Kitty

Writing these letters to you has got me thinking about the time I received a love letter from a boy in tenth grade. The first and only love letter I have ever received. And now I know why.

I was sixteen and had been placed in my second foster home in Montebello. Alice enrolled me in Montebello High, which on the first day I had gotten the impression that I was surrounded by Affluents. The students had designer purses and cell phones. Back home I went to school to get a free meal and then walk right through the back gate.

This boy– he was a sweet and lively Asian boy. His black hairs were infamously gelled up. Short and pointy like the blade of a dagger.

 Unfortunately, annoyingly, terribly it pains me to say, yes, this misfortune occurred during an epoch in my life when I still thought I was a boy and saw men twice my age.

As much as I want to defend my actions like a cunning politician, I won’t. It happened. All there is to say is that I was a child. Thinking childish things. Doing childish things. 

It was terrible, Kitty! Not the letter. The letter expressed a profound affection towards me. Highlighted my smile. My fashion. My scent. But the way I responded to it.

He had sent a messenger to give me the letter, which was folded and sealed with a red heart sticker, like the ones that come in Valentines day card boxes. I read it, laughed, and handed it back to the messenger with my own message. “No,” I said.

I used to think it marked the start of my hapless relationships with men, but I have always been unlucky.

I am a bitch. But I have always been the kind of bitch that uses her bitchiness as a safeguard. A shield. A dagger with which to impale undeserving people.

 I know I shouldn’t have been such a bitch. But I will tell you the truth, Kitty. I am a bitch. But I have always been the kind of bitch that uses her bitchiness as a safeguard. A shield. A dagger with which to impale undeserving people. He didn’t deserve an ounce of my bitchiness. Still I would never reach out to say sorry. Those kinds of experiences toughen people up. Or, like myself, they make you wiser. It’s like that maxim–you live and you learn. 

Now, I’m more sagacious about how I wield my bitchiness–and that makes all the difference.

Yours Truly,

Athena Vasquez