March 29, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Walking the dog this morning it was like stepping into a dream: the warm sun smiling down on us, turning a corner I saw a bird pull a worm out of the ground. The trees were alive with the songs of birds and I half expected to see cartoon tulips singing along. It was glorious and warm today, the warmest it's been in five months. And everything felt alive with the promise and expectation of new life to come.

Yours,

Dan

March 28, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Our dining room table is covered from one end to the other with tiny clothes, all given by family and friends, all awaiting a tiny baby to fill them. It's overwhelming and exciting all at the same time.

Dan

March 27, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

1,528 United States war dead in Iraq as of today.

Happy Easter,

Dan

March 26, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The sun--the sun--shone brilliantly off the swooping stainless steel arcs of the Frank Gehry bandshell, visible just beyond the huge arched windows in the nearly-empty room we stood in. The walls were a thick green marble, the ceiling an ornately coffered slab, and our own quiet voices echoed in the expanse of the room. Just outside was a bustling crowd each there for their own reasons, some nervous others excited, all standing beneath a stunning glass dome which was older and more beautiful than anyone gathered beneath it. The building itself is extraordinary, and every time I have walked in it over the years I catch myself gasping in its splendor. It was as good a place as any to get married, I suppose. And so we did.

"I think that you've probably made a private commitment to each other before coming here," the judge said to us, hesitating just slightly as if worried that the words may carry the wrong impact and somehow be interpreted as shameful. But Janice and I just glanced at her massive belly, swollen to the breaking point with our child, and laughed. That commitment was made many years ago, Mr. Bush, and has grown only more resolute. What transpired today was simply legalities--no rings, no changing of names, no hoopla--it was just a simple five minute exchange of words and then a walk in the new spring sun past glorious bits of architecture, buildings and structures both very old and very new.

To the permanence of buildings and the ephemeral changes of life,

Dan

March 25, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Today, Good Friday, there were four car bombings in Iraq that killed 19 people. As you go into this Easter weekend, Mr. Bush, how about spending some time reflecting on the countless numbers of dead in Iraq that won't be rising from the dead?

Dan

March 24, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Remember Iraq? I know it's not a single woman on a feeding tube, but it's an entire country on life support. You and your friends in Congress might want to hold some special sessions on that.

Dan

March 23, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A couple broke up across from me on the train today. They were both middle aged and kind of frumpy, her dressed in a bulky sweater, him wearing an ill-fitting trench-coat over some kind of novelty sweatshirt. She was soaking up her tears in a tiny shred of a napkin while he kept repeating the phrase "It'll be OK. We'll still be friends like we always were." She'd stare out the window for a moment as the city streaked by outside, and then would turn to him and say, "I'm just not sure I understand why." And he would glance up at the train map, hunting for his stop that wasn't coming soon enough.

Dan

March 22, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

This Schiavo mess sure has done a good job of making everyone forget how poorly you've faired on convincing the country that Social Security is on the brink of bankruptcy, huh? That must be a relief.

Dan

March 21, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I remember visiting my friend's father in the hospital. He was lying there silently, looking soft and slightly waxen, like he'd been cast from still-warm resin. The bed was designed to move slightly from side to side and front to back, to keep the blood flowing smoothly or something--I honestly can't remember. All I remember is that the effect was to cause my friend's father's head to roll slightly from side to side as if he was fending off a bad dream. But he wasn't dreaming; his brain had stopped firing after a massive stroke on Thanksgiving. Before the stroke, he was someone who lived his life as largely as his massive frame would allow--singing loudly, eating extravagantly, making lame and often off-color jokes and then laughing at them with such a commanding force that you couldn't help but laugh too. And now he lay there, gently rocking back and forth, back and forth, a machine rhythmically causing his chest to inflate and deflate, another keeping him fed. I picked up his cold, limp hand--massive, like the rest of him, but oddly lacking weight--and spoke a few words and shuffled out of the room.

In the waiting area sat his entire family--his two daughters, his son, his wife--all of them looked drained and tired and sad, emotions further weighed down by the knowledge that they had to decide the fate of the man in the room next door.

Once they made their decision, he died quickly and peacefully, his body finally at rest after the machines shut down. They have lived with their actions for years now and, as much as they miss their father and husband, I have never once heard anyone utter a regret at shutting down life support.

These types of decisions are made by families like my friend's every day, Mr. Bush. They are heartbreaking and difficult, but they are private decisions. They do not need the brazen hands of carpetbagging congressmen and "culture of life" presidents invading these intimate actions.

Yours,

Dan

March 20, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

That you and many of your Republican colleagues are flying back to Washington right now to craft and sign a bill to keep a single woman on life support, yet can't be bothered to save the lives of an untold number of people by fixing our broken healthcare system, is simply unconscionable.

Dan

March 19, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Have you ever thought about the babies born in Iraq the night you started dropping bombs, or the mothers in labor when the first impacts bloomed like phosphorescent roses? Well, Mr. Bush, the children that took their first breaths as missiles sailed over them en route to their targets turned two today.

Today, those babies are children who walk and talk and laugh and cry and the only thing they know is your war. They don't know about the rule of Saddam Hussein, they don't know about the decade of crushing sanctions, their sole reality is a lifetime of explosions and uncertainty. These are your children, Mr. Bush, and they cry every night. Do you hear them? Do you care?

Happy anniversary,

Dan

March 18, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I have been lying to Janice for weeks now. I've been covering my tracks well, erecting elaborate ruses and smokescreens to obscure my erratic behavior. I've been sneaking phone calls while she's been in the shower; making plans while she's been asleep. In the last few days it's been almost unbearable, the stress and strain of figuring out new excuses for strange actions.

But last night, when her two oldest and best friends walked through our door, the look on her face was worth every thorny deception.

To surprises,

Dan

March 17, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

As I write this, my sister and her husband are hurtling towards the sun, leapfrogging across the country to meet their new child, born early this afternoon. They have been waiting years for this moment, years that I can only imagine must have been impossibly difficult and frustrating as they witnessed others create families of their own while they sat and waited for a call that felt like it would never come.

But then, this morning, it did come--the birth mother is in labor, come as quickly as you can--and now they're 30,000 feet in the air racing through clouds to meet a child still pink from birth; a child whose small cries and tiny gurgles will reassure them that all the waiting was worth it.

To Nikolas,

Dan

March 16, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Surely there must have been some other person currently walking the earth with a hair more qualifications for running the World Bank than Paul Wolfowitz.

Dan

March 15, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I spent my entire day at the office today dealing with little tax things. As I was finishing the last of this mind-numbing work, a friend who moved here from Switzerland walked in. "You know the thing about American taxes?" she said. "Here, you pay all this money and the only think you get back are these wars. In Switzerland, you pay your taxes and you get all sorts of social services in return." And I tell you, Mr. Bush, her saying that made signing the last of the checks an even more painful exercise.

Dan

March 14, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I've gotta tell you that this whole Social Security stumping is pretty embarrassing. You're a proud man who doesn't give up easily, but as you pull into a new city every day it must take a little more to get yourself excited for another day of stumping for a plan that is going to go nowhere.

Good luck,

Dan

March 13, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I just feel like we're running out of time," Janice said to me today, while driving home from visiting some friends. I tried to convince her that we've got almost six weeks left before the baby's born and that's plenty of time to get everything done, but neither she nor I were truly buying it, as another weekend slipped through our fingers.

To finding more time,

Dan

March 12, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

We moved the furniture in our bedroom around tonight, making space for a tiny basket to sit on top of an old wooden trunk pulled up snug against our bed. It's where our son will sleep in just six weeks' time, and after we put everything in position, we lay on the bed with our hands in the basket, softly stroking a child that wasn't there.

Yours,

Dan

March 11, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I've decided that marriage court is the best place ever. I came to this realization while waiting in line to reserve a space for a quickie wedding (just six weeks to get things legal before the baby comes, after all). It was 9:15 in the morning and the waiting room was getting crowded. In one corner was a well-dressed young professional couple, nervous and joking, holding hands and glancing at their watches. In another was an old, overweight couple--neither him nor her a day under 60--dressed in T-shirts and sweats. As the receptionist called me to the window, a gangsta family walked in, the bride and groom wearing matching side-cocked baseball hats, still shiny in their newness. They had a small group of friends with them, and they went and sat on different sides of the room—the bride and her people on the far side of the room, the groom's party near the door. Just outside the doorway, I could see a large eastern European family forming, the men laughing quietly in a corner, the women surrounding a teenage girl dressed in a floor-length white gown, a crystal chocker stretched tightly around her long, slender neck.

The room itself was what you would expect in the basement of a county building--small, dark, the aesthetics of a hospital waiting room. There was a small glass-fronted window with an grumpy receptionist behind it who would spit out Congratulations, can I help you? as you approached. There was a hallway behind her window, and every now and then she would turn to yell down it at a judge in a far room, things like D'ya need some water, yer honor? or Are you ready for the next one, sir?.

When the couples were called, they would walk down that hallway and five minutes later come back out married. The receptionist would snatch the marriage certificate out of their hands, and explain how to apply for a certified copy in a different county office across the hall. And, as the couples and their families would walk out of the room, blinking under the harsh fluorescence of brightly-lit hallway and wondering what exactly just happened in that five minute span, I realized that this was how a wedding should be: fast and painless and oddly legal.

I've grown up watching people I know get married off--family, friends, co-workers, enemies--and I've see how massive an undertaking it becomes, how this one day overshadows everything in their lives, overshadows their even own relationship. And I've never wanted any part of it. To me, choosing to spend a life with someone is a private event, something chosen quietly and individually. It's not an excuse for a gaudy public ceremony, with caterers and a band; it's not a reason to get expensive kitchen supplies or a pile of money; it's not a reason to buy expensive rings or go on lavish vacations. It's love, not a parade, and it's simple and it's mysterious, and it's confusing and exhilarating, and it's yours.

And so, yeah, I'm getting married too--Illinois law doesn't grant birth fathers many rights unless you're hitched--but I'm not telling you a date and I'm not asking you to send flowers or a gift. This isn't something for you, Mr. Bush--or for friends or relatives. This is something for me and for Janice and for our tiny little family that we're building. This is something private and something personal and, yes, something oddly legal, and it's not anything more. It's something that lasts five minutes, and when you walk out, your pupils struggling to adjust to the harsh lights in the hall, you realize that nothing changed; you realize that your life is still your own and the way you choose to live it the only thing that matters.

To simplicity,

Dan

March 10, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

"I'm starting to worry," Anne said today, after I told her I didn't sleep well again last night. It's been four nights of restless sleep punctuated by nightmares and sharp moments of abrupt wake.

"There's no need," I replied, "I think it's just stress from last week finally working it's way out. And besides--the dreams are getting more boring every day. Last night, instead of being chased by killers and rapists, I was just frantically stuffing envelopes."

She looked at me skeptically. But it's true, Mr. Bush, I know my body pretty well at this point, and I know how it deals with stress. And this week, it's been unwinding, releasing the tension and energy that has been stored up. Every day I can feel my body slowing down, my brain easing up from the full-tilt that I ask it to operate at. Soon my sleep will be punctuated by nothing more than the alarm in the morning.

To sleep,

Dan

March 9, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Sorry for the lateness of this letter. I have been busy catching up on some much-needed sleep these last few days and haven't had as much free time in the mornings as a result. I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience to you to get these letters so late.

Today was a bloody day in Iraq--bombings, attempted assassinations, over 40 bodies turning up shot in the head. But you spent the day traveling around talking about how social security is a looming crisis and wondering why nobody seems to believe you. I don't know if they ever will again.

Dan

March 8, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The sun shone brightly today, but it was of no use, as the bitter cold of winter's last gasp hung around the city like a noose. March will do that to you: a day of beautiful, spring-like weather followed by freezing temperatures. Hang in there, though, spring will be here soon.

Dan

March 7, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

We finished our work early today, earlier than we ever have before. It felt good to work as a team, to get systems down that make sense and work smoothly. And then it felt good to go home and sleep for hours.

Good night.

Dan

March 6, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

The long thaw of March finally began today in earnest. It was warm and sunny and you could go outside without a coat or hat. We took the dog out to a park to let her run and watched her muscles lose their winter tightness until they were lithe and quick. And as we watched our dog tear across the grass, small chunks of dirt kicking up in her wake, we thought about how, after a few more weekends like this one, we too will have shaken off the inertia of a long winter and will be able to run in the bright glare and transformative warmth of spring.

Yours,

Dan

March 5, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A late night, a long week, and now some much-needed rest.

Good night,

Dan

March 4, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I'm just curious: Where on your list of horribles does shooting at a freed hostage fall? Because on mine, that's pretty horrible.

Dan

March 3, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

A woman was looking at lingerie on the train today, pulling these wispy, gauzy items out of a shopping bag, holding them up to the light, moving her hand behind them. She'd laugh to herself quietly, then pull another out of the bag and repeat the process, sometimes holding them up to her chest, as if somehow checking the size through her bulky winter coat. It was such an intimate thing to be doing, on a late train home from downtown, and I was amazed at her ability to block out the rest of the world and find such pleasure in the thought of things to come.

Yours,

Dan

March 2, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

People braced themselves as they walked outside today--scarves pulled tight, coats buttoned high--as a blast of frigid air swooped down on the city. It happens every year, Mr. Bush, and yet still everyone is surprised by it: February passes and you think winter should be over; then, inevitably, March opens even harsher and grayer and colder than ever. And you pull on your coat and your hat and warm yourself only with the knowledge that this too will come to an end, eventually.

To warmth,

Dan

March 1, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

I rolled over this morning, turned to Janice, and said, "Our son is going to be born next month." And sure, it's not until the end of next month, but it's true nonetheless.

To next month,

Dan

February 28, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

115 dead today in Iraq. 115 people standing in line to get physical exams so they could join the police forces that you say are so vital to the country's stability. Weren't the elections supposed to deal a blow to the insurgents? Wasn't the capture of Sabawi Ibrahim al-Hassan supposed to remove a vital organ from the body of the insurgency? But today 115 people died. And tomorrow, you know as well as I do, that the same thing could happen again. How does it end, Mr. Bush? How does it end?

Dan