You've Got Mail

As teenagers, we thought such antics were great fun tinged with the danger of getting caught.  Most years in the lead up to Independence Day, lots of creative energy was given to how to destroy things through the use of fireworks sold from tents scattered along every major thoroughfare.  Money may have been tight but a package of firecrackers and a few M-80s topped the list of spending priorities for mid-teenage boys whose hormones were rising while their judgment was ebbing.

I’ve never seen a rural mail box with the concentric circles of a target painted on it, but rural mail boxes, whether located on country roads or suburban streets, have long been targets for boys who’ve been kidnapped by their lower angels.  A band of boys compete to imagine the look of a mail box after an M-80 is tossed inside and the door slammed shut.  Little thought or discussion is given to the length of the fuse, how far to run, or what to hide behind when the explosion occurs.  Absolutely no thought is given to the damage, inconvenience or effect on the box’s owner.

Accepted as fact, boys will find alternative uses for most of the implements that fill their days.  A baseball bat can inflict all manner of damage.  As evidence, everyone has driven roads dotted with rural mail boxes modified by blows delivered with a Louisville Slugger.  A hit on top makes the box look like a rickety Conestoga.  The term smashed mouth is an image where the door hangs like a dead tongue and the opening is skewed to a lopsided smile.

Now that Saturday delivery is on its way to obscurity, the days of the home, rural mail box are destined to expire.  But for now, the ritual of checking for the mail creates a tangible connection between residents, institutions and people who live far away.  A letter from another country will have traveled by vehicle, train, boat or plane and been processed in portals to keep the message moving.  When it arrives, the recipient feels the paper felt by the sender and sees writing born in personal thoughts and feelings.

A smashed mouth mailbox doesn’t alter a letter's message unless delivery can't be completed – unless the damaged box severs the connection with someone across years and miles. 

A few weeks ago some boys took a spin through our neighborhood in a late model Ford Expedition at about 2:00am.  They were using the baseball bat technique as captured on the footage from a neighbor’s security camera.  In the aftermath of their foray, for most of us it looked like youthful vandalism – a one off spree.  The damage did not rise to lots of dollars.  Some neighbors pulled the damaged boxes back into workable shape so the next day’s mail could be received.  The unseen damage was greater – more difficult to repair.

For some folks, fear swirls like water hovering less than a single degree below the boiling point.  Or perhaps fear has a hair trigger where the slightest quiver will launch the projectile of fear.  Little fears seem to take residence in the back of our minds and cast huge shadows on the temporal lobe of our brains where perceptions are processed – particularly when we already feel separate or somewhat alienated.

My own experience with being an outsider has been piqued twice.  Once, twenty-five years ago, I spent two nights in a hotel in Maebashi, Japan.  Our group, a sister city delegation to Nagano, stayed at a hotel in Tokyo while I split off to see my foreign exchange student brother and his family in a small Japanese town about sixty miles away.  I was the only person in the hotel who spoke English.  I speak virtually no Japanese.  Masashi had taught me to use the phone.  The number he gave me would be answered and when I spoke English, the person taking the call would go to find him.  It was my single link to any other person.   I felt pretty isolated – maybe a bit fearful.

Our next door neighbor was one of the victims of the mail box smashers.  The next box to his was severely dented as well.  When I went out to get the paper, my neighbor was analyzing the damage.  His reaction revealed his elevated fear.  From where we stood these were the only two boxes that seemed to have been damaged.  My neighbor observed they were the only boxes owned by people with foreign surnames.  He felt targeted.  He felt alien, foreign, alone.  To him, vandalism was no explanation – the only explanation could be an attack on people who were different.

Dismissing such a small act that triggers such fear felt wrong.  We straightened his box as much as we could and he replaced it a couple of days later.  I hope the wound opened by a juvenile act has healed and he can sleep the night feeling safe.  With luck, mail boxes will survive and stand firm for years to come.  Their contents may be a strong antidote for fear.

--td