Dear 15-year-old Ana,
You wrote a letter to me your sophomore year of high school. I know I haven’t responded, but I haven’t forgotten about you. I remember what you’re like, even now. You’re in 10th grade. Defiant in your looks, a fresh pixie cut makes its debut and stays until you decide to grow it out in college. Your nails are painted black. You love to wear that navy blue NASA bomber jacket your aunt got you in Houston, and you still sleep with your childhood stuffed hippo, “Akka.” You have newly unshackled teeth still stained from where your braces used to be.
You wrote me a letter and it’s taken six years for me to write back. I want to apologize for the delay. I hope you’ll accept my response.
I can actually remember exactly where you were when you wrote this. It was a writing exercise your homeroom teacher made you do, and you were so non-committal about it you didn’t even open a Google Doc, just the Notes app on your phone. You’re lucky I even found this thing. You begin with “Hello old lady. I’m being forced to write this against my will.”
Setting aside the fact that I resent that introduction, hello to you, too.
In the letter you tell me lots of things: the music you like, the shows you’re watching, the people you call friends. You tell me, “The kind of music I’m listening to is indie I think? Just Declan McKenna, Jack Stauber, and some other shit thrown in the mix. Sure it might be cringe to look back on but at least I don’t listen to Twenty One Pilots anymore. Good God.”
Luckily for you, I’m not so judgmental. I still listen to that kind of music pretty frequently. In fact, I never deleted the playlist you made. It has a new name and a lot of new songs sporadically added throughout the years, but the seeds you sowed are still there. Unluckily for you, I still know every Twenty One Pilots lyric. That’s right, when I get nostalgic for you I’ll put them on sometimes. Sorry, not sorry. But I’ve found some new musicians I like that you probably would have hated, like The Garden and Eyedress, or maybe even Men I Trust.
I remember what you used to watch. “Supernatural,” “Doctor Who,” “Adventure Time,” “Breaking Bad.” You loved “New Girl,” right? Or was that another Ana, a couple years later? You write, “Marco’s in college so we’ve been rewatching Steven Universe on FaceTime together. I kind of wanna try watching The Mandalorian.” Marco isn’t in college anymore. Your brother has been back at home working for two years. Now it’s you who needs to FaceTime in order to see the rest of your family. Funnily enough, we watch the same stuff together even now, re-experiencing old shows of our youth through a screen. In my freshman year of college, I’d fall asleep to some of these old episodes, nostalgic for you. Do you find that cringey?
You tell me about your friends. You list names on and on, stopping occasionally to remind me how you know them. But some names I don’t even recognize. Who is Nathaniel? Sarah who? Other names make me smile — a lot of these people I still speak regularly with, even visiting them whenever I can during the semester. There’s one name you mention that makes me wince. I don’t talk to that friend anymore. I hope you’ll understand.
You end the letter with questions for me.
You ask, “Still wearing masks?” Right. When I was 15 it was 2020. You were certain the pandemic would last years — and you weren’t wrong! But we don’t take precautions like we used to. At least you still get your booster once a year.
“I’m currently in an advanced journalism class and I really enjoy it. I think I have two articles published currently but my third is about to be, which is really exciting. Do you ever continue it?” Oh, honey, do I ever. Last month I went to Austin, Texas to cover the South by Southwest Film Festival. How’s that for continuing journalism?
“You must be in college now. Where did you end up even going? Applications sound terrifying and I am not ready to do them.” Would you believe me if I told you that you’ll get into the University of Michigan? I think you’d laugh in my face, but it’s true. And you’ll love it.
I suppose you started running out of time in your homeroom class because you begin asking broader questions. “What are you most passionate about?” You didn’t know this when you were 15. You’d think at 21, I’d have a better answer for you than “everything.” “Do you like your body?” “Do you wear makeup?” “Do you like yourself now?” Yes, yes, yes.
I have some questions for you, even if you can’t answer them. Are you upset about the long hair? I’m more feminine now. I’m wearing a skirt as I’m writing this letter. Are you disappointed? My favorite color is sage green now, not maroon. And I love mushrooms, a food you swore was the most disgusting thing in the whole world. What did you think I’d be like, at 21?
Are you proud of me?
I know you can’t respond. I’ve waited a little too long to write to you, and I fear I’ve missed you completely. I don’t see you in the mirror anymore; I can only see you in old photos, some terrible Snapchat memories I keep getting recommended and somehow on my Mcard, the senior photo I submitted still holding some resemblance to you. Funnily enough, remnants of that pixie cut are harder to avoid than that stubborn pimple that keeps coming back on your cheek.
I want you to know that I love you, regardless of how cringy or nerdy you think you are. I love your creativity and fearlessness. I love how ridiculous you could be. I want you to know there’s nothing I would have changed about you. You with your short hair and bold eyeliner you’d try to master in your bathroom late at night before showering. You with your TikTok obsession and intense preoccupations with Pedro Pascal. I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. I’m sorry I have to say goodbye in the form of a letter and not a hug.
All I can really say is thank you, and I’ll miss you.
Best regards,
You.
TV Beat Editor Ana Torresarpi can be reached at atorresa@umich.edu.
