Dear Micah,

            When you were small, you didn’t speak.  Or, at least you didn’t say anything we could understand.  You weren’t able to use intelligible speech until you were five – just in time for kindergarten.  That’s not to say you didn’t communicate.  You did!  With your body and your face, and your smile and your emphatic, if confusing, gibberish.  You were darling.  An easy go-er.  A magical sprite.

            When you were a toddler, your sister was the only one who understood your Micah-talk.  She translated for us like a U.N. interpreter.  You would say, “Gung, gung, deetee, waytee gungsee.” And she would say, “She wants to wear her red sunsuit.” And you would nod and clap your hands.  Bingo!

            For a few years after you learned speech, you still had your own language.  We all started using your words for things.  “Very big one” became, “Yoddy big dun.”  Spaghetti was “BeeDeeDee.”  “Thank you” came out as, “Dah-boo.”  You laughed, you giggled, you charmed every doctor I took you to and cast a spell on every teacher who had you in their classroom.

            Throughout your school years you were a frustrating combination of utterly beguiling and stubbornly unwilling to learn things unless they interested you.  I would get notes from your teachers, “Micah is a joy to have in class, but she doesn’t finish her work. She has many friends and usually chooses to talk with them rather than do her assignments.”

            Every year you would start out eagerly and then, sooner or later, your social interests trumped your academics and you would start flunking.  You resisted our help with homework, refused to accept limits around grades versus allowance, and generally were the poster child for Frank Sinatra’s song, “My Way.”  By the time you were a senior in high school, I was numb with trying.

            Never a morning person, the last couple of years of high school you were late more mornings than you were on time.  You overslept and called a cab to take you to school so many times that the cab drivers came to know you by name, and finally gave you a punch card so you could get a “tenth ride free.”  My motherly heart sank when we argued about your grades and your future.  You’re mantra had become:

            You-Do-SO-Get-Credit-If-You-Get-A-D!

            Although many of your friends in our snazzy suburb were clearly Stanford-bound or headed to Harvard, you graduated with a cumulative average of .9.  I may be remembering that number wrong. It may have been lower.

            You insisted on moving to Minnesota, where you “felt like yourself” and where your (surprise, surprise) friends were.  I don’t think you ever forgave me for moving to Seattle when you were in the fourth grade.  You went back to all your friends at the first independent opportunity.  Like a salmon girl swimming upstream, you made your way swiftly and surely to the stream of your birth – in your case, the Mississippi.  By the time you left Seattle, you were ready and so was I.  We hardly spoke. 

            The University of Minnesota was not keen on generating an acceptance letter for the proud owner of a .9 GPA, so you did other things.  You got a job as a nanny.  Then one at PetsMart.  And as a smoothie maker at Jamba Juice – all at the same time.  You found a tiny apartment near the Cathedral in St. Paul, and you (along with your friends) started taking classes at a community college.  You found out that you were pretty smart.  And that it felt good to do well.  And that teachers were really interested in your future and in you as a person.

            We still didn’t talk too much.  I looked on your MySpace page.  Your friends were teasing you for being a stick in the mud.  They wrote things like, “Dude! Put down the books and come OUT with us!”  or “GIRLLLLL!  U R SUCH a dweebster.  Party on Saturday at Hannah’s!” 

            I wondered if it was the right Micah.  Yes, there was your picture, sticking your tongue out, with your arm around a friend on each side.  Micah the dweebster.  With friends.

            You got an Associate Degree and then went on to the University of Minnesota.  Still the tiny apartment.  Still working two or more jobs.  Still not calling your mom on Sundays, or answering your cell when she called you. 

            Now and then we talked about finances, support, tuition costs and priorities.  I said that going to school was your job for now, and as long as you were doing your job – school – you would have my support.  You didn’t talk about college much.  Or the two boyfriends you eventually tossed.  Or how hard it was to do all this on your own.  You just kept doing your job.  Jobs.

            Now it is tax time again.  You sent your tax information home when Anne (who has loved you from the first minute you were born, and would probably choose you over me if I ever gave her that ultimatum, which luckily I have never had to do) asked you to send your 1040s and school tuition information so she could do her TurboTax magic and get you a refund.

            Today we got the tax information.  And tucked in the envelope, like an afterthought – like a cartoon that you might have clipped to send, or a notice about your semester book bill – was a letter from the University of Minnesota.  It read:

 Dear Micah, 

Congratulations on your outstanding academic record during Fall 2008!  You have completed 12 or more credits with a GPA of 3.66 or higher.  In recognition of this exceptional achievement and your outstanding commitment to learning, you have been recognized on the College of Liberal Arts Dean’s List. 

As Dean of CLA, I take great pride in your success.  We are committed to ensuring your continued access to, and participation in, our outstanding academic programs. 

Thank you for your contributions to the intellectual life of our college and congratulations on your success! 

Sincerely Yours,

James A. Parente, Jr.Dean 

            You might have mentioned it, Honey.  You might have given us just a teeny weeny heads up.  But then again, maybe you did in your own language.  Maybe living your own life, working hard and really trying in school is your way of saying, “Thanks, Mom.  For trusting my decision to move.  For supporting me with money and airfare home, for believing in me, and for expecting good things.”  Yes, I think that’s what you’re saying.  (I’ll check with your sister to be sure.)

            So let me send you a little letter of my own. 

 Dear Micah 

Congratulations on your outstanding academic record during Fall 2008!  You have completed 12 or more credits with a GPA of 3.66 or higher. Holy Shit!  I just want you to know that “You-Do-SO-Get-Credit-When-You-Work-Your-Ass-Off!”  In recognition of this exceptional achievement and your outstanding commitment to learning, you have been recognized on the College of Liberal Arts Dean’s List, and that letter has been permanently Superglued to your mother’s refrigerator. 

As the person who carried you for your initial nine months, I take great pride in your success.  We (Anne and I) are committed to ensuring your continued access to, and participation in, those outstanding academic programs. 

Dah-boo for your contributions to our bursting hearts, and congratulations on your success! 

Sincerely,

Mom (and Anne) 

And Honey?  Just want you to know that we love you yoddy big dun, and if you want to come home for spring break, I’ll make you some BeeDeeDee. 

Have your people call my people.