The topic of “writing” elicits images of strict English teachers staring down their spectacles at wide-eyed students, demanding nothing less than Shakespeare from their young charges. Even experienced wordsmiths encounter angst over transforming their thoughts into artful written compositions. Consequently, many people today eschew writing in favor of vlogs and photo sharing. However, without writing, I would not be alive. Years ago, my mother and father wrote me into existence; here is their story.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” My mother read and reread the question as she sat quietly amid the hum of the computer lab, surrounded by two dozen other students who were crammed into a small basement room in the London School of Economics. My mother, a petite bottle-blonde 21-year-old, had gone on a single date with my future father one week before moving from the United States to London to finish her economics degree. On the date, my mother was impressed with my father—a tall, lean returned missionary who was pursuing an architecture degree in Chicago. He had taken her to the Cheesecake Factory overlooking Lake Michigan and had buzzed with all the energy of a college boy obsessed with the novelty of a pretty girl. Even with the magical date, my mother was realistic and believed they would go their separate ways. After all, my mother and father came from vastly different backgrounds and had different life plans. My father grew up in Salt Lake City and was locked into a future military career, which my mother’s parents highly frowned upon. My mother grew up in Kentucky and was applying to law schools. For her, there was always an underlying sense of how temporary these relationships were, as she had become accustomed to previous summer loves and had spent many afternoons in the presence of Kentucky boys hunting frogs. There was a similar sentiment about my father. While their paths crossed briefly for an illusory summer in Chicago, they surely would not cross again. Moreover, they had only gone on a single date, which was not a lot to build on.
At the end of their date, my father respectfully asked, “May I have your email address?” My mother responded, “Ok,” but was inwardly doubtful. She expected one or two emails followed by . . . nothing. My father, however, wrote. He wrote every day, for weeks, for months. Each time my father wrote, my mother responded. This was no easy task in 1999 when college students did not own personal computers and sending emails involved walking to the school—a 75-minute walk for my mother, across the dingiest parts of London–and waiting for an available computer in the computer lab.
Over the months, my father regaled my mother with stories from his mission, entertained her with anecdotes of college life, and shared details of his upbringing. In turn, my mother divulged her stories, fears, hopes, and dreams. My parents fell in love over email. They shared no pictures—digital imaging was not mainstream at the time—and made no phone calls due to living on separate continents. Every connection they forged was with words on a computer screen. Writing became romantic. Writing became the beacon of effort beaming from my father’s words that convinced my mother to never settle for someone less.
Who would have predicted that daily emails would blossom into a 24-year marriage, complete with twelve moves and four children? Who would have known that one of those four kids would be writing her parents’ story at her own college one day? Who would have known that someday a young man’s efforts would teach his daughter what a man in love will do?
After months of correspondence, my mother sat, locked into the question on the computer screen: “Where do you see yourself in five years?” She collected her belongings, afraid to wait for a reply, took a deep breath, and simply responded, “With you.”