An Official Letter from Our Leader to Yours

EXCUSE ME [ENTER PRESIDENT/KING/STATE-LEADER’S-NAME HERE (I CAN’T RECALL WHAT IT IS)],

Sir/Madam, you have shot down my plane. No, you have shot down the plane of my country—our plane—the plane that represents something in my land, something that shouldn’t be shot down, something that should be allowed to fly because that’s what it was made to do. So tell me, (Enter Their Name Again), what must my response be? I’ll tell you—you put me in a pickle. Deep inside a pickle. I can taste the watery pulp I am so deep inside this spicy pickle. Shoot down their plane, my officials and advisors and mother tells me, but I think that is far from appropriate, nearing disastrously laughable. No, I am not a retaliation man. I am a dignified man. A statesman.So this is what I shall do—as a man of the state, as a man for the people and by the people, as a man for man and woman alike: I shall build a boat. Nay, a ship. A tiny ship. A tiny, water-sailing ship that can glide on top of and through and during waves, the waves of a bathtub, the waves built by a smiling, shining son—your smiling, shining son—your smiling, shining son unaware of all the things that have been shot down and shot through and shot up and shot empty. This boat, this ship, he will play with it in the bathtub, because why wouldn’t he? It’s a wonderfully designed and expertly constructed ship. My engineers will make it of the highest order and lowest gravitational-pull to maximize enjoyment and minimize linear decomposition.

“What’s the catch?” you might inquire while reading this letter out load to your officials and advisors and elderly grandmother. “Your thing can’t fly anymore because of me, because of my country, and now you give me a thing that floats? I now have a thing that floats from you? Why?” I will respond to your query with the truth as anything else would be cumbersome for both me and you:

I won’t lie, I have had the urge to destroy you and everything you have ever loved, ever held close to your chest, ever sung sweet songs too in the darkest hours of the night. I had a plane, a plane that I’m unsure if I loved, but a plane that should not be shot down none-the-less. You killed that plane and all the tiny robots piloting it inside, robots who didn’t live long enough to shed a tear of pride and joy when it came time for the next generation to retire them.

If I could, I would build you a million boats. I would give all million of these boats to your son, then sink them in the bathtub, one by one. I would sink them with a million, tiny, bathtub-sized torpedoes shooting from a million, tiny, bathtub-sized submarines so he can hear the screams of all those unexpecting men and women and children traveling aboard these tiny boats. His wide eyes will be glued to their thrashing arms and gasping mouths as they fight with every fiber of their being to breathe another breath, even if it be their last breath, only to sink and inhale water, something the lungs are never thirsty for. He should know loss, your now-not-smiling-or-shining son. He should feel the loss that I feel as that might make me, and my state, feel better (though we both know it won’t; it never does; yet it’s an endeavor we won’t ever give up, and, as humans, we can be proud of that determination; we can wave it like a white flag dripping perfume smelling reminiscent of colors).

As I said, I am a man of the state, a man of the people, a man for man, and a man for women too because they are also people—I am a man for all who live under me and through me and inside me, I am. Now, these people, all of them, because of this incident, they are looking at me like I am silly and weak and a man to be taken lightly. I don’t want to look silly or weak or like a man to be taken lightly. I want to look strong and powerful and like myself but stronger and more powerful. Even when planes are flying straight and true, I need to look like this. It would be disastrous if I didn’t.

Despite all that, in spite of all that, risking the way people see me (as me but stronger and more powerful), I want to give you this ship—this ship that I won’t sink with tiny, bathtub-sized submarines—and I want you to give it to your smiling, shining son. If he can play with it—appreciating the way it rocks and glides and anguishes on the big bathtub waves built from joyous jumping and frolicking, making sure the danger is never too great to drown, trusting his bubble-filled hand to steer the ship to safety when all seems lost, to steer it to a time and place where mothers holding shaking children and fathers teaching sons to stare down Death can exhale with ease—then there may be hope yet for man-made disasters, for man-made resolutions, for man.