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Letter to David and Ruth About
Becoming Who We Were Meant to Be
Fredrick Zydek
Dear Nicklins: Thinking is a risky art and a tricky
business. How in the world are you and I to
know if we have become the people the universe
intended us to be now that we’ve reached that
dreadful age when honesty and justice demand we
fess up to how much we allowed the belly and the
groin to decide for us. Sometimes I wonder if
I actually made choices along the way or just took
the least restrictive alternatives to make things easy.
For many years, I was a puppet whose strings led
to provincial and small-town thinkers, passions I
still dare not fully reveal in public places, and Harry
Emerson Fosdick. They were very rough years.
I was one of those idiots who tried to be all things
to all people and managed to lose myself while doing
so. I’m not sure when I finally figured things out, but
one day I woke up with the distinct feeling I had
visited a place where the answer to every question
was as neatly placed and as easily found as a Pearl S.
Buck novel in a town library. In that moment, I was
reborn standing up and fighting back, forced to see
myself in ways that make trees blush and start wolves
howling. I’ve learned two important things: Nothing
reveals our humanity more than the games we play, and
there is nothing at which we play that is ever just a game.
