One evening after I babysat the Russels, Mrs. Russell asked me if I would like to write to her sister-in-law's cousin's son, who lived in Germany and wanted an American pen pal. I was 14 and I had no interest in any boy who I couldn't sneak in through the screen door to french kiss after I'd put the kids I babysat to bed, but I reluctantly agreed.
My first letter to Alexander Wasmus was a masterpiece, a work of art ripe for insertion in a time capsule representing the quintessential American pre-teen of the late 1980s. I discussed my piano lessons, volleyball and basketball practice, my part in the school play, my cat, my brother's gerbil, my father's job, my parents' heritage, the population of my town, the classes I took in school, the sea level of Chicago, the average annual precipitation of Illinois, boy troubles ("Do girls in your class make out with the boys in the bathrooms during recess too?), fashion crises ("My mom won't let me get a pair of jams yet."), television ("We all like to watch The Cosby Show."), and pop music ("Can you do the hand jive to Faith? It's a song by George Michael.").
["This photo was taken in Austria. There the weather was almost fine."]
Much to my dismay, Alexander responded with a diatribe on the weather in some Austrian village he'd visited. Instead of telling me about the funky Euro things he did or the music he and his friends listened to, his Easter card limply announced: "I took a dance lesson once, but I don't go to formal dancings. Perhaps I will sell my computer and buy a radio controlled model plane. I like to join the parts together and to paint it."
What? I was so disappointed. I kept trying to draw more interesting information out of him, but my German Rain Man always managed to squeze in some lame information about the weather. Talking about the weather is bad enough in person, but it's worse coming in air mail envelopes. Moreover, the "Love Alexander" at the end of his letters didn't ring true.
Christmas Greetings from Alexander: "Some South Africans came to our school. They're not only white ones. It's very interesting to hear about their politics and way of life. Sometimes it's very dangerous for the whites to drive through the black quarters. Perhaps the angry blacks will throw stones at their cars. Are there blacks in your area? At this time it is 20C in South Africa. Love Alexander"
[Is this a Christmas card?]
But Alexander Wasmus demanded more than I could give. Along with the airmail Christmas card, Alexander Wasmus sent me a casette tape of German Christmas carols, sung, quite naturally, in German. Being 15, I was obsessed with spending my afternoons repeatedly dialing into the Z-95 hotline in a hopeless effort to be the 95th caller and win INXS tickets. I could have given a flying fuck about a collection of Nazi Christmas songs, and I must have got so caught up with not learning any new languages, not being afraid of black people, and not looking up the temperature of towns in Africa, that I forgot to write and thank him.
A month later, I received a postcard from Alexander Wasmus demanding a response. I was put off by his pushiness and did not comply. I never wrote to him again.
Was I too cruel? Could we have worked out our differences... me, eschewing foreign language skills, needing my modern music and someone to go up my shirt, and he, needing to wax romantic of the tempreature in Perchtoldsdorf? If I was too hasty in my judgment, we will never know.
On a side note, did you catch that? What is up with German school children in 1988 learning JAPANESE? When I read that now I can't believe that's what's been going on over there. How do they not rule the planet? And we think we're so futuristic because our kids know how to count to ten in Mexican (until they turn 7 and forget)?
