Dear Friend,
I have adored handwritten letters for as long as I can remember. Growing up with an older brother who played competitive junior golf, family vacations were boring, long weekends at golf courses. When I wasn’t fulfilling my sibling duty and watching him play, I was escaping to overly-air conditioned clubhouses, where I would sit at a table inside the fancy course restaurant, a white linen tablecloth scratching my knees and a handful of postcards spread across it.
I used to doodle family portraits, complain about being stuck at said golf courses, and detail every second of my week, down to the minute. Adorned with stickers and custom-made address labels, I would send my postcards to family and friends.
In addition to writing as a creative outlet while stranded on golf courses, my family has also always insisted that I send handwritten cards for birthdays and to show appreciation for gifts. While it can sometimes feel just like going through the motions, an obligation rather than a sincere practice, there’s something so undeniably sweet about receiving a card. As a collector of items for my junk journal, but really just a lover of saving anything and everything sentimental, I keep piles of these cards in desk drawers and shoeboxes, scattered throughout my bedroom.
Over the COVID-19 pandemic, prompted by a gap in human connection that Snapchat, iMessage, and even weekly family Zoom meetings couldn’t fill, I took letter-writing back up. I asked my friends and teammates for their addresses and sent out something like 20 cards, laughing while recounting memories and writing about how I couldn’t wait to see everyone again, outlining plans that I would forget to follow through on once lockdown restrictions were lifted. It was a small gesture that helped me feel closer to the people around me. I got several cards back in the mail, and they always made my entire week.
That’s why, on a whim this past spring, I picked up several UC Santa Barbara postcards at the Campus Store. My original plan was to walk in, buy a lab coat and goggles, and walk out as quickly as possible, but the stack of postcards covered in UCSB-specific doodles caught my eye.
I grabbed a few and sat down outside of the University Center, at a table in the sun facing the lagoon. After sitting for a few moments, I decided that I wanted to send a postcard to one of my favorite teachers, Dr. Sakaue, who taught fifth grade English. Spring quarter was coming to a close, and with it my first year working as a copy editor for the Daily Nexus, which had been one of the highlights of my time at UCSB.
I wanted to thank him for encouraging me to keep writing, which had introduced me to high school and subsequently college journalism. I wanted to tell him about the irony of my job at the Nexus, despite nearly failing our grammar unit — I could write a good sentence, but I could never (and honestly still can’t) explain and identify all the parts of speech. Dr. Sakaue’s English class taught me how meaningful writing could be, and that I had a gift for it worth pursuing, which all felt particularly full circle at the close of my first year of college.
So I reached out. I sent the postcard to the school district building where he worked and waited — he replied a week later at the email address I’d left on the card, thanking me for sending life updates and reaching out. He had shared my message with some of his coworkers, my mom included, and we agreed that the three of us had to meet up over the summer. It was fabulous.
We ended up meeting for dinner when I came back from my summer job, which entailed hours of teacher gossip, nostalgia, laughs, and troubleshooting what on earth I want to do after college (no consensus reached, but still nice to talk things through). Sitting in the booth, giggling over a bowl of noodles, it hit me how strange and special it was to be reconnecting with a teacher I’d had nearly nine years prior, all because I’d decided to send a postcard on a sunny, calm day by the lagoon.
Little handwritten notes are like poetry. It’s so wonderfully human, the way we all write with different curlicues and capitalizations, adopting silly mannerisms that we pick up from friends and adorning sentences with smiley faces and exclamation marks — and I absolutely love every single part about it.
Picking up my gel pens on that lockdown day in 2020 was one of the best decisions I ever made. Writing those letters kept me in touch with so many important people across my life, from one of my cousins in California to a friend from middle school who would eventually become my college roommate of two years and counting (hi Lily). It also brought back several friendships that had faded when my friends and I all split ways for high school, ones that I didn’t realize how much I had missed.
A childhood full of writing taught me that words matter… they’re more than just words on a page. I love everything about writing letters. In a digital age, where everything is instant social media updates and half-swiping messages that you’re too scared to read and send, pen and paper is a breath of fresh air.
I couldn’t survive without iMessage, and a college student lifestyle isn’t exactly grounds to be paying for stamps either, but I’ve never regretted sending a letter — just to check in with someone, say thank you, wish them a happy birthday, rant about your life like it’s a diary entry that you can mail away and never have to think about again. If you’ve got the time, or a person in mind: write that letter and send it, this is your sign. It might change their life, and yours.
Talk soon,
Alicia
P.S. My mailbox is always open for pen pals, near and far, just reach out :)
