Dear Sonya,

  You may not remember me- my name is Dan Schneider. I was that goofy 4-eyed blond kid in 10^th Grade- at Franklin K. Lane High School you didn’t like. Remember? We were in Mrs. Wexler’s Spanish class. No? Too bad, because I remember you. For a few months I had the severe hots for you. Not that jungle fever bullshit, simply because you were beautiful- I always remembered the saying, ‘Don’t matter the color of the skin, only matters the shape it’s in’- & yours was a memorable shape, Sonya.
  I’m writing this letter to apologize. For what? Well, if you havn’t remembered me by now I guess my apology is superfluous. Still, I feel I should apologize for the few times we had sex. Not that it was bad, nor you not a good fuckmate- but I know you felt ashamed of it, & me. Not that I really cared, nailing you was reward enough. I realized, after all, I was a different color, & being seen in public with a white boy, especially a freaky kid like me, 1 that hung with known ‘trouble’ like Neo-Nazi Trench Norton or Gangsta Prince Paco Robatillo, was sure to have gotten you in the shit. I’m sure those associations had something to do with your refusals to acknowledge the private times we spent together. Granted, we didn’t ‘date’, didn’t even kiss passionately- we just fucked a few times. The 1^st time in the basement stairwell near the cafeteria. Remember me now?
  I remember how soft & light your brown skin was, your tits just the right size- not too big (I’ve never been a tit man), & not nubbins. You had a sweet little body. I loved strapping you on & going for a ride. We did it 3 or 4 times over the course of a month. Yet, you always rejected me when I asked you out, & wanted you to be my real ‘girlfriend’. I never understood why?
  Was it you knew of my tryst with Marvella, my public nailing of her ass, & felt I was just another user? Yes, there was the racial bullshit….but after we fucked we talked a bit. The years have robbed most of your dreams & tales from me. No matter- I have always been bad with details, anyway. The impact of things lingers with me, & your impact is still felt today. You will always have a small piece of my existence, just as you once took in a small part of my body. We had some things in common. You liked writing songs & poems. I later became a poet- a great 1, but never found the niche to really write a poem about you.
  I did write another poem about another black girl named Sonya, but I never fucked her. Whereas we shared our bodies I shared nothing with her, save a later will to stand up & fight the bullshit of life. Here is that poem- comment on it if you like:

Dear Sonya,

  This letter may come as a shock- out of the proverbial blue- almost 30 years after we knew each other. My name is Dan Schneider- if you recall me at all it’s probably as Danny Schneider, the foul-mouthed 4-eyed new blond kid in school. I used to be pals with tall, faggy blond Karl Grein. You once embarrassed him in the 113 lunchroom- how I don’t recall. We transferred to PS 113 from nearby St. John’s Lutheran School.
  I’m writing because you have been on my mind. Over the last several years I’ve suffered personal & professional setbacks because I took principled stands. In the 1^st instance I stood up against a corrupt management at AT&T that was ‘cooking the books’ & punishing those employees who spoke out. When I dissented I found myself on a management ‘hitlist’ of employees that needed to be ‘dealt with’, resulting in the management fuckers tampering with my computer records to blackmail me into silence over their crimes. I soon left that company for a civil service job. I thought my troubles were over.
  It was not long before I discovered immense fraud & waste, & reported it to my immediate supervisor, at her behest. Little did I know this angered my boss’s boss, who had a vested interest in the waste. These actions again put me on a list of ‘troublemaking’ employees needed to be gotten rid of.
  After a few incidents where I followed poorly thought out rules to the letter I was disciplined because the boss of my boss did not like it when her employees practiced what the county preached. With a looming fiscal crisis I found myself out of a job- euphemistically told the county was ‘declining to extend permanency for my employment at this time’. I found out from other employees the boss of my boss targeted me months before any of the fraudulent ‘incidents’ they concocted to get rid of me.
  How does this all relate to you? Well, I remember in 6^th Grade when we were outside in the schoolyard & we were told to recite the Pledge Of Allegiance along with the Principal- Mr. Gewirtz. I- like most kids- mouthed the words without caring an iota their meaning.
  But you refused. I remember your silence as a whole school’s worth of kids Pavlovianly went along with the mass. Tears streamed down your face. Mr. Gewirtz was annoyed you refused to pledge allegiance. He asked why, in front of the whole school. You said you were a Black Muslim, it was against your religion to worship anything but Allah- even a flag. I wrote about that incident years later:

  I remember you hated Wexler & Spanish. Oh, before I forget; I mentioned this letter was sort of an apology. For what?, you might wonder. It’s not because I was using you for sex, or any Puritanical bullshit, because obviously sex was all you were using me for, as well. I held you- & that was probably a rarity in your life. Still, I always felt bad you were really just a substitute for another black girl I was crazy for- 1 I really dreamt of dating, loving, even marrying, & having a family with.
  Her name was Simone Francis- you may remember her. She went to Lane only that 1^st year we were there. Even though she was our age she was in 12^th grade because she moved here from Canada, where they push kids ahead in school who are smart. I had her in 2 or 3 classes, but remember her most in math class. The teacher’s name I forget, but I remember that math class for 4 reasons- 1) this musclebound moronic white 11^th grade jock named Hank McBride, who sat behind me, & a row to the left, & was always harassing me. He didn’t stop until, after several warnings from me, I had my pal Paco ‘talk’ to him. The harassment stopped immediately. 2) Barbara Kirkus- a beautiful blond 11^th Grader who sat a desk in front of McBride, & to my left. We both had the hots for her, but she was older than me & out of my league- even though always sweet to me. Fortunately, she thought McBride an asshole. The thought of her getting nailed by that baboon would have pissed me off- but I digress. I do remember her wearing tight shirts & having mosquito bite tits. Still, she was a total hotty with a great ass. 3) There was this big, tall (about 6’3”), goofy, gawkish black Dominican kid named Jackson Oromezza who sat behind me. I was sure he was queer- but he was cool & we would hang on occasion. He was also pals with the shorter black Dominican kid who became my running buddy & partner in small crimes- Ronaldo Jones. It’s somehow weird to think my high school friendships crossed so many ethnic lines other kids never did. I’m sure I was the only white guy you talked to on a regular basis, even before we fucked- but, then, this is all classic New York shit. I had white pals like Trench Norton, & Jack Zito, Hispanic pals like Roberto Cruz, Paco Robatillo, & AT, & black pals like Jackson, Presnell, Ronaldo, & CCRD- you must remember him? He was that little black kid named Dooley who always blasted his boom box he carried around. It was bigger than him, I swear, & he’d sing ‘Coo’ Coo’ Rapper Doo’- He ain’t nobody’s foo’’. Johnson, Ronaldo, & I often hung in the cafeteria & gym classes. But the 4^th & greatest reason for my remembering that math class was Simone Francis. Simone Francis.
  She was transcendent- a goddess. Of all the women I have ever known or lusted for personally, she is still the most gorgeous & physically perfect specimen of female humanity my eyes have ever graced. Granted, she was not my ‘type’- cute, petite, olive skinned brunet- but with some 1 like Simone, who gives a fuck? Picture this- 5’6”, 110 lbs., perfectly symmetrical cocoa brown face & skin, with broad features (not too broad, nor dark), hair pulled back into a bun, perfect cheekbones, thin lips, gorgeously shaped brown eyes, & a perfectly placed beauty mark on the crown of 1 of her cheekbones (damn, I forget which side!). Then the body! A swan-like nape, soft feminine shoulders, long, thin arms with graceful hands, large, luscious, perfectly rounded & hung breasts- they did not sag like so many big tits do!, a wasp’s waist, & a splendid, tight, sexy, muscular ass. As for the legs? Well, I’m a leg man, & they were absolute perfection in tone, shape, length & color. I know because she sat directly in front of me. I used to get to math class early just to watch Simone come into the class- or rather she gilded in on aeries- so I could see her legs. She was 1 of the few girls who actually wore a skirt- maybe a Canadian thing?- & not jeans. But, O, the legs! I could barely concentrate in class, because of this goddess’s propinquity. Even though a natural math whiz this was a class I did poorly in.
  To make matters worse Simone always wore the most alluring perfume & was so intelligent, sweet, & lovely. She did not look down at me, or goofy Jackson. I fantasized about nibbling on the back of her neck, being alone in the classroom with her, lifting her into my arms, laying her across the teacher’s desk, & taking her.
  She became 1 of the Big 4 Dream Babes I desired in High School. 1 was Brenda Hiram- a brunet Honors student like Francine, the 1^st of the 4 to attract me, whom I later pursued after high school, becoming a poet in the process. The other 2 were a blond Polish immigrant named Danuta Posnik, & a popular brunet Italian girl named Kathee Cavelo, who looked like a slightly less cute Valerie Bertinelli- the tv star from One Day At A Time. Nonetheless, it was Simone who was on my mind when I went after you.
  You were a poor man’s Simone Francis- so much so I do not even remember your last name. While having sex with you was great I often pretended it was Simone I was bumping & moaning with. Then, when I opened my eyes, after coming, it was you I held. I was disappointed- only for a moment. I wanted to be closer to your person since it was really Simone’s body I was holding. You were not smart as her, not beautiful as her, not nice as her, not anything, really- but you were willing. That was enough. She had a jock boyfriend & lived far away. I had no car nor driver’s permit. You needed & wanted none of that, & for that alone I wanted you. But, all you wanted to do was fuck around a little at school. ‘Coon ‘tang’ as my pals Paco & Trench would say.
  Do you remember me now?

Be well,

Dan Schneider

  Mr. Gewirtz got angry, said he wasn’t asking you to pray to some false god, just be a good citizen. You said a pledge would still be putting a material thing ahead of your god. I realize you were probably just mouthing the bullshit your parents spoonfed you, & may now regret what caused you such pain & humiliation. But I’m writing to say your principled stand stuck with me. As much as I disagree with organized religions- especially the perverted form of Islam that led to 9/11, I always kept that memory of your stand in the back of my mind. 1 little girl against everyone- the Principal, the teachers, & several 100 other little children who targeted you with taunts afterwards.
  I’ve recently been thinking of another black girl named Sonya I knew, a few years later in high school. She & I were intimate for a time. Well, not really intimate- we merely fucked around. The point is as close as our bodies got I never really knew her- she was merely a placeholder for another (dare I say better?) girl I truly desired bodily & emotional intimacy with.
  But you little Sonya What’shername?, you are some 1 I’ve always felt I knew, even though things such as your last name, what junior high & high schools you went to, & what eventually happened to you are unknowns to me.
  Perhaps you are dead, & this missive will bounce back Address Unknown, whether of some disease or an accident. Perhaps there is no Sonya the little Black Muslim anymore. That does not mean you are dead- it could be you’ve dropped the pretense of your religion, become some soulless corporate apparatchik, some middlebrow soccer mom in a faceless suburb- not unlike the kind I recently moved from, last year, in Minnesota.
  When I made the decision to stand up against the management slime of AT&T a few years ago, in the back of my mind I remembered your tears on a clear autumn afternoon in the Bicentennial year of 1976. How apropos a symbol of true patriotism. When I acted my conscience at my later civil service job, & knew there might be penalties to pay for exposing waste & corruption, it was your tremulous but firm replies to Mr. Gewirtz that returned to me, & showed me even the prices paid for doing what is right are worth it- at least in the long run. This letter proof of that worth’s power, no?
  In a sense, Sonya without a last name, Sonya whom I never shared intimacy much less a decent conversation with, Sonya of the weird religion but firm beliefs beyond your grasp, Sonya who could make stands without knowing why- just knowing stands must be taken on occasions, even if wrong, you have always been sort of a hero to me- or should that be heroine?
  If not a hero, if too melodramatic, at least an icon of principled action. Nothing some nasty kids, black & white, could say could dissuade you. Right or wrong, you had a love for an idea- even if you did not fully understand it. All the others had was ignorance, hatred, or indifference- which is where I stood.
  Indifference deserves no real comment, but love & hatred have often been falsely entangled as lovers- even opposites. This is false. The opposite of love is not hatred. The opposite of hatred is not love. Some latterday philosophers have attempted to define love’s opposite as indifference, but this is silly as calling its opposite hatred. Indifference wills nothing forward- it is static in time. It has little in the way of consequences. Love & hatred are not impassive, for good or ill.
  Not all things in this cosmos have, nor require opposites. Love is 1 of those things that springs up without antecedent or opposite. This may seem facile, but it’s true. Love simply exists. It can taunt, maim, harangue, satisfy, orgasm, or create a whole range of other attitudes, but it is a singularity. It is a dead end- a lovely 1.
  Hatred, like love, also knows no opposing force- certainly not mere indifference. While it can, like love, fuel a life, it is an empty & often wasteful sort of fuel. Some have proclaimed hate eventually always destroys the hater. This sort of imperative statement is hyperbole- if not outright wishful thinking. While true on occasions, but not in the majority of cases, 1 should bear in mind empires have risen & fallen due to hatred. Or as Harry Lime (played by Orson Welles) said in The Third Man, ‘In Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.’ Hatred rarely destroys in toto, usually it festers slowly, as it hangs obliquely rusting off the extremities of a life until it becomes some oddly admired accoutrement to be ogled, bargained with or for, placed securely away as a charm or keepsake eventually forgotten to dim antiquities of provenance.
  I wonder if you really loved your Allah or hated your tormentors? I am betting you barely recall the incident which prompts me to write you, or rather my memory of you. You probably agonized & rehearsed your stand with your parents much like I tried to memorize the words to the National Anthem a couple years earlier. Only through the over & over did I get those words implanted. Although their meaning still amuses me I have long forgotten the lyrics as a whole. O say can you see? By the dawn’s early light….
  Did you mumble your reactions to such queries as Mr. Gewirtz asked? How many times did your dad coach you, only to be disappointed? He never saw your stand. Did you tell him? I wonder if it really meant that much. Were you shamed nonetheless? Questions are funny beasts, no?

Be well,

Dan Schneider