I hate writing farewell remarks. They always seem so conclusive, as if one is climbing into one’s own coffin. Shedding knowledge and imparting wisdom, ending in an anti-climatic cliché like “carpe diem, my friends!” leaves the rest of us sinking deeper into our chairs, sulking over wasted years. So, to you, dear readers, an anti-farewell farewell ode!
What crime did I commit?
Frequently we’ll be accosted by an accusing finger while walking on the Washington Avenue Bridge: “I know you! I’ve seen your face before!” Pause. We scurry away before you realize you know us from our mug shots.
The night before
What to write, what to write, what to write Ö the sanity of a columnist is a fragile affair. If we come out knowing night from day, fortune is on our side. Balancing fluff with stuff is an arduous ordeal. While we want to poke at your neurons, we recognize some are not too keen on firing.
Fear of the trade
To: The active/activist reader,
You read the title plus the big bold text called “factoids” in journalist jargon while eating lunch. You leap off your seat, type out a seething letter to the editor, pressing the send button, releasing your suppressed anger against “the system.”
From: Your faithful punching bag
Can we meet?
Every once in a while, we’ll receive creepy notes from the lonesome reader asking for a rendezvous. While we appreciate the pouring of their souls to us, they confuse us with psychological counselors.
Highly venerated
My favorite part of being a columnist is all the creative nicknames readers have bestowed upon me over the years: Han chauvinist, traitor to the motherland, psycho-feminist, left-wing militant, communist conspirator, two-faced lying hypocrite, naïve little girl Ö I never knew one person could embody so much.
Writer’s disease
It’s been four long, tumultuous years. My fingers stiffening, my mental faculties waning, my hide thickening Ö it’s time to retreat and let another generation take the reins of this esteemed trade. My sincerest gratitude for your fidelity, anger fits and hurrahs.
The ties that bind
Forgive me for being so facetious. The flippancy is really a façade for the sinking weight in my stomach. As difficult as it may be to believe, I feel like we’ve grown quite intimate, dear reader, even though I hardly know you by name. That’s the funny thing about columns; my words, permeating the paper, somehow reach you, and in the process, transform both of us. In this, I find an indefinite beauty and infinite bonds.
Diana Fu welcomes comments at [email protected].
