I have sworn to never read your writing; I have made it a loud and bombastic oath to never let your words touch me if I can help it. Not merely because I dislike you (since I have never met you), but because it was forced on me in school. All I was ever taught about modern literature in the North Carolina school system was how fantastic Look Homeward, Angel is—all because of fucking Hendersonville and fucking Catawba. Call me unjust, but I can’t bring myself to read it; it has become a symbol of the establishment I have worked so hard to separate myself from.
I never agreed with the phrase, “You can never go home again.” At least, I never wanted to admit that it had a point. Things can’t go back to the way they used to be, but I will argue that you can reach ‘home’ in the corner of your mind’s eye. And, if you are lucky, you can rebuild it—create ‘home’ anew.
With you, I will always be somewhat yes and violently no. I can’t help it; I’m stubborn. I don’t like being told, “This is the way it works.” Forgive me or don’t. It doesn’t really matter. If I could, I would have loved to argue with you in person. Who knows? Maybe in a far off plane I will.
It’s strange; I have always loathed you for so many years I feel like we could have been archenemies—which everyone knows is just an aggressive way of spelling ‘friends.’