Dear Kyle
You know that I love you, really I do; and I know you love and care for me, too, as much as is possible in a diner/server relationship, but I just don't always want to know that your name is Kyle and that you'll be taking care of me tonight. I don't want to be 'taken care' of; like you'd take out the trash, or deal with a plumbing disaster. And, it feels all wonky in terms of a power structure, because you don't know who I am, what my name is, and it doesn't matter that we exchange names: I don't need your name as your bond of responsibility. And I think you must feel this way too, don't you, Kyle?
One thing that constantly bugs me at my job and at my life, is the word 'my.' My students, my class, my husband, my kid, my couch, my kitchen, ugh! None of this stuff's most important features are their mineness. They aren't really mine at all, and you don't have to be my server, either, you can just be 'the' server, and I can just be (as I always am, I guess) 'the' diner. But, I am in such a stew about our interconnected collective lives that I may never go out again, anyway, Kyle, so maybe this is goodbye?
Yes, I know, I have gone all tu/vous and tu/usted on you, and you never liked studying language anyway, so why bring it up now, but these distinctions of familarity matter, somehow, in the struggle to stay out of the blind perpetuation of power abuses, no matter how minor, and so, yes, I think this is goodbye!
