Maurice C. Ruffin
1. THE DISPATCHNovember 17, 1994. 10:17 a.m. Kerlerec Street
Dear Future Maurice,
Are you listening?
Can you hear me?
Do you care?
I suppose you might think it’s a strange time to reach out to you as I stand here at a podium in the auditorium of our high school surrounded by two janitors, five administrators, 17 teachers, 513 classmates, and 1.50 x 1029 molecules of unpurified air, but you know that timing has never been our strong suit. I’m not sure what to call you since we’re same person only in different times and, I guess, different places because it would be super sad if you were standing in this same building in the year 2000 or 2010 or 2020. That would make you kind of a loser, wouldn’t it?
It's almost Thanksgiving. The other day, I made the mistake of not looking away from Ms. Carson in English III when she asked for a volunteer to read something about family and holidays at this assembly, and Vic Weathers made a face at me and I was like, talk to the hand, dog. But yeah, I wrote something over the weekend, which was hard because I’m not a fan of Thanksgiving with what they did to the Native Americans. Every time I think back to the kindergarten class helper painting my face blue and red and sticking feathers in my hair, I shudder. Do you still feel that guilt in the future? Is the guilt I feel today 1983 Maurice talking to me?
Future me, do I call you brother or cousin? Those don’t strike my ear as right. If anything, since it takes me to make you, I’m your father…sort of. I don’t know. What’s it like where you are? When are you? Do you have flying cars and jetpacks? Are you still fat? Do you still grind your teeth? I been nervous about graduating and never seeing our friends again, and our parents have been beefing lately, too. I know they love each other and us, but my counselor would say that doesn’t stop me from counting the steps from the front door of the school to homeroom to Civics to AP History with all those wars and bullets and gruesome injuries. I feel like I’m full of barbed wire sometimes, for real.
I been standing up here for like 10 minutes. Mr. Stewart, the disciplinarian, told me to hold on before I started reading my piece. My boys, you know Vic and them, are on the left aisle probably flipping through comics, the nerds. Talking about X-Men or Ghost in the Shell. I wish I was over there with them. Instead of up here with a wet back and a dry throat. My shoes too tight again. Mama bought these over the summer. Do our feet ever stop growing?
Kadija is sitting near the top of the stairs joking with her friends. She’s never looked at me even once except for the time she said hello when Daddy dropped me off at school because my car was stolen. Kadija doesn’t owe me anything. It’s not her fault that I’m too chicken to ask her out or even tell her I like her. It’s not her fault that her kid brother said I looked Grimace from McDonald’s. He was in the back of her parent’s car. Pointed right at me. I couldn’t even be mad. I thought it was an astute observation for a seven-year-old.
But you know what? I was afraid to read my essay, but I’m not now. What else could they call me? When Mr. Stewart says go, I’ll do my best.
I worked at Peaches Records for a year to save up that money, but when we got my poor car back, it looked like a crumpled Pepsi can.
How are we in the future, Mr. Maurice? I call you mister because even though I was born first, you’re older, and always will be. Does it get better, ever? Do you ever feel like you belong?
Are you happy? Are you rich? Are you married? Do you have children? They say only the girls dream about their wedding day and about making family, but you know that’s just something people say because no one wants to see the world as it is. Sometimes I dream of standing at the bow of a cruise ship in a tux and long tails that took me weeks to decide on. Purple cummerbund or blue? And I lean over to kiss her like something out of that Princess Bride movie and I say something like “as you wish” and the music swells and swoons and the credits roll. I guess I’m built different to dream of that while falling asleep to Arsenio Hall, huh? Whoop whoop whoop. But what do I know? I’ve never been kissed. Never had anyone look at me and wait for me to say “as you wish” so that some violins and cellos could rise up underneath us like clouds and carry us off into the sunset.
Wait. Mr. Stewart saying there’s no time for me to read this paper because our principal, Ms. Patin, has some important announcement that’s required by the State Board--I’m going to imagine you there in the future, Elder Self, when it’s 2020, no, 2022, in the great what’s next; tell me that life gets better that loneliness never wins that you feel safe and loved.
* * *
November 17, 2022 10:17 P.M. Stadium driveDear Past Maurice,
I love you.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYDual Monitor Set Up—so that I can write on one screen and use the other for mundane tasks like checking email. A monitor is a view into alternate worlds. I like having more than one at my disposal. It’s good for the imagination.
Wireless keyboard—for comfort.
Wireless Mouse with cushy rest.
Natural and artificial lighting—configured according to my mood.
Condenser Microphone—for podcasting, zooming, etc. My favorite thing I bought this year. I sound crystal clear apparently.
Little Speaker—for listening to podcasts.
Big Speaker—for listening to music. This is a cherished possession. It’s not really appropriate for small spaces. But I travel with it and play intro music at my readings. People love this. And the speaker is strong enough to fill an auditorium! I also write to it sometimes when I want to vibe.
Nearly Infinite Stacks of Books—for inspiration, for stealing, and even for plagiarizing myself.
Extra Wide Fold-Up Table—I have wide shoulders.
Scepter of Power—ceremonial object given to me by my Mardi Gras Krewe of House Floats.
3. BIOGRAPHYMaurice Carlos Ruffin is the author of The Ones Who Don’t Say They Love You, which was published by One World Random House in August 2021. It was a New York Times Editor’s Choice, a finalist for the Ernest J. Gaines Award for Literary Excellence, and longlisted for the Story Prize. His first book, We Cast a Shadow, was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and the PEN America Open Book Prize.
His work has appeared in the New York Times, the LA Times, the Oxford American, Garden & Gun, Kenyon Review, and Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America. A New Orleans native, Ruffin is a professor of Creative Writing at Louisiana State University, and the 2020-2021 John and Renee Grisham Writer-in-Residence at the University of Mississippi.