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Literary Letter

Walter Dean Myers
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Dear Walter Dean Myers,

I was 7 years old when I returned to New York City from Bulgaria , where I had spent a fulfilling and exciting summer vacation with my relatives. I wanted the summer to last forever. However, Fred mentioned, "Sometimes you're flush and sometimes you're bust, and when you're up, it's never as good as it seems, and when you're down, you never think you'll be up again. But life goes on." Life actually did go on.

By this time, my parents and I had already been living in New York for one year. But, New York was not what I wanted to think about. All I could hear and think about was the acceleration of the crowded airplane. As the plane arose from Bulgaria , I instantly felt an uncomfortable feeling. I felt like I was disconnected from my country, my only home. Urgently, I asked my brother if he was willing to switch seats with me, just so that I could take a last glimpse at the country I was once a part of. Nearly a short moment later, the plane rose higher into the sky, until I was blinded by the white, puffy clouds below us.

The plane trip felt excessively long. I was trying to get comfortable in my seat, until I stumbled upon an object. It felt slippery beneath my feet. I finally picked it up, and realized that it was just a plain, old magazine. I flipped through the pages until I had actually found a page that caught my attention. In fact, I had no idea why it had caught my attention. It was as if I just couldn't flip to the next page. All I could do was stare at the world map. I thought about how far Bulgaria was from New York . In fact, it seemed that the further away the plane traveled from Bulgaria , the more separated I felt from who I used to be.

When I arrived in New York , I was depressed, and torn apart about having left Bulgaria . Back in my parents' apartment all I did was lie on my bed, close my eyes, and think about when I would return to Bulgaria again. All the memories I had in Bulgaria rushed through my head faster than a cheetah attacks its prey. As time passed I felt lonely, desperate, and that things would never be the same from now on. It wasn't until 8 th grade that Walter Dean Myers snapped me out of my melancholy. By writing the poem, "Harlem," he made me see that you should never give up hope no matter where you are. For example, I saw the neighborhood Walter Dean Myers grew up in, and by my understanding, it wasn't an inspiring environment. In other words, he was able to become a successful author despite the neighborhood he grew up in. Therefore, I saw that he was able to succeed, thus, I decided I would have to change as well.

As time flew by, I finally allowed myself to choose where I would find myself most captivated and successful. I discovered that the secret of being happy and successful was to stay in New York City . Facts started floating through my head, only to realize that I had many more opportunities here, in New York , than I had in Bulgaria . That is how I got to be who I am now. I have no idea how I can describe how thankful I am to you, Walter Dean Myers, for writing this poem. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Daniel K.

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