Dear Ted,

There’s no denying the fact that these last ten years have been awkward between us. Even after that heart-to-heart we had a few years back (at Faye Park with you, me, and Rob), it seemed you still held false beliefs about what I experienced, a decade ago, working beside you on the Board of Selectmen.

It’s been awkward seeing you, and I think I know why this is: I think we both regard the other as a coward.

I can see how you might think that of me based on what happened a decade ago, and I want you to know that this cowardice of mine led to my life’s the biggest regret, which is likely not what you might think it is.

Let me explain.

In 1981, Sandra Day O’Connor was appointed a Supreme Court Justice. This historical moment made quite the impression on ten-year-old me. Up to that point, I thought my glass ceiling topped out at US Senator—for I, as a girl, knew that “women didn’t get to be president” in these United States.

Although Supreme Court Justice was, ostensibly, a job open to women, with such little turnover, the easier path would definitely be Senate.

So, I decided I’m going to be a US Senator.

(I’m like eleven.)

By high school, it occurs to me that if the sexist marginalization of women holds, I might actually get to campaign to be the first woman elected to the US Senate from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, which means, I’m looking at living in Massachusetts for, potentially, the rest of my life, so college is my chance to get out of Littleton for four years.

I land at a Big Ten school. (Go, Boilermakers!) I do mock trial. I major in philosophy, triple minor in poli-sci, women’s studies, and law & society. My education, so far as I could tell, was a perfect combination of scholarly and edgy, i.e., perfect for the first female Senator from Massachusetts.

I come home from college, live at home, and get a job as a “screener” of phone calls at the after-hours DSS hotline, taking child abuse reports—not really how I thought I’d be applying my erudite degree, though, thinking back now, my parents weren’t super surprised with where I ended up post-graduation, job-wise.

In furtherance of my senatorial dreams and in recognition of the great good fortune bestowed on me, having been born on American soil, I feel compelled to serve my country. As a pacifist, I couldn’t ethically choose to join the “armed forces” for my national service—and, let’s be honest, they wouldn’t want someone in the armed forces who isn’t interested in being “armed” or into the idea of using “force”—so I apply to serve in the US Peace Corps, aka, the toughest job you’ll ever love.

A few months later, sick of communing from Littleton down to the Longwood Medical Area, I move to Jamaica Plain to be closer to the Hotline. I’m at work when Rob calls in to report a runaway. In the “screeners’ room” that night, eight people could’ve answered Rob’s call—amore fati—I was the one who picked up.

Soon thereafter, I’m accepted to serve in the US Peace Corps, and right after that I fall super in love with Rob, only to leave the country for two years. With six months remaining in my service, my dad is diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. By the time I come home, he’s very sick. Over the next four months, I watch him die in the house he built.

Then, I marry Rob, move to Ayer, have a baby, start law school, have a baby, continue law school, have a baby, graduate first in my class from law school, clerk for the Superior Court, and after my year-long clerkship and upon the recommendation of several of those judges for whom I clerked—fulfill a life-long dream of becoming a public defender, an agent of the state paid for by taxpayers to protect the Constitutional rights of those accused of crime. Then, I had a baby.

(For those keeping count, you ought to be at four.)

It was with this child’s birth, in my bedroom whose windows overlook Oak Hill Conservation Land, that I decided I need to be a mom for a while.

So, I quit my meaningful job and commit to full-time mothering. I, like many full-time moms, wore a lot of hats for a lot of years.

Then, with all my children in school full-time (eleven years ago), I decide to grab that first rung on the political ladder and run for a seat on Littleton’s Board of Selectmen.

I’m elected, making the board’s members you and me and Jim Karr, Joe Knox, and Alex McCurdy—for ten months.

Then, when I resigned, it was just “the guys” for a while.

Painful as it is to admit, Ted, I don’t think I’m ever going to “get to be a US Senator.” That plan was derailed a decade ago. So now, instead, it seems like my life’s work is going to be done on a significantly smaller scale, on a local one. I’ve accepted the notion that this is okay. In fact, I’m beginning to believe that what happens locally is what matters most.

Optimist that I am, I’m hopeful that you’re ready to talk about what happened—to take an open and honest inventory of the events from a decade ago so that something like that never happens again in Littleton.

To that end, I’d like us to engage in a live conversation that people can watch. I’m thinking a Zoom meeting where anyone who’s interested can join and ask questions. And, of course, you and I would be able to ask questions of each other.

Just so you know, my first one’s going to be along the lines of: Do you regret what you did?

Give it some thought,

Jenna

P.S. Since it is not lost on me that you (and others) have employed the “ignore-her” strategy, I’m only going to wait until noon on Monday for your answer. In many ways, Ted, my already-scheduled-for-Monday AF: Open Letter to Ted Doucette (PART TWO) is yours to write.