Dear Mom,
Hope you and Dad are doing well. Tell Pop congratulations for getting elected as president of the Leviathan’s Club.
I’m sorry that I haven’t written lately, but it’s been a very hard season. I didn’t get the raise I wanted, Sonya and I aren’t getting on all that well, and there’s this guy who thinks I’m a pin cushion.
I don’t know what it is with this Ahab fellow, he just won’t leave me alone. I really must have gotten on his bad side. It all began a few years back when he and a bunch of sailors came up to me at a party. He said they were putting on a play, and wanted to know if I wanted to try-out1 for the leading role. I should have known from the harpoonists’ giggles that they were just putting me on. He was relentless and was really upsetting me, so I bit his leg off. Boy, that was a mistake. He’s been out to get me ever since.
But Mom it’s not only Ahab, I just feel life has been particularly unfair. My therapist had me write down all that’s bothering me, and wow! No wonder I have issues with anger management.
First, we’re whales. Yes we’re big, but we have feelings. It’s not like we’re cold-blooded fish or anything. I tell you we’re totally misunderstood because of our size. Everyone is always bullying us because we’re the biggest thing around and yet all we can do to defend ourselves is bite or head-butt.
Secondly we’re Sperm whales. Talk about an embarrassing name for a species. Why couldn’t we be called Killer, or Blue. I would have even preferred Hump-Back. But Sperm?
And, jeez Mom, nobody ever gets my name right. They keep calling me Moby. I’m Mocha, damn it! Born near Mocha Island, just off the coast of Chile. (I blame that Melville character.)
And I know it’s not your fault, Mom, but it’s really hard being white. Albinos are constantly being picked on. Just look at all those films where they make us out to be freaks or, worse, the bad guys: "The Omega Man," "The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean," "Princess Bride," "Lethal Weapon," "The Firm," "Powder." The list goes on.
Well I gotta go now. I’m sorry this letter turned into a whinge-fest. I’ll try to write again soon, but I’m warning you now, between this Ahab guy and my lack of opposable digits, I may not get to it as soon as you’d like.
Your loving son,
-Mocha Richard
1 Trying-out: The process of boiling oil from blubber.
- November 2001
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