The Present

​When I was a child, given my mother’s violence and my father’s lectures about the cost of
things, I learned not to ask for what I wanted. There was one big exception. From the time I was
old enough to know what a typewriter was, I yearned to have one—a little portable I could keep
on my desk, with a case to carry it with me when we went to the country for summer vacation.

​There was something magical about typing—a way of writing—powerful and clear, much better
than my horrible handwriting. I envisioned typing letters to pen pals who would write back,
sharing events of their lives.
I didn’t know where they were sold, or how much they cost, but occasionally, when it seemed
safe, I talked about typewriters. How much easier it is to type than write by hand. How much
easier it is to read type than my handwriting. I was careful not to ask for one, but I mentioned it
as much as I dared.
Birthdays came and went. Chanukahs came and went. My longing grew stronger. Hints became
more obvious. Each year I opened a present I didn’t much care about, pretending to be pleased.
I decided to save the money I earned babysitting and my allowance to put toward buying a
typewriter. In order to make myself feel better, the next Saturday I went into Manhattan for a
dance lesson, I walked into a fancy hotel and asked for information from the concierge. I went to
the store he suggested and saw the one I wanted. It would take a long time to save up but at least
I knew where to buy one. I stopped hinting. I stopped hoping. I had a plan.
A week later, on my 12 th birthday, my family wished me Happy Birthday at breakfast. No
present. I went to school as usual. My mother made a fancy dinner. No present. I was feeling
disappointed and hurt but tried to keep my feelings to myself. As I cleared the table for dessert,
my mother asked me to go into their bedroom and bring her the package on the chest.
There it was. My typewriter! In its own case! I screamed with joy, cradled it, and ran into the
kitchen. Overjoyed. I opened the case and stared. “Shocked. Where are the letters on the keys?” I
asked. “How am I supposed to type if I don’t know the keys?”
“I ordered caps for the keys,” said my mother, “so you’ll learn to type properly.” She showed me
the sheet with the keys. “It’s the best way to learn,” she added. I wasn’t convinced, but at least I
had a typewriter.
I admit. I tried taking the caps off but they were stuck on. There was nothing to be done but learn
to type without looking. Be careful what you ask for. It may not come as you expect.

What gift have you been given that turned out differently from what you hoped?