Friday, November 22, 2019
Becoming Wonderful; Leaving Wonderland
Telling stories of AliceÃ¢â¬â¢s greatadventures, I stand in my ninth grade english classroom, a desolate young girl whose only passion is to be a writer, yet here she stands performing someone elseÃ¢â¬â¢s work. The desks sit in a broad semi-circle, taking much inspiration from a greek theatre and I stand at the center of it all, performing a Lewis Carroll poem. My voice shakes sending shivers down my spine as I preform. The timid, tiny thirteen year old I was wanted nothing more than to show my class that I was a writer and somehow, I thought I could convey that by reading someone elseÃ¢â¬â¢s work. Nonetheless, when my teacher asked who wanted to compete in the school wide poetry competition, I couldnÃ¢â¬â¢t even raise my hand. I just let my ambition slowly cease out. That was one of the few opportunities I had to express my passion for writing and literature in my first two years of high school. However, it wasnÃ¢â¬â¢t the lack of opportunity that shook me, it was the fact that opportunities wouldnÃ¢â¬â¢t be handed to me, it was the first time I realized that if I wanted something to happen, I had to go for it. For a while, I let this tsunami of self-doubt forecast in my life, throwing me briefly off course. As I felt myself sinking further done a rabbit hole of loneliness and disparity. I slowly seemed to find myself crying an ocean of tears that I would soon drown in. I didnÃ¢â¬â¢t want the inevitable to be true. Thankfully, I quickly realized there are two ways out of this rabbit hole: 1. I stay, still, where I am, never expressing my writing, waiting for opportunity or 2. Express my writing, take each opportunity and run with it, get out of the rabbit hole with self-determination. With this realization, I shifted my point of view, to option two. I wrote my pain into sonnets and stories that, in tenth grade,I was finally able to preform in front of my class with no shivers just utter confidence. I took the lessons I had learned in freshman and sophomore year, and thoroughly applied them throughout my junior year. I began submitting stories to competitions, I applied for newspaper, and tried out for slam poetry. I did things that would never have happened to me in the ninth grade because I didnÃ¢â¬â¢t wait for them to happen Ã¢â¬â I made them happen. Now, I can say: I am a writer. I am not just a girl too scared to perform someone elseÃ¢â¬â¢s work or a girl whose work is filled by her pain; but a girl whose pain inspired her work, whose fear only pushes her farther out of her box. Out of that box and on to a stage, I stand, the theater seats filled to itÃ¢â¬â¢s brim with almost 400 hundred people, I approach the stage, the bright, white lights nearly b lind me but I donÃ¢â¬â¢t let it deter me. Now I canÃ¢â¬â¢t see anyoneÃ¢â¬â¢s face but even if I could I donÃ¢â¬â¢t think I would shake. Today, I can stand, in front of a microphone, in front of a much larger audience. Not performing someone elseÃ¢â¬â¢s poem. I am preforming my own work.