It was one of those statewide assessments they made us do in elementary school. Some kind of fictional tale that I had to create on the spot with a minimal prompt — I remember it involved a spaceship and an alien and some kind of unexpected twist at the end. What I remember most is the encouraging feedback I got from my first grade teacher. She told me I was a really good writer, and I believed her. It was the newest addition to my laundry list of talents. I knew I could nail a round-off better than most of my peers, and I’d become pretty good at braiding hair from all the practice on my Cabbage Patch, Cleo — but this felt bigger, like a grownup talent, a real thing that was to be taken very seriously. I suddenly felt differently about myself, and it felt good.
I became obsessed with Kahlil Gibran and Maya Angelou, because those were the only poetry books in my house (way before Google). I wrote a poem for the local newspaper that was primarily composed of words I’d never heard before because I utilized a thesaurus so heavily. I read Anne Frank’s diary, committed to keeping my own diary, and maybe even fantasized about someone finding mine decades after my death and celebrating its importance. In fourth grade, I won the school spelling bee (I’m still a great speller, but now that we have spell check — no one cares). In sixth grade, I earned the privilege of reading my D.A.R.E. essay in front of the entire school, which now feels ironic on several levels. In middle school, I wrote for the school newspaper, and in high school I produced the entire newspaper by myself because the school decided to cut it from the program.
Being a writer didn’t feel like a choice. I was merely nourishing this thing that was beyond my control — I was a writer and there was no way around it. I became a writer when my first grade teacher complimented my alien story. I remained a writer because I liked the way it made me feel.
Graduate school led to many more self discoveries. I now recognize my tendency to let my imagination run amok instead of asking for clarifications. Academically, this is referred to as a ladder of inference. Clinically, this is anxiety. In my real lived experience, this makes for some pretty funny stories. I now understand the importance of my role as the entertainer in my family of origin, the value and purpose of my ability to make light of the heavy stuff. Academically, this is Family Systems Theory. Clinically, this is a coping mechanism. In my real lived experience, this means I host a lot of potlucks.
I am still discovering qualities about myself. Each discovery feels like another “aha” moment — not because it’s new information, but because these familiar things finally make sense. It is not enough to know the pieces of yourself, it is also critical to know where to put those pieces. I know what to do about my anxiety — ask questions. I know how to nourish the entertainer in me — potlucks, and the occasional round-off! And now I just need to find a place to put this writing thing. It makes sense that it is a part of me that I cannot shake, as one of my earliest introductions to self love and a sense of purpose. But how I will incorporate writing into my life still feels unclear. This seems like a good place to start.
Jenny Simone Beaudoin believes that words matter. She found Maya Angelou before hitting puberty, and got into journalism when copy was still run through a waxing machine. With a Bachelor’s in Communication and a Master’s in Social Work, Jenny hopes to use her super powers to make the world a little better. And, more importantly, she hopes to help her daughters discover their super powers.
