If you ask me? I’m speaking up.
When I was in the third grade, I transferred schools for the 5th and final time. After moving around so much after my parents’ divorce, I was glad to finally have a school I could call mine. It was at this school that I met Mrs. Brown and discovered my first love. Like most relationships in my life, my relationship with writing has been inconsistent. Still, I will never forget the night that our class put on our very own authors’ night in our school gymnasium. If you were to ask me why I write, that night is where I would start.
Before the divorce, before learning that emotions aren’t simply happy or sad, and before meeting a mean girl who criticized me for smiling “too much,” I was very outspoken. Like most children, I said whatever came to mind and was unapologetically honest. Over time, I became withdrawn and silent around anyone who wasn’t family, and sometimes I didn’t even talk to them. In Mrs. Brown’s class, we learned to write about everything and it was in her class that I rediscovered my voice through writing.
I’ve always created worlds and scenarios in my mind and as an only child, I became very good at acting out these stories through play. As I got older, talking to myself became less appropriate, although I admit I still do at times. I was always seeking ways to make those stories come to life. Once I begged my mom to buy me a set of assorted Play-Doh so that I could build an entire town. In my mind, I had created the family I wanted to live there, what their house and car would look like, and exactly how I would build the streets they would drive on.
My mom finally bought me some Play-Doh, but unfortunately, as creative as I was, my Play-Doh figures looked more like the boogie man from the Nightmare Before Christmas than actual people. After trying again and again, I realized that creating things out of clay was not my calling. Then one day in Mrs. Brown’s class we were given the assignment to write our own books. This is when I discovered a new way to bring my stories to life.
For my book, I told a story based on the time I went camping with Girl Scouts. My book was complete with illustrations and in the back was my picture with an “About the Author” paragraph. That night I stood on a stool and read my story to my classmates and their families. The fear of speaking in front of people completely vanished when I began to read my words aloud. At that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. A writer.
Over the years, that dream turned into a dream to become a filmmaker. In my freshman year of high school, my dad bought me a flip camera (remember those? probably not) and I would record everything. For most of high school, I debated whether I would go to Full Sail University or The Los Angeles Film School. Then, during my senior year of high school, I changed course.
I spent those teenage years finding my voice in drama class, speech, and debate and learning myself through the words of all my diaries and journals. But suddenly I felt the need to silence myself again. To take what I thought would be the safe route. I abandoned my dream of film school and settled on a Psychology major. Why not? I liked to help people and I could get a real job and make real money with that degree.
I laugh at my younger self now. While I have had amazing experiences in my field and have worked with the most amazing children and youth over the years, I still have always felt that something was missing. Now here I am ten years out of high school, with a bachelor's and master's degree, wondering if it was all for nothing.
I don’t believe that it was, but it was a bumpy detour back to where I started. If someone asked me today why I write, I’ll probably mention Mrs. Brown. I’ll mention how my mom told people that I was a writer before I even believed it. The journals I collected over the years will tell stories about how I still dream of being in the writers' rooms of shows like Atlanta. A part of me writes because I still want to be amongst the Quintas, Donald Glovers, and the Issa Rae’s of the world.
Most of all I want to write for my daughter. I come from a long line of women who were brave enough to stand in their truth and be who they wanted to be. My daughter should know that she is limitless despite what society says, there is always a way. Never give up on your dreams because that’s giving up on yourself. A long time ago I gave up on the eight-year-old version of me. Today, I write to be the woman she always knew she would become, to let her voice be heard, and to give others permission to raise theirs.
