“Highschool.
The summer before
I was an anxious little 8th grader that knew nothing.
Thoughts going
through my mind
Like
Am I going to be
cool enough?
Am I going to fit
in?
I think of my
anxiety of that first year.”
With my first stanza, I felt like a
spark had jolted inside me. Words continued to flow…
“That year adults
have legit conversations with me
That year my
individually blossomed
That year when I
asked myself
Who are you?
I came to a new
school to start fresh.
I came because I
wanted something different.
I came to finally
be accepted.”
Second… Then third… Came right out
of me. I didn’t think about it much. As I continued to write, I didn’t realize
the key things I had actually observed, but never thought about.
“Accepted that I
am weird.
Accepted that I
have a different way of seeing the world.
Accepted that I love
to have fun.”
Then the last and final stanza came
of my first poem, written in room 309…
“I look at myself
now.
I look at what I
made of myself through these years.
I look at the fact
that
I am no more an
anxious freshman.
I am no more that
person that thought she wasn’t worth much
I am no more that
girl that questioned herself about being ‘cool’
I am a confident
girl.
I am that girl
that you see walking the streets with priority
I am that girl you
see walking into a room knowing I have the respect of e veryone.
I am that girl that thinks
something of herself”
That was it. I was finished. With
my fresh, new, raw, poem, I wanted to say it out loud. I was the first to
share. “Highschool…..” I didn’t get much of a reaction from the room. To them,
it was just another poem read by a freshman. But Kay lightened my mood, by
commenting on my strong voice. But that was it. Others said their poems and it
was time to go.
Later that month, I had acquired a
few skills about writing. I had some free time and I sat in a dimly lit living
room. The couch to the right, the foyer to left. The piano in front of me. Over
head of it was a painting. The background has a jazz theme. On the right side,
black, fading into a deep red, to a bright red blood color. The left has deep
violet turning into rich light purple. Down at the bottom of the picture of
piano keys. The keys come out in a fine curved way. Black sharp keys and the
regular white keys. But since it’s a jazz theme to it, the ends of the keys are
a chalky brown. Over the keys is a fine colored black man. His body is
positioned so his ear is close to the keys he feels over with his large hands.
Eyes closed, he looks as if he’s engrossed into the sounds coming from his big
instrument. One hand at the end of the piano with the other accompanying it not
too far away. This man has large lips, with a large nose. But his facial
attributes are all proportional. His close cut beard matches his hair which is
buzz cut. Eyes slightly strained with tense eye brows, he seems to be
concentrating of the sounds coming with, what it looks like, his precious noise
making object. His right hands glides over keys, with big knuckles and great
embedded nails. With great hands, they have a angular look to them. Not rounded
like normal fingers. This painting has many basic shapes to it. Angular
knuckles with angular tips. But his thumb has a curve to it as it’s bent. His
pinky stands out feels a key on it’s own. His shadow slightly covers the keys.
Mainly his face’s shadow slightly over edge of the keys. The front part of this
man’s shirt is yellow faded into a light green. The back is a violet color. The
collar is split, so, half is purple and half is yellow and green. His sleeve is
rolled up on the right side of the painted. On the arm with the hand at the
edge of the piano. Other than that artwork, there were detailed Chinese vases.
They had scenes of their culture
on each side. Then the coffee table with parallel to the piano on a tan
rug. I sat in the office chair. Pondering… The beginning of this self motivated
poem started out like this:
“Darkness.
Darkness.
Darkness.
Dark is black.
Dark is cold.
Dark is dark.
Dark is heartless,
emotionless, endless…..”
I stopped. This start wasn’t
myself. I wasn’t a dark person. I began to think of colors. Then this is what
flowed through my finger tips:
“Can you tell me?
Tell me why the
sky is blue.
Tell me why fire
is red.
Tell me why the birds sing those
unknown songs that wake me in the morning.
Tell me why….”
I halted. There needed to be some
order in this poem. The colors needed to be in their natural pattern. I thought
about each color. Red… Orange… Yellow… Green… Blue…. Violet… White… Black… Then
this came from my mind:
“Can you tell me
why?
Can you tell me
why roses are red?
Can you tell me
why fire is orange?
Can you tell me
why the sun is yellow?
Can you tell me
why the grass is green?
Can you tell me
why the sky is blue?
Can you tell me
why lilies are purple?
Can you tell me
why the clouds are white?
Can you tell me
why darkness is black?
Can you tell me
why?”
I wanted to tie in all the colors
together. To show a certain relationship they had with each other.
“I can tell you
red roses burn in orange fire.
Each peddle
falling
Falling
Falling to the ground withering
from the hot serpent that has taken away it’s red beauty.
I can tell you the yellow sun
beats down on the green grass leaving it dry and brittle, taking away it source
of life. Water.
I can tell you the clear, blue sky
protects the purple, velvet lilies in the streams they wade in.
I can tell you, you can’t see the
white, fluffy clouds in the pure darkness that is black.
That’s what I can
tell you.
Now, can you tell
me why?”
I felt so proud of my final
product. I was so eager, I needed to read it to someone. My mom was the only
one in the house at the time and she sat down to hear my poem.
“Can you tell me why?.....” I said the poem with a pure
confidence. My mom enjoyed it, so that was a definite “GO” to read it in poetry
club that next Tuesday.
Once basketball season started, the
teacher supporting poetry club, the basketball coach, couldn’t come to the
Tuesday get together. The students ran it. I kept saying to myself, “I’ll go
next week,” I kept saying that in my mind until I didn’t care about it anymore.
I didn’t even think about going. I’d always hear talk among the club goers
about the poetry slams that happened on Saturdays and the about California trip
to nationals. It made me feel guilty. So, I felt it’d be awkward if I stepped
in room 309 to venture in my poetry writing. The shame inside myself overcame
the courage I needed to walk back in
that door again. I felt like the longtime writers going there would give
me weird stares and talk about me. I just had this internal fear inside my self
that I let sway my decision to start writing again.
What made me change my mind was
this summer. I had taken a trip to Atlantic City and while on our way to catch
some lunch at a burger place, I had read my Can
you tell me why? poem to my friend. He thought my poem was absolutely amazing.
I was flabbergasted at his reaction. I didn’t expect to have such a great
response because I’m my worst critic.
My
sophomore year, I wanted to take up poetry again. Now, here’s my chance.