Here’s a (not-so-shocking) confession: I was a tad unhappy
for a time in high school.
for a time in high school.
I transferred as a junior to an all-girls school at
a tumultuous age. Bullies were quick to pick on new students like me. A considerable part of this period was spent in dim corners, pushed and taunted by a throng of high-profile brats (“Squatter!”, they yelled) for having one too many piercings and carrying a beatup red bag
for years while every girl on campus sported Esprit and Jansport rucksacks that
changed quarterly.
a tumultuous age. Bullies were quick to pick on new students like me. A considerable part of this period was spent in dim corners, pushed and taunted by a throng of high-profile brats (“Squatter!”, they yelled) for having one too many piercings and carrying a beatup red bag
for years while every girl on campus sported Esprit and Jansport rucksacks that
changed quarterly.
The culture of well-off kids, by-popularity associations, and
suffocating nun-run rules were all too foreign to me. After class, I would walk
home sobbing in Veronika-decides-to-die fashion.
suffocating nun-run rules were all too foreign to me. After class, I would walk
home sobbing in Veronika-decides-to-die fashion.
I hated my trivial place in that peculiar world.
Whereas I took home medals to my mother up until I was a sophomore, I performed
poorly, if not average, from third year onwards.
Whereas I took home medals to my mother up until I was a sophomore, I performed
poorly, if not average, from third year onwards.
And though I loved crafting poems, I couldn’t decipher Greek
mythology the slightest bit. For the first time since prep, I got a 75 – in Ms. Guevara’s (or Ms. G, as we call
her) literature class, a terrible grade for a school gazette’s ex-editor-in-chief. My homework and essays were perpetually late for submission. At the
front, it always reads: “-5. Late again!”.
mythology the slightest bit. For the first time since prep, I got a 75 – in Ms. Guevara’s (or Ms. G, as we call
her) literature class, a terrible grade for a school gazette’s ex-editor-in-chief. My homework and essays were perpetually late for submission. At the
front, it always reads: “-5. Late again!”.
But despite the grammar boo-boos, there’d always be an
esteem-upping note from her at the bottom, next to a whorl. “You are brilliant”. “Perceptive”.
“Weird and beautiful”. “Keep on writing”.
esteem-upping note from her at the bottom, next to a whorl. “You are brilliant”. “Perceptive”.
“Weird and beautiful”. “Keep on writing”.
One day in August, I was offered a shot at winning a whole chocolate
cake by the “weirdos” in the Creative Writers’ Guild that Ms. G led, granted I
sign up for them instead of the other clubs in school. So I did.
cake by the “weirdos” in the Creative Writers’ Guild that Ms. G led, granted I
sign up for them instead of the other clubs in school. So I did.
(Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t win the cake.)
Wednesday became my favorite day of the week. We wrote poetry and prose during CWG meetings while Ms. G pranced around to Anggun and Mighty
Mighty Bosstones. We recited them during candlelit poetry readings with her and her bongo-tapping artist friends, where we – and totally just for kicks –
wore black and bindis.
Mighty Bosstones. We recited them during candlelit poetry readings with her and her bongo-tapping artist friends, where we – and totally just for kicks –
wore black and bindis.
Up until I graduated (late) during the summer, I was with the
Creative Writers’ Guild – the last that Ms. G taught in St. Scholastica. She resigned after graduation.
Creative Writers’ Guild – the last that Ms. G taught in St. Scholastica. She resigned after graduation.
I wasn’t able to pursue writing in college. My parents pined
for me to become a doctor then a nurse. Unfortunately for them, they would not see me engaged in either occupation, at least in the long term. Because here I am, 16 years
later, writing for a living – in part due to Ms. G’s signature whorls and one-liners
and those endearing weirdos I wrote and read poems with in high school.
for me to become a doctor then a nurse. Unfortunately for them, they would not see me engaged in either occupation, at least in the long term. Because here I am, 16 years
later, writing for a living – in part due to Ms. G’s signature whorls and one-liners
and those endearing weirdos I wrote and read poems with in high school.
Those whorls and notes, for me, are touchstones of a childhood dream. They were the impetus for enduring the
belief that there’s a bigger purpose in words, more important than the white
coat, more satisfying than making millions as a nurse, more meaningful
than just surviving.
belief that there’s a bigger purpose in words, more important than the white
coat, more satisfying than making millions as a nurse, more meaningful
than just surviving.
Words, to me, are happiness. The ability to string them together like
melody, the warm feeling one gets from articulating thoughts exactly the way she means them
– as a metaphor or otherwise – comforts beyond anything in this world. It’s
home.
melody, the warm feeling one gets from articulating thoughts exactly the way she means them
– as a metaphor or otherwise – comforts beyond anything in this world. It’s
home.
I nurture them like my babies and grow with them every day. I discover truths about myself and the world as I weave each phrase, sentence, and rhyme; and when I get lucky, compel and influence a
mind or two too.
mind or two too.
Words mend. They fix what’s broken. They revive the spirit. They keep me sane (and
sometimes insane). It’s not always,
but it’s more than enough for this lifetime.
sometimes insane). It’s not always,
but it’s more than enough for this lifetime.
Someday my body will betray me. Maybe I’ll be too weak or too forgetful to remember how to tread one road to another. But certainly, I will remember that I got here, in my home of words, through whorls.
