My writing path: How I came to own it

{Age 7}

Ms. Braynon was an elderly short and ultra skinny black woman. She'd wear her hair thickly braided and wrapped around her head like a regal head piece that was meticulously pinned and placed. Her large square seeing glasses took over most of her bony face.  She always wore her skirts down to her skinny ankles, long sleeve high buttoned blouses and closed chunky square heeled shoes and stockings.  She seemed like the sweetest and cutest grandmother type until she opened her mouth.

She was also my first grade teacher.

Ms. Braynon was not patient and she was not tolerant of disobedience either. She was always stern and rarely gentle. Her voice quivered when she got angry, which was often.

On one particular day, she wrote one long word on the blackboard and asked us to write as many three letter words as we can spell from that one word she wrote. I sat at the very back of the classroom, and I was still having a hard time with spelling. I remember worrying and getting a stomach ache about trying to spell words. I couldn't think of anything but feeling completely and utterly stupid.

I wrote some words down. Well, only the ones I knew how to spell correctly but they did not contain any of the letters that were in that one long word Ms. Braynon had written on her blackboard. When my paper was graded, I got an "F" and with that, I was asked to come to the front of the class while Ms. Braynon belittled and humiliated me in front of my peers that I didn't know how to spell or follow directions.

I cried at my desk. But I never gave up on words.

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{Age 9}

Ms. Lee was a tall and heavy set woman. Her eyes were very round and buggy like and she always stored her blue Paper Mate pen in her hair, it awkwardly poked out from behind her head. She spoke in a low and vehement voice and she rarely cracked a smile. She controlled her students only with her eyes and she always chewed a small piece of gum that made intermittent 'pop' sounds.

She was also my third grade teacher. Actually, her entire name was Sarah Lee- you know, like that delicious buttered pound cake that came in an aluminum loaf pan except that there was nothing sweet about her.

Source

Ms. Lee  had a peculiar way of correcting our writing pieces. Row by row, she'd make us stand in a line that curled around her oval table desk and one by one, she'd review what each of us had written while the others waited. If she approved of the work, she'd hand it back over to the student and ask them to take their seat. Now, when she didn't approve, and this time is was my turn, she'd retrieve her pen from the back of her hair, hold the work up in the air then she'd violently stab holes on every square inch of the college ruled paper. Once satisfied with her 'stabby' correction, she'd return it and say, "fix that mess." I'd retrieve my 'holy' paper back and embarrassingly return to my seat and attempt to start over again.

This happened to me more times than I could ever count but what it did was increase my tenacity to fix it. No matter how violent Ms. Lee's approach was she ignited a fire within me.  I didn't realize it at the time but I know this as fact now.

Sometime during that school year, Ms. Lee picked me and four other students to participate in a school Spelling Bee. I was simply honored.  It was also the first and only time she non-verbally expressed to me that she knew I was capable of more than I ever thought myself. This stuck to me like fly paper.

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{Age 18}

Ms. Feather was a bubbly and robust elderly lady. She was a grandmother and often talked about her grandchildren. Her skin was powdery pail with peachy cheeks and her hair was short and as silver as freshly polished quarter. She smiled often and animated her voice with every opportunity she could simply to get her point across. Her eyes were gentle and full of laughter.

She was also my twelfth grade English teacher.

Ms. Feather abhorred the phrase "a lot" and prohibited her students to use it. She was stern about this and only this. She encouraged each and every one of us to explore new words, use them in the correct context and read as much as possible because the world of literature was rich and fluid and vast.

She was a lover of the amazing African American writer, Zora Neale Hurston.  That year she had our class read, Their Eyes Were Watching God. This was the first real literary piece of fiction I had ever read and it completely fascinated me. Each week we had a different assignment associated with the novel.  One of my favorite assignments was the one where we had to choose one main character and write up a monologue of what he/she would say in the modern day. The proviso was that it had to be written in the exact same dialect Ms. Hurston wrote the novel in, which was the vernacular of Southern African American English in the early 1900's.

I worked diligently on my piece for two-weeks. I remember practicing it in front of the mirror of my boyfriend's room for clarity and correct slang. I typed up drafts of it in the school library on days I didn't have to work at my part-time job after school.

The day we had to turn the assignment in, Ms. Feather had every student read their piece aloud for a final grade. I nervously stood at the classroom podium to read mine.  I remember feeling proud of my work and of my dedicated efforts to bring forth a piece that would remain true to the character I chose. I had chosen the main character, Janie which was the hardest one.

The entire class applauded after I read and Ms. Feather sat behind her desk with a great big smile on her plump peachy cheeked face. Every opportunity Ms. Feather got, she always reminded me that my writing was something I needed to cultivate and hone because she knew that I had a talent for it. I've never forgotten this.

Each one of these women impacted me in a completely different way. No matter what, it was the path that I needed to trek down in order to arrive where I needed to be. Each experience was a gift in some way, be it discouragement or encouragement because in the end I ultimately choose how to handle the experience. The epiphany always comes later.

I didn't believe that I had writing talent until I was about 28 years old. Soon after that I decided on getting a Master's Degree in Creative Writing.  Even then it took me some time while in the writing program to own this truth of mine. My husband was my constant encouragement and reminder to always go for what I was passionate about. I feel lucky and blessed for this.

I'm currently working on my memoir as well as a book proposal.  I will soon be hunting for a literary agent to pitch my non-fiction book proposal to. I know that nothing will come easy but I also know that whatever the path, it will lead me to where I need to get to. I will be published sooner than later, I truly believe this.

I've come a long way and I struggle with many things but one thing I know for sure is that my voice matters, my stories matter and my talent matters.