"It's going to be something different" - said Ms. Moccia as she stepped away from the center of the room to welcome a stranger onto the teacher's "pedestal of attention". An ordinary looking man, perhaps in his late fifties, greeted the class and briefly explained the reason he's here - a writing competition. "Well, this is going to be boring" - I thought, as I was sitting in the first row, exhausted and bored, having only one wish in my head, to go home and sleep. Still, some tiny bit of curiosity remained in my heart as I waited for the stranger to show what else he has to offer. And oh, how wrong I was about what came next.
When the man spoke, I knew that he has said this speech numerous times before. Yet it sounded so sincere and raw. He spoke about writing and feelings, about fighting your inner demons and turning the mess this fight leaves behind into something beautiful. He read us a poem that he wrote when he was in a very dark place, and every word of that poem was filled with fear, anger, sadness. I'm not a big fan of poetry, but as he read on I felt his pain and I felt bad for him. An ordinary looking man has been to places that no person should have to go to in their life, yet most of us eventually do hit that rock bottom where only darkness and despair surround us.
When he finished, the man asked us questions. The questions made me very sad. As I responded to them, with sincerity that only shows when one knows their words will not be seen by another person's eyes, I realized the real reason why I'm so tired. I realized that my lack of energy is not simply a byproduct of a problematic education system, but instead a result of me, just like the man in that poem, wondering in a dark, dark place.
Then the man told us to write. And I wrote. Although I didn't write much, my pen flowed freely across the paper as I laid out my worries. I wrote about my mother. I wrote something private, yet I believe that most people have something similarly private to say about their parents. Surprisingly, it made me feel better. By writing my thoughts on paper, the reasons for my presence in the dark place became so much clearer. Not that I have not recognized them before, but everything laid itself out in a more orderly fashion. I am yet to deal with these issues, but at least I can look back at the paper and over time kill them off one by one.
Then the man asked us to read what we wrote. I really wanted a book for myself because I can't afford to buy them and have to pick up books at the library. I read, and others read, even those who planned not to share their worlds when he asked for volunteers. It made me feel a bit better about my problems because I realized I'm sitting in a room full of people with their own concerns, concerns that are so different but also painfully similar to my own. I'm not alone who's fighting a battle.
The man flipped my day around. It's magical, really, how something you're not slightly excited for can surprise you in the best ways possible. I'm glad that I had the opportunity to be there and witness the power of writing. It's that openness and honesty of writing that helps you understand who you are.
When the man spoke, I knew that he has said this speech numerous times before. Yet it sounded so sincere and raw. He spoke about writing and feelings, about fighting your inner demons and turning the mess this fight leaves behind into something beautiful. He read us a poem that he wrote when he was in a very dark place, and every word of that poem was filled with fear, anger, sadness. I'm not a big fan of poetry, but as he read on I felt his pain and I felt bad for him. An ordinary looking man has been to places that no person should have to go to in their life, yet most of us eventually do hit that rock bottom where only darkness and despair surround us.
When he finished, the man asked us questions. The questions made me very sad. As I responded to them, with sincerity that only shows when one knows their words will not be seen by another person's eyes, I realized the real reason why I'm so tired. I realized that my lack of energy is not simply a byproduct of a problematic education system, but instead a result of me, just like the man in that poem, wondering in a dark, dark place.
Then the man told us to write. And I wrote. Although I didn't write much, my pen flowed freely across the paper as I laid out my worries. I wrote about my mother. I wrote something private, yet I believe that most people have something similarly private to say about their parents. Surprisingly, it made me feel better. By writing my thoughts on paper, the reasons for my presence in the dark place became so much clearer. Not that I have not recognized them before, but everything laid itself out in a more orderly fashion. I am yet to deal with these issues, but at least I can look back at the paper and over time kill them off one by one.
Then the man asked us to read what we wrote. I really wanted a book for myself because I can't afford to buy them and have to pick up books at the library. I read, and others read, even those who planned not to share their worlds when he asked for volunteers. It made me feel a bit better about my problems because I realized I'm sitting in a room full of people with their own concerns, concerns that are so different but also painfully similar to my own. I'm not alone who's fighting a battle.
The man flipped my day around. It's magical, really, how something you're not slightly excited for can surprise you in the best ways possible. I'm glad that I had the opportunity to be there and witness the power of writing. It's that openness and honesty of writing that helps you understand who you are.
5/5 Thank you for sharing your feelings about the event!
ReplyDelete