Rebecca Gordon
In the sixth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, notified our class of a poetry competition. This was particularly exciting for my twelve-year-old self because back then I knew that I was undoubtedly the most talented writer in the class and probably the world. I used to spend hours in my room crafting poems in my free time, letting the pen flow as it pleased and cultivating my creative genius. I would read aloud these poems of broken hearts and lost souls to my mom who would usually ignore the poetry all together, wondering if I had something I wanted to talk about, leaving me feeling artistically frustrated and stifled.
So, when I received word of the competition, I saw it as an opportunity to share my writing with an audience who understood and respected great prose. However, I must have forgotten about the contest or, like I often do, procrastinated, because the morning submissions were due I frantically sat on top of the heating vent in the family room, scrambling to warm my Catholic-school-uniform-stocking clad legs and to think up a few brilliant sentences for a poem.
In about fifteen minutes I had written my poem, carefully placed it in my backpack and was off to school in the old Toyota minivan. And just like that, I confidently submitted my work to my teacher and skipped off to snack time. When it was announced a few months later that I had won a spot in the top ten young poets of California for my poem, I was filled with utmost gratification. I can still taste the feeling…I felt so proud, but most importantly, I felt deserving. Sure, I wrote the poem in fifteen minutes. But I was good, right? I was talented. I believed in myself and because of that, Mrs. Sullivan had everyone who submitted a poem read them in front of the class, and with a hop and a skip I bounced to the front of the room when she called my name and with my best articulation read aloud:
Moonlight
By: Becky Gordon
A sparkle stone so far away
Makes the light of Heaven’s day.
Its incandescent glow to all
Gives the softest, sweetest call.
Rising up in the night
Hanging like a simple kite,
Wind calms down,
Kite sinks low,
The moon must sleep too
Don’t you know?
When I was finished, I looked up from the page with a smile from ear to ear and bounced right back to my seat, feeling all eyes on me. The next girl who had submitted did not win, but each submission was still published in the book, so she was asked to read in front of the class as well. Her name was Nicole O’Keefe, a quiet tomboy with excellent grades and excellent discipline. Nicole took a seat on the wooden stool in front of the class and began to read.
“Mother,” she started. For the next five minutes Nicole rattles off a poem of epic proportions (think “Quote the Raven” by Poe.) There was no mention of silly images like moons or kites, and with each perfectly thought out, mature, long, long stanza, I grew more and more embarrassed.
“How did my poem win and not Nicole’s?” “Does that class like her poem better?” “What does Mrs. Sullivan think?” My neck began to shrink back like a turtle into the shell of my St. Matthew’s Catholic School sweatshirt and I averted my eyes to the class. That day I went home to tell my mom about what had happened and showed her Nicole’s poem.
“Becky,” she said, “You’re 12. Nicole didn’t write this poem, her parents did. You busted out a poem ten minutes before it was due but it was you. And that is what they saw in your poem. That is why you won.”
After thinking about what my mom had said, I felt more confident than ever in my writing. The judges liked me because of me. Not because of the “Beowulf-esque” lengths I could churn out or my more mature topic choices. Thinking back to this poem, to this day, I feel like a little girl again. I feel the confidence of a little girl who has not yet been shaken down by rejection and self-consciousness caused by expectation and standardized testing and
As a Sweetland Writing Minor, we were asked to write about our evolution as a writer. My mind immediately went to my childhood. Like most writers or artists, the “spark” has been inside of us since we could hold a pencil, or walk onstage. So I brought up my published poem in sixth grade for several reasons. For one, I believe it is the first last piece of work since that has been published. Secondly, it is because when I thought of my evolution as a writer I thought of my evolution as a person. The two naturally go hand and hand, and are intertwined by passion, maturity and experience. Like I said before, I started out confident. I felt naturally equipped with what I needed to be an excellent writer, like everything was already inside of me and I just needed the right idea to bring it out. Just like the poem that day, I felt like I was good enough.
However, since then I have learned that there is much more needed than natural grace-given talent to be an informed writer. This I learned during college. My first bout with creative nonfiction started with English 325 during my sophomore year. It was like falling in love. Like falling in literary love. The strange newness of it all, even though it had been right in front of me the whole time. I was head over heals with the way someone could take a part of their otherwise ordinary day and use it to creatively explore a question or analyze a theory. However, I realized that in order to do this effectively, I needed to learn the power of revision.
My first essay in English 325 was called, “What They Don’t Tell You About Leaving Home.” I modeled this essay after Phillip Gerard’s piece, “What They Don’t Tell You About Hurricanes.” This was the first essay that I did not simply read through for spelling errors, but I completely re-wrote it. I did not re-write it because I was told to, or for the grade. I re-wrote it because I knew that I had to do so in order to simplify my exploration, tighten my claim, and produce an overall more succinct paper. I learned about the power of active in-scene writing, rather than a passive voice, a trait I have taken with me and can say is a characteristic of a “Becky Gordon” essay. This is not to say that I used to not re-write my papers because I didn’t care, but I would leave it up to my first draft because I believed that was most of the battle. Though I still believe there is something inside of me that absolutely gears me towards the creative side, I am simply not gifted enough to be able to rely on that alone, as all good writers would agree with. Sure, I may have gotten away with it once or twice...but I am prouder when I know I worked for the product.
Because of my experience with English 325, I decided I would take more classes focused in creative non-fiction. During my junior year I took my second upper-level writing class called “Writing in the Environment.” I expected this class to come just as naturally to me as English 325 did, but I was mistaken when I got the grade on the first paper. I found that my teacher and I had differing opinions on how an environmental essay should look. This was my first time I had to cope with audience. This is not because I was only trying to please my teacher, but I desired to get my point across clearly. Just because I believed something to be compelling or understandable didn’t mean my audience did. I needed to cater my writing to whom I knew would be reading it (and yes, whom I knew would be grading it) in order to be successful objectively and subjectively. Like revision, I believed I could woo and audience with my natural prose and voice, and though I still believe I have a particular writing style I am aware that that style needs to be able to reach someone outside of myself.
A year later, in English 425, I was challenged beyond anything I had ever experienced. I signed up for the “Advanced Art of the Essay” class, believing it would be a great class to focus on memoir-esqu pieces, but I was put in the journalism section. I had never written any journalistic pieces before, nor had I had much interest to, so I was nervous to say the least when I saw my grade on the first paper. “This is not going to be my class,” I complained miserably to my mom. However, being the competitive nature that I am, I wasn’t going down without a fight (also, seeing a peer from my BFA class succeed and earning his spot as teacher’s favorite was helping to fuel the fire…Graham). I saddled up, read some immersion journalism pieces and really worked. For my piece, I followed around a student who is waste-free as he went about his day and then conducted my own waste-free experiment, analyzing what drives humans to take action. With a ten-page minimum, I had forced myself to stop at 24 pages. Looking back on the paper now, I probably could have written double that. From this, I learned how salient accurate and relevant research is to a piece of writing. I spent hours in the library over books and websites searching facts and citing sources. I have of course done this before with research papers, but I usually don’t enjoy those. Immersion journalism requires just as much research and tact, yet through writing it you are also a detective of sorts, uncovering questions or tapping into human mysteries.
After reading our essays, my teacher suggested we submit to the Hopwood Awards. I thought about it and ultimately decided, why not? It couldn’t hurt to submit. I was very emotionally connected to this essay because the topic concerned something I cared deeply about and I had put in the work for it, so maybe there was even a chance I could win. Well, I didn’t win (but guess who did…Graham). I didn’t think I would feel so dejected, but I did. I re-read my piece and began to see all of its flaws and mistakes. “Oh, I could have absolutely gone farther here,” I thought. Or, “I didn’t even word this right, there are so many errors!” But the extra kicker came when I opened up the document of winners. All four winners for the nonfiction section of the Hopwood Awards had gone to students in the same section I had been in that past semester in English 425. On one hand, it was very humbling to know I was in a class with so many talented writers, and on the other hand, it flat out sucked. There I was, feeling like I had a chance, and then what seems like everyone in my tiny class won except me.
I was feeling pretty down on myself when an email from the teacher of my Immersion Journalism class came in. He began by congratulating and expressing his pride for the winners of our class, but then he turned the email towards the rest of the class. He said that he knew much of the class most likely also submitted and that not everyone could win. Standard. But then he said something that stuck with me. He compared our class to a team, and as a team we all participated in building each other up and making each other better. Not everyone could win, but he encouraged us to also be proud for our team, lest it drive us mad, especially in the world of art. Thinking about this, I saw the situation in a new light. I was genuinely proud of my class as a whole; of how hard we pushed ourselves and how far we came. To have all four spots go to my section truly was wonderful. But I also remembered that I had been so proud of my own essay. It was the longest, strongest things I have ever written, and award or no award it was my personal achievement.
It took me a while to evolve into the writer I am today; one that cares about the rigor, precision, and work it takes to write an intellectual piece. And though my confidence will continue to be shut down, I will always know that with hard work and that creative spark that still lives inside of me, I can be proud of myself. I can be the confident little girl, writing about the moon.