Ever
since I was fourteen years old, I have been writing poetry out of a deep,
crimson place known as my heart. My heart grew wings that enabled me to
survive, even thrive. It is still my heart that interrogates the emotional and
physical landscape of my unapologetic, gritty hometown of Joliet, Illinois.
It all began in Athens, Greece,
when my sea captain father announced that he would remain in Greece to work,
while my mother, myself, and my two sisters were moving to my mother's
hometown: Joliet.
Unsurprisingly, as my familial
life took a turn for the more tumultuous, I began to write. At thirteen years
old, with my sea captain father estranged in Greece, several of my close family
members decompensating, and finally, enduring daily harassment from my midwestern
peers, I withdrew further into poetry. Academically, I was not a strong
student; a lot of what Joliet offered was disturbing: violence, racism, and an
overall lack of tolerance. Different entailed having dark hair and eyes, and
being a shade darker than a paper bag. And so, different was bad. And so was I,
so it felt. Poetry became the invisible, glistening rope that tethered me to
the world, yet allowed me to rise above. I wrote while in dark moments, until I
learned to see in the dark.
I watched many of my peers become
angry, addicted, and, die, often at their own hands. The whole time, I wrote. I
wrote as I observed, I wrote as I bled. I watched my mother slowly slip further
into alcohol. I wrote as my father vanished further into the Aegean ocean.
Poetry was a bead of light sparking out of the sealed, dark door of Joliet. I
wasn't sure how poetry would save me, only that it would.
It turns out, I was right: not
long thereafter, I hitched up my mediocre grades and slunk into the University
of Iowa on a thread and a prayer. I began taking as many creative writing
classes as I could, until the courses no longer counted toward my English
major. I read fervently, I wrote even more fervently. Suddenly, academia no
longer constituted barren, lackluster educators who stared blankly at me as
though I were little more than one of their photocopied worksheets. I was
granted acceptance to the undergraduate and graduate Iowa Writers' Workshops
for non-degree credit. This was the first time I had experienced a group
dynamic; and it was like no other. Until then, my attitude had been hostile and
morose, scribbling poems in my geometry notes during class. The filthy gray
fleece of Joliet lifted. I was home.
Thereafter, I enrolled
into an MFA program in New York.I've since had the blessing to work in many other group environments,
with myriad instructors. From academic workshops, to writing conferences
spanning from the emerald mountains of Vermont, to the arid cabins of Squaw
Valley, I have generated my strongest work.
After
teaching as an English adjunct professor in New York City, juggling three other
jobs, with skyrocketing rent, I packed up my Jeep, and drove until I couldn't
drive anymore. I stopped at the literal edge of the world: Provincetown, Massachusetts.
From there, I got a job working on a whale watching boat. With my brain
euphoric with salt ions, breeching humpback whales, and arcs of dolphins, I
began to write again. My friend and colleague, Jeannette Angell, and I formed a
weekly writing group. That was three years ago. We have been meeting faithfully
once a week ever since. Yet again, the group experience has infused my life. As
Joseph Campbell said, "When you follow your bliss, the universe will open
doors for you where there were only walls."
And so, the dark door opened. And
behind it, I found nothing but light. And myself where I am today.
Naturally, when Heather and
Charles asked me if I'd be interesting in becoming a member of the Wising Up
Press Editorial Collective, I was thrilled. I had recently corresponded with
Heather, regarding a manuscript of mine. It was some of the most thoughtful,
thorough, feedback I have ever received. I couldn't believe there was an editor
willing to give my work this much time! To me, this is what the Collective is
about; being warm, yet challenging for our peers. I've never exited a group
collaboration without a breezy exuberance, the urge to spin a stanza. Even as a
new member of the Collective, this energetic, warm, and diverse group of
individuals already inspires me.
Two years ago, I stumbled across
Wising Up Press's call for submissions for the anthology Double Lives,
Reinventing, and Those We Leave Behind. The revolutionary notion of compiling
stories of regeneration was liberating. As writers, too often do we ascribe to
the odious notion that creativity entails being addicted, and alone. As a
result, some of the most brilliant minds have perished, often by self-inflicted
destruction. I would counteract this maladaptive paradigm with a quote of Nelson
Mandela's: "We ask ourselves, who am I to be bright, talented and
successful? You are a child of God. You're playing small doesn't serve the
world." To me, Mandela's quote echoes Wising Up Press's motto: Finding
the We in Them, The Us in You.
Thus, as writers it is our duty
to live as largely as we can. In an age where we are fed by media-driven images
of beauty, in a country that blindsides us with a chemical mist of superficial
values, in a world where we are flooded by data, too fast to perceive, and blaring
shows that pass for reality, the only solution is to do exactly what the
Collective is devoted to: gather together, in a commitment to honesty, and to
disseminate it with awareness. Our playing small does not serve the world.
However, as writers, our playing together does.
