I was sorting out some shit, per usual, and I came across some yearbooks from middle school (in which everyone told me to have a "kick ass summer"), and a few books I "published" in elementary school. It got me thinking about my whole life as sort of a time-line of events that led me to becoming (or attempting to become) a writer, specifically a poet.
Here is that time-line:
April 1992 (1st Grade)- "Published" a book entitled MY CAT. Also dedicated to my cat. "My cat's name is Sebastian. He has soft fur. My cat is cute. He slept under the Christmas tree last Christmas. My cat bites my head and bats my head. My cat always eats his treats. My cat slept on my foot last night. My cat's birthday is January 1st. My cat has brown eyes. The end." And so the Crazy Cat Lady foundation was laid.
1992-1993 (2nd Grade) - Decided that I really want to publish books. Began my prolific elementary school writing career. Published a book called SUMMER that detailed the types of bathing suits you could have.
1993-1994 (3rd Grade) - Realized I'm not good at math when my teacher had a talk with my parents about how I'm not good at math. She sent home a special book to help me with my math skills, but I never studied. Being bad at math made me feel special. This is probably where my habit of (and later belief in) not studying began.
1994-1995 (4th Grade) - Made friends with a 14 year-old girl in our class (she had a rough life) who was really "into" "art". We sat next to each other and drew portraits of each other. Decided I wanted to be an artist despite being terrible at drawing. My perception of art was extremely limited to drawing. Continued to do poorly in math, but my writing and editing skills were exceptional. Wrote a book called WHY BABIES CRY about a couple who has a baby that won't stop talking, so they pray to some mythical baby god for help, and the baby god takes away the baby's ability to speak.
Fourth and Fifth graders had to gather for the 5th grade spelling bee. I wrote down the proper spelling of every word and decided I was going to be in the 5th grad spelling bee.
1995-1996 (5th Grade) - Decided I wanted to be an artist, a writer, and a lifeguard. Wrote a book called MISCHIEF NIGHT about a gang of 9 kids who made up a club called "The Spray Paint Kids" because "they spray paint buildings, houses, etc. Sometimes they'd dress up in black and silly string people." They were caught by a 70-year-old man and thrown into his basement that HAD NO STAIRS!! Hilarity and hi-jinx ensue as they plot to escape the basement and "get" the old man. Miraculously there were horses waiting for them outside and they all rode off into the sunset. My favorite word was "sarcastically"--had no idea what it meant, and rereading it now that I know what it means, the story makes even less sense.
Also, I was in the fifth grade spelling bee. I didn't win, but I did well. The kid next to me--Bob White--kept farting. Nasty.
1996-1997 (6th Grade) - The summer Olympics in Atlanta took place before the start of 6th grade. My brother was really impressed with the female swimmers, because of how jacked they were. He said something about how they could beat him up, and I joined the swim team that fall. This begins the phase of trying to find my little self without making any friends. Seriously, even my teachers thought I was a loser. This is probably why I'm good at making friends now.
1996-1999 (6th-8th Grade) - Off and on wanted to be some sort of athlete or pop star. (In 8th grade I wanted to be Gwen Stefani specifically.) I frequently sang and danced in front of my mirror and watched every sporting event with my dad. I just wanted to be famous really. Took up ballet and jazz, swimming, softball, cheerleading, and basketball (hated). The one friend I made in dance class I ended up kicking really hard because she did something I thought was mean. She cried, and I felt terrible, but neither one of us told the instructor about it. I can't remember if this is why we stopped talking.
Towards the end of middle school, all the activities I did were just to get out of the house. I was a good swimmer, but competitions scared me, so I just went to practice. I just wanted to swim. That was probably my favorite.
In 7th grade I openly admitted that I wanted to be a boy. Actually, the picture in my head was something of a 7' tall black man. I remember asking my parents why I wasn't black, and they really weren't sure what to do with this.
In 8th grade we went on a class trip to the new Regal theater to see 10 Things I Hate About You. Discovered Letters to Cleo and decided I wanted to be "alternative" and a "feminist". One of those lib arts kids with a nose ring and funky hair that read a lot.
1999-2000 (9th grade) - dropped all extracurricular activities. Made the volleyball team. Still wanted to be an artist, but still thought this meant I had to be good at drawing. Also decided I wanted to be an actress. This may have been around the time I learned the difference between job and career. Nothing traditional felt right, though I periodically wanted to be a teacher.
2000-2003 (10th-12th grades) - Off and on I wanted to be an extreme sport athlete, in a punk band, or an astronomer (until I realized how much math was involved). Taught myself how to snowboard at 15. Experienced my first concussion and thought that made me badass. Thought I could go pro even though I sucked and was too afraid to attempt any tricks.
Joined Art League. Built a haunted house. Mosaic. Gardened a little. Did some sets for plays.
Really liked set design. Wanted to get into that for a while.
Got selfish by the end of high school and began thinking it was pointless to become a teacher. To go to school your whole life just to teach someone else how to do the same thing. It just seemed like a dead-end cycle and the thought of it made me feel limited.
Found out I'm good at stuff without really trying. Like I got good grades without putting much effort out. Made me wonder what would happen if I did try. But I never tried. My mom left and that sort of killed all the trying I had in me, among other things.
10th grade--started writing what is typically referred to as "rant poetry". The kind where it's like a one-sided fight. Also known as teen angst poetry. TAP occurs when kids listen to really shitty music and think the lyrics are really profound. Often, their favorite poets are Papa Roach and Taking Back Sunday. I thought it was very good and I was prolific. Wrote all the time. Thought I was fucking brilliant.
In 11th grade I still wanted to be a lifeguard, so I took a lifeguarding course and got certified. I was too self-conscious in a bathing suit to apply for any lifeguard jobs. Summer before 12th grade I made a poetry blog (the word blog didn't exist then. Back then it was "open diary".) where I posted all of my shitty poems. A girl from GA liked some of them. She had a diary, too and wanted to be a fiction writer. We corresponded some, and then stopped sometime in college, though we're still friends on Facebook. I think we're waiting to see if we become famous writers. At least, that's what I'm doing.
12th grade--still wanted to be an artist. Still had no idea what this meant or what my options were. No clue what my talents were. Applied at the absolute last minute to BCCC for fine arts.
2003-2004 (Freshman year) - Realized I definitely hated drawing, but I desperately wanted to be an artist. Enjoyed painting. My work suffered because of a boy, and this is where I began learning a hard-learned lesson about boys vs. work and which one is more important. This may be why I come off as "the guy" sometimes, especially when I have something I want to focus on. I think I could've been so much more and so much better if it wasn't for boys.
Went to Boston for a few days with a friend over the summer. Decided I want to live in Boston, specifically Beacon Hill.
2004-2005 (Sophomore year) - Scratch what I said about boys a second ago. Met one that pushed me in a good way. In that he was in a real art school, and I wanted desperately to impress him because I, for some reason, thought if I sucked at anything he would lose interest. So this was a very productive year, though burdensome. Very creative. I loved my classes, loved my work, but didn't see a future in art. My writing teacher was floored with my essays, and other professors asked me what I was doing not writing and "what are you doing at Bucks?" Discovered photography (finally, my niche!), and began a long tug-of-war between photo and writing. In my comp class I read The Prince of Tides (which sucked) and decided I wanted to be a "moody writer". This pleased my teacher very much (though my poetry was still abominable). Transferred to Temple at the end of the year for no other reason than my friend (boyfriend's best friend) was transferring to Temple for Journalism. He was trying to be a writer, and I thought that's what I need to do too. The boyfriend was also at Temple, and I felt like I was being left behind. Like I HAD to do SOMETHING. I felt a sense of urgency, and the decision was very abrupt. I'm normally (painfully) indecisive.
2005-2007 (Junior and Senior years) - Struggled through my course load while working odd hours catering. Realized quickly that I didn't know how to write a proper research paper, and that Bucks must've been kindergarten. Missed my art classes terribly. Realized after reading some of the same material covered in high school (ie, Beowulf) that I hate old literature, and I don't see the point in dwelling much in the past, as far as literature goes. I mean, Shakespeare is great, but he's not the only good thing about English literature. I wanted to know what was happening NOW. I wanted to be a part of that. The now. Began looking for the now.
Applied to Tyler School of Art for photography. Wanted to attempt some sort of double major with English. They told me it wasn't possible, though I knew people who were doubling in academic and art majors, but they let me apply anyway. The woman I spoke with was a snot and condescended me when I said that my drawing skills were ok, but not as strong as my other skills. Gave some shit about their expectations, though I knew full well the kind of shit that has come out of Tyler. Granted, most of it is really fucking good, but not all of it. Not enough to be elitist about. Anyway, didn't get accepted, and it was like the universe telling me to choose, and I'd better choose writing. Can't do both.
Took a fiction writing class--realized I'm not a fiction writer. Took another--still not a fiction writer, but maybe experimentally? Took a poetry workshop--bingo. Put all energy into that.
During my last semester I took a photo class. It was the best class I ever had in my life. Definitely made me consider going to grad school for photo, and I looked into it, but still didn't see a future. It didn't feel like who I really was, though I wanted it to be.
A philosophy major gave me shit in our Georges Bataille grad seminar about being an English major and wanting to be a writer, and how this essentially means I'm wasting money. I simply said, "You're a fucking philosophy major." And always really sweaty because he would bike to class from Fishtown. Other kids biked from Fishtown and didn't look so sweaty. He and his boyfriend shared a cat, but lived in separate apartments, so they would transport the cat back and forth like a bizarre child custody arrangement. Anyway, he was in the process of applying to grad school for Library Sciences, and it got me thinking about grad school. Finally understood that a writer was who I was gonna be.
I think I found Emerson in this time and thought that sounded like a good program. ( Though, since I was 20 I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence. I looked into Sarah Lawrence a dozen times between high school and right before I applied to writing programs. It was just too expensive.) I ultimately put off grad school for two years because I didn't feel mature enough--as a person and as a writer. This is also why I turned down a position with Teach for America. They bypassed me to the final interview based on my initial essay alone, but I didn't feel mature enough to commit 2 years of my life to teaching--especially to teaching kids who could probably kill me.
2008-2009 (post graduation) - Was given a scholarship to attend the Philadelphia Writers Conference in June of 2008, but ultimately didn't go because of a severe ringworm epidemic. (Thanks, Casey.) I'm curious what would've changed in me if I did go.
I worked at VSI for a year and a half and completely forgot what it was like to have dreams. Got fed up in summer 09 and needed to do something drastic. Decided to just fucking go for it. Originally planned to go to school for fiction (because I thought I'd make more money being as fiction has a better market than poetry), but quickly realized/remembered that I'm a poet, or at least a prose poet. I can write short short fiction, which actually is a thing gaining popularity. Anyway, quit my job and cut out a handful of distractions, and put all efforts into getting accepted to Emerson.
2010- Accepted to Emerson's poetry program. Moving to Boston. Ta da! Now I'm trying to figure out how to be more serious as a poet. Now I'm starting to flesh out my plans and career options. How very exciting.
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