Organizing the
books on my bookshelves is a trap—the Bermuda Triangle in my house. I’ve started this task 4 times now over the
past 2 weeks, and each time I get sucked in and lost in flipping through the boxes and bags of my old
books, photo albums, and notebooks.
Last
week I found an old college writing portfolio of creative nonfiction pieces I
wrote in 2008. Do you mind if I blend
something I wrote in 2008 with what I’m learning this week? On November 25, 2008, I turned in an essay
that began…
My
voice orates, sings, converses with sisters, whispers to shy children. It is life that comes from my throat; it is
sound that defends me, that makes me known and loved. This voice, my female voice, has much to
give—offerings unique to me, offerings that can speak for those who have become
mute. But sometimes I doubt my
voice. Often after one of my college
classes is over, I wonder if I have spoken up too much. Sometimes after hearing my voice on
recordings and in videos, I grimace and say, “Ugh.” I second-guess the powerful offering of my
voice.
*********************************************************************************
One Friday
night in July 2008, I drove an hour and a half to eat pizza and go putt putting
with some children from my college church.
I started spending my Wednesday evenings with the kids two years prior
because I wanted them to know that I care—that someone care about them and
their difficult lives.
“Mary!” the
kids all shouted and swarmed around me to give quick hugs. I noticed that my young friends looked a
little tanner, freer, louder because it was summer. But one little girl I did not recognize sat
quietly at the kitchen table.
I raised my
eyebrows because I did not know that Jeffrey—whom I had known for two years—had
a sister. Walking over to Sissy, I
introduced myself. She smiled back and
replied with a few, stuttered words. I
could see her resemblance to her brother.
“How old
are you, Sissy?
She lowered
her chin and slowly prepared her mouth to speak, her tongue at last pushing
out, “Sixxxx.” She then sucked her lips back in, like she was protecting them
from tasting something yucky or from making mistakes.
*********************************************************************************
My high
school English teacher passed out pamphlets describing a national oratorical
contest. I had never been in a speech
contest before, but I set my eyes on it, determined, a bull charging the
matador’s cape. My dad and my teacher
warned me about the difficulty level of this contest, but the challenge of
researching, discovering what I wanted to say, and memorizing how I would say
the words was an irresistible echo.
I was the
only contestant at the first round, and then I beat one girl at the regional
round. My parents and I drove downtown
for the state competition, where I sat in a conference room next to five
teenage guys in suits. I took deep
breaths and tried to keep from biting my nails.
A $3,000 scholarship was on the line.
When it was
my turn to speak at the state competition, I walked the aisle toward the stage,
and I remember a calm coming over my muscles and a confidence rising in my
voice. As I took my position on the
stage, I smiled to the people—a friendly smile on my face, but a malicious
smile in my stance. I didn’t shy away from their gaze, but instead fished for
their eyes and willed them to look into mine.
I spoke the first few words of my speech and charged on.
I was
unafraid, the charging bull.
Unafraid. Unfeminine? Something
whispered to me that maybe I shouldn’t be this confident. Maybe no one cares or needs to hear what I
have to say. I was the only girl at that
state competition, and maybe one of the boys should have won.
*********************************************************************************
At the top
of this essay, my writing prof Dr. Brown left a cursive note in purple pen, “I
hope you continue to practice this genre!” And I smiled as I read it—while I
was supposed to be organizing my bookshelf—because now 6 years later, that’s the
genre I have attempted to practice in writing my blog.
That class
was Writing Creative Nonfiction. Before
that semester, I had had a few classes on writing poetry, fiction, and rhetoric,
but I didn’t feel like I had found my voice with any of those classes. Then on my first day of Writing Creative
Nonfiction class, my prof began explaining the genre of creative nonfiction, and
it was love at first sight.
Dr. Brown
gave us a blue worksheet on creative nonfiction, and I found it in the notebook
with my essays. She said in creative
nonfiction, we tell all the truth, but we tell it slant[2]:
·
Exploration over explanation,
·
Image over abstraction,
·
Showing more than telling.
Dr. Brown
taught us how to focus our journaling and how to make connections in our
experiences and questions. She required
us to turn in our rough drafts, and I had never before felt that God was
speaking to me so much through the process of writing, uncovering connections
in my life that I hadn’t seen before.
For that
semester, I began testing my voice through creative nonfiction, making lots of
awkward mistakes and making one or two precious, important pieces.
A few days
ago, I told some friends that I love writing, but I often feel frustrated with myself
because I’ll spend hours writing something for my blog, and those were hours I
could have spent cleaning house or visiting friends or Christmas shopping. I feel happy when I get to share something
that I’ve written, but I also second-guess the importance of it.
Last week I
had the opportunity to share something I had written at our church’s Christmas Tea. In the weeks leading up to this,
God had given me some good direction and insight for what to share—something
that really encouraged and comforted me. I was excited about this opportunity,
but then a few days before I would speak, I began questioning myself and
whether this message would make a difference.
I realized that even though I should be past this by now, I still doubt
my voice.
*********************************************************************************
The kids and
I all walked over to Jeffrey’s Pappy’s yard to play kickball. Pappy pitched, wearing tight jeans, a white
t-shirt, and a cigarette. He and I were
the only adults playing with the church kids and a few other neighborhood kids
who rode up on their bikes.
Sissy, the
youngest, tottered behind me, clinging to my shirt, to my waist. I coached her to kick the ball when it was
her turn. I yelled, “Good job, Sissy!
Run, run, run!” But she didn’t know what to do—how to run the bases or even how
to try. The other team tagged her out,
but she didn’t care. I gave her a high
five when she returned to my side, almost prompting her to cheer.
In the
infield, Sissy wrapped her arms around my waist, smiled shyly, and said,
“Pick—me—opp.” Her “p” in up kind of popped. I
hugged Sissy while trying to play first base and wondered more about her
life. Why hadn’t I known Jeffrey had a
sister? Why don’t they call her by her real name? Why doesn’t she usually live with her brother?
Has something happened that has made her so hesitant to speak? Jeffrey yelled at Sissy for not focusing on
the game; Pappy then hollered at him to go sit on the porch.
After the
kickball game was over, Sissy kept tugging at me to hold her, kept saying my
name in her slow way, yearning for my attention. I held her and played with her bobbed, brown
hair as we all sat on the back door steps eating popsicles. I tried to ask her a few questions—What do you like to do during the summer,
Sissy? So you’re in first grade, huh?—I even leaned in toward her face, as
if to say, “I’m listening, Sissy. Speak
for me,” but she only nodded and smiled, echoing the phrase back to me.
*********************************************************************************
They
announced me the winner of the state oratorical contest. I stood on the stage in my high heels and
skirt and jacket as my picture was taken.
Elderly men walked up to me to shake my hand; elderly women hugged me
and squeezed my arms as they congratulated me.
I listened to their lipsticked love.
My dad, a committed sports fan, even said, “That was better than any
ballgame.”
My parents
bought me a smoothie on our way home. I sat in the backseat exhausted, more
proud of myself than I had ever been. I
called my sisters, my grandma, and my English teacher to tell them not just the
news of my medal and prize money, but the news that for the fifteen minutes I
was on the stage, my voice filled the room to the walls and the ceiling, even
pushing to knock on the doors, the minds, the hearts in the room. They had heard me.
*********************************************************************************
Before I
left the kids’ neighborhood after the kickball game was over, I hugged Sissy
and said, “It was good to meet you, Sissy.”
She nodded.
I said, “I
hope I can see you again.” And that was
it—the only words I said and the last time I saw her. Of course, I meant those words, but I also
meant, “I love you, sweetheart. You’re
going to make it.” I told the other kids
goodbye and tried to linger a little, but it was dark. I had a long drive. I walked to my car, hoping Sissy could still
hear my voice, hoping she would grow to be bold with hers.
*********************************************************************************
Back to
organizing my bookshelves. My creative
nonfiction portfolio is closed and on the bottom shelf. I wrote 5 pieces during the 4 months of that
college semester. Now it’s cool to see that this is my 46th creative
nonfiction piece that I have posted on my blog over the last 6 months.
I’m
grateful for the practice, but I still beat up my writer ego often with “Why?”
questions. Why should I spend time on this? Why would anyone want to read this?
Why would this be helpful to anyone?
But last
week as I was doubting how much I should write and share my blog, a few of my
friends helped me to realize that there is someone who wants to silence my
voice. Satan does not want me to share
the things that God has taught me and all the ways that God has provided for
me. But I think of Jesus’ words in Mark
5:19: “Tell them how much the Lord has
done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.”
The Lord
has given me the joy and the training to write, so I need to quit doubting it,
quit feeling guilty about spending time on it.
I will keep writing and keep sharing my story—my voice—because I want to
hear yours too.
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