Saturday, September 25, 2010

We are pushed, we grow.

My poetry has grown tremendously this last month. There is a sort of freedom with being away from prying eyes that you grew up with. However there are still a few untouchables that I am not ready to talk about. I wrote and shared my most vulnerable piece this week. It wasn't even for workshop, but Kelly my professor asked if anyone would share. I went ahead with about three minutes of class left. I read it, my voice strong, my body trembling like mad afterword. The girl next to me, who is a mother asked me if I was alright because I looked like I was going to pass out. Kelly gave me advice on how to make the poem better and we turned in our work.
"Are you proud of yourself?" She asked when I went to turn it in.
"No." I wasn't proud at all. In fact, I was very very angry.
"What am I going to do with you?" she handed me my piece back and told me that I was hiding, and to keep writing about the subject. Instantly I snapped. I am not proud of this. I yelled. I told her there was nothing else to write about. It was over.
Very calmly she took my poem back and said, "Alright, you aren't ready to write about this just yet."
I stormed out, headphones in. I stayed upset for a long time and emailed her back that afternoon apologizing for my attitude. I explained that when I get scared or feel pushed, the fear turns to anger and I don't know how to deal with the fear. She replied with,
"Your poem was beautiful and brave. I promise that I will never stop pushing you, though--no matter how scared or angry you become. That's my job."
And it is. And I am silly for being afraid. If we don't feel scared or make mistakes, how are we supposed to grow?

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