Advanced essay Nisa Hardin

What do you want to be when you get older?” I don’t know. “How about hobbies that you enjoy?” Hobbies? “You look like you’re going to be a doctor. Or maybe a lawyer?” All eyes were on me. My feet were shifted towards the other side of the room, ready to run. My mother peers at me out of the side of her eye awaiting my response, along with the rest of my family. Their eyes are fixed on me, necks stretched outward and heads tilted to the side to exaggerate their anticipation, half smiles on their faces. I can feel my stomach fill with butterflies, but in this situation, replacing the butterflies with matches would be more of an appropriate fit. My body sparks a fire and spreads quickly. My heart beats in my ears and my underarms burn. I was running out of time. I hated to have to think on my feet, especially when I couldn’t come up with an answer that would prove satisfactory.

“I guess I want to be a nurse.”

The room is brought back to life and everyone quickly returns back to their own conversations. I bolt to the bathroom to catch my breath, replaying that moment over and over in my head.

Why hadn’t I told my family what my true interests and passions were? Why didn’t I mention my journals, my poems, my books full of short stories and notes full of ideas? How I saw it: If I had told them flat out that I wanted to be a writer, I could already hear the sympathetic “reality checks” and looks of concern. Enjoying writing and wanting to take it up as a profession simply isn’t seen as legitimate, at least in my case. I started to feel like I didn’t belong with my classmates. All throughout elementary school I’d sit for hours trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with me. All of my peers wanted to be architects or veterinarians or just something that was generally praised upon. By 8th grade I’d concluded that I was going to have to find another passion to throw my energy into, because writing was just something you had to do when the teacher said so. Of course I loved assignments that required me to write, but they weren’t ever really as fulfilling as I wanted them to be. I was following a list of instructions to get me an A, and then that list was thrown away and the essay was thrown away and nothing was ever looked at again. I was gaining nothing. So, I took it upon myself to start writing whatever I wanted.

By middle school I had gone through one and a half journals that I had used to write stories. Whenever I had the free time, I was writing. I would grab my belongings right before lunch began, head for the gym and up the back stairwell. Dropping my bag below me, I’d blow the dust off my throne and try to get as comfortable as I could on a cold concrete flight of stairs. I would write about anything, really. It all depended on the type of mood I was in. If I had been out of focus all day, I’d find myself writing fairytales or fictional stories with myself as the main character. If I was feeling overwhelmed, I’d write a story that contained anger or even mystery, something that would keep me engaged with my own thoughts. The real reason I kept and still keep my writing to myself is because of the demand that would come out of publicizing everything I wrote.

It was my 8th grade graduation. I sat in the front of the stage and stared off into space as they called out awards for my classmates. A tight ball formed in the pit of my stomach. I had won a couple awards for theatre, but that was expected—they gave those out to everyone. What I did not expect was to hear my name called again. I turned to my english teacher standing at the microphone, smiling. She waved for me to occupy the spot next to her. My dress slid across the floor behind me, and I prayed for it not to get caught in my high heels and cause a complete disaster.

“This girl has written her way into my heart. She creates one of the greatest pieces I’ve seen in the 8th grade class!”

She looks down at me. I search the audience, locking eyes with my mother. She doesn’t look proud. She doesn’t look disappointed, either. I couldn’t read her expression.

“I’m proud to give her this award, but also sad to let her go. I’ll miss her constructed responses.”

The crowd clapped, my mother smiled, my peers praised me.

In moments like that, all the attention and positive feedback would have me thinking of ways to put myself out there and get someone to read and publish my writing. I still struggled with doubt, and had so much to learn. Even now I’m trying my hardest to be confident about the poems and papers I write. What I want to do, I don’t have a solid idea on just yet. But I’m hoping that it never requires me to stop doing what I love.