"Somebody That I Used To Know"

I’ve been on summer break for a little over a week now and it’s been wonderful. I’ve slept, read, gone to the pool, watched T.V., worked out, and spent time with friends. It’s been a great week. I’ve fully embraced Summer and greeted her warmly each day.

However, in all this relaxation I’ve realized just how exhausted this past year has made me. Riverside is exhausting for a myriad of reasons, my family is, for lack of a better word, “interesting”, and I just constantly kept busy with one thing or another. I forgot about me. It’s so easy to do that too. I “had” to this, or “had” to do that. I didn’t stop for me. I didn’t hang out with friends as much as I wanted to, I didn’t read for pleasure, I didn’t write. I lost bits and pieces of me along the way and now I’m wandering around picking up the lost items, the things that make up who I am. I am beginning to reclaim my identity.

It’s sad to see how much of myself has disappeared since August. I care about my job and I want to do my job well, so I throw myself into teaching and if you’re a teacher, you know just how much it consumes your life.  My days are filled with teaching some of the greatest young people I’ve ever met, to some of the most “behavioral challenged” students anyone will ever meet. After teaching all day I then come home and grade vocabulary quizzes, edit thesis statements, plan for the next unit, correct subject verb agreement exercises, and spend hours pouring over essays.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about all the work, it’s the nature of the job and it’s something I take on gladly. But in doing all this, I carefully gave up small slivers of myself along the way. And summer creates the opportunity to realize that 1. I’ve forgotten what I love and 2. That I have the chance to go back and reacquaint myself with who I used to be. I am eternally grateful to be able to recognize these two opportunities and I plan on exercising them to the fullest. However, as much as I don’t want this to happen, to forget who I am, I’m glad it does happen. It reminds me of why I have certain passions, that I should be proud of who I’ve grown up to become, and how I’m being used throughout the school year and the summer. So thank you Summer, for reminding me who I used to be, and allowing me to fully become her again. 

"I'm Guessing This is Growing Up"

I’ve abandoned the 15-day blog challenge. It didn’t inspire me and stretch me in the way I thought it would. So I’m looking for another “Insert arbitrary number here” blog challenge in the meantime. But beyond that a lot of change has happened this week.

My brother graduated high school. I’m significantly older than Malik and I never imagined that he’d be big enough to go to college. In my head, I know everyone must grow up and morph into the person he or she is meant to become. But Malik can’t. He’s supposed to stay a baby, live at home forever, and always be my sweet, little brother. Now, I realize that some of those things will always be true. He will always be my little brother, he will probably act like a baby, and he might end up living at home again. But this is all happening too fast. I remember dropping Malik off for his first day of Kindergarten and now I had to watch him walk across a stage and grab his diploma.

But I think the reason why I’m so torn concerning this milestone event in my brother’s life is for selfish reasons. This event reminds me of how I felt when I was in his shoes. I was terrified of going to college but I was so thrilled to do anything I wanted. I felt scared and invincible at the exact same time. I wanted to do everything and thought that I actually could. I think I’m almost jealous of the fact that Malik has such opportunity in front of him. Would I want to go back and live in a dorm again? Heck no. But I think I’m coveting this new adventure Malik is embarking upon.

I am immensely excited and proud to watch Malik head off to Appalachian in the fall. I know he will create lasting memories, hopefully study hard, and form strong friendships. So I guess this new journey Malik is going on has ignited those dreams that I had when I was 17 and heading off to college. I guess it’s a bit of nostalgia, sorrow, and happiness that I’m feeling right now for my brother. I’m so happy for him and I hope he does feel like he can conquer the world. I know he will. 

I believe...

Today I’m prompted to talk about belief: belief in the idea that I can become a writer. But I don’t want to talk about that. I do believe in my ability of becoming a writer. I can visualize it, see the dream form, and wait for it to become a reality. But that’s not all that I believe in. So instead of writing a blog post about something that frankly, bores me, I won’t. I’m going to some of the things I believe in. And since I made the declaration yesterday that I am a writer, then yes, a list doesn’t revoke that assertion. 

I believe in God.

I believe that I make a difference.

I believe that friendships are some of the best, yet hardest, things in life.

I believe in the power of a well-written song.

I believe that at everyone’s core, they are a good person.

I believe that we, including myself, are entirely too selfish.

I believe that love will find a way.

I believe that after everything is said and done, there will still be laughter.

I believe that writing is a very private practice.

I believe that words hurt.

I believe that a cup of tea can brighten up any rainy afternoon.

I believe that when people say, “I just feel like I should do it” then they probably are right.

I believe that no matter the amount of money in your bank account you will still find something you wish you had.

I believe that sometimes all that is necessary is a hug.

I believe that we are not perfect and that perfection is unattainable.

I believe that art needs no explanation.

I believe that families hurt.

I believe that cleanliness is in the eye of the beholder.

I believe that public education needs a face-lift.

I believe that writing can inspire, encourage, dismay, and motivate.

I believe that if no one bothers to read this, I’ll keep writing anyways. 

I am a writer.

I am a writer. Those four words instill a lot of fear within me. I have some doubt as I make that declaration since I tend to assume that a writer must be someone of Faulkner or Steinbeck stature. But a blog that I follow that is challenging me to 15 days of blog posts, http://goinswriter.com/, told me to go ahead, be brazen, and call myself a writer.

As soon as I read that I immediately disagreed.  I’m not a writer. I don’t have a novel on The New York Times Best Seller’s List. I haven’t sat in one of Ellen’s comfy, red chairs and proclaimed my book will be turned into a movie starring Zac Efron. I haven’t even gone on a book tour and read excepts of my novel at Barnes and Noble to people looking for the latest Vogue magazine while their children cry in their strollers. And yes, I want to do all of those things. I want to get a phone call saying my publisher must print an additional 50,000 copies of my novel, that Ellen needs me to bring my most embarrassing high school photo to the set, and I want to be ignored while reading an excerpt of chapter seven of my next novel. Then I can call myself a writer.

But is that really what it means to be a writer? For so long I’ve focused on the glamorized version of writing. The interviews, the million dollar book deals, the fame and glory; but what about the craft of writing itself. I’ve lost sight of what it means to write. The act of putting pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and pouring out one’s feelings, heartache, emotion, and a myriad of other sentiments is writing. And writing shouldn’t be for the pomp and circumstance; writing should be for me. Writing has always been for me. But I’m just now beginning to realize that what I write makes me a writer. The glory doesn’t make someone a writer. It is just simply the act of writing that makes one a writer.

But even as I pen (or type) this blog entry I still hesitate in labeling myself as a writer. What if no one reads anything I write? What if my journal is the only place where the sincerest form of writing actually happens? What if what I write isn’t any good? Am I still a writer then? Typically I would say, “No, Mira, you aren’t a real writer.” 

But not today: because today I officially declare myself a writer.