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In elementary school on the west side of Chicago, I found solace in the ink that bled onto my wide ruled notebook paper. Born in Chicago, but having spent ages 2-7 in Champaign, Illinois, I was troubled by my surroundings upon my return to the west side of Chicago at 7 years old. I was consumed by the awareness that life wasn’t fair–a realization I was coming to on the aftermath of my parents’ divorce and the struggle to deal with the drugs and violence that now filled my new community.
In the fourth grade, my thoughts came out onto paper in the form of poetry, raps and songs. It was a way for me as a quiet, shy little girl to honestly express myself. I can remember one of my first poems I wrote addressing the importance of black history month. To me, my expressions were no big deal, but my elementary teacher hung my poem up for the remainder of the school year.
I also remember secretly writing on my father’s computer and him uncovering poems that I had written, that I now looking back I see as being really mature for a 10 year old. He was impressed by my poems, telling me that I had a gift. My father was a journalist, and I took pride in parts of his job he shared with me: pictures of him hugging bears and snakes, covering presidents, famous people, and heart-wrenching important stories. These were my most prized show and tell items. I wanted to be just like him. I took pride that I shared a knack for writing with him, something that made me feel closer to him even when we were in different households at times.
And while I was aware of some of the glamour being a print journalist could bring, I always knew the importance and power of the written word. I knew that seeing my name in headlines or working for a big newspaper was not the goal; the goal was to tell the story. And although I could learn to be a journalist, being a writer was as simple as the number 2 pencil and wide ruled notebook paper laying on my grade school desk that provided my soul replenishment as a little girl.
And so I write.
I write because I can. I write because some little girl, boy, or underrepresented person doesn’t have the voice or outlet to speak. I write because during a hard time in my life, watching family, friends, and strangers endure extreme hardships on the west side of Chicago, I was given the wherewithal to be an observer–to be a set of eyes to one day tell stories with empathy and compassion. I write because of legacy, a craft my father passed down to me, a priceless gift that can’t whither with the changing of the economy. Writing is my protest song, my million woman march, my God’s smile on my soul. It is my cry when tears are not enough to express or do justice an experience. And so I write.
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