When I was young, I attended two separate Catholic elementary schools. From kindergarten through fifth, I roamed the halls of St. Michaels in relative bliss (at least that his how I remember it). I have this vague memory of the first day of third grade, in Mrs. Murphy's classroom, and remarking to myself just how green the light shown through the trees bordering the the large stretch of windows. Also, of Mrs. Murphy physically demonstrating how babies enter the world, by spreading her legs and making a downward motion with bother arms. Then from sixth until eighth grade, on the second floor of St. James, I was awakened to harshness of judgmental peers and frustrated teachers. During that time, I learned how bullying and pecking orders worked; the power of humiliation, from both children and adults; and how to stand up for myself by quietly rejecting the Church on Ash Wednesday (I refused to walk up to the altar and receive ashes, and I responded quietly to my teacher's stern inquiry, because, well, it was in the of Mass--even when protesting, I still behaved).
It was in both those places, and against this backstory, that I can trace several of my earliest writing forays. Unfortunately, I have had to rely on my childhood memories, which, like fireflies, flicker on when you are not quite looking, and fade away as you try and focus. And, like fireflies, these memories are seasonal, arriving only when nostalgia creeps in and temporarily distracts from the daily chores and weekly events that march ever onward. Worse, unlike my high school and college writing experiments, assignments, journals, story ideas, and poems, I have no hard copies of those ancient manuscripts.
Which brings me to an interesting phenomenon that occurs in both teaching and parenting: the list of things my teachers and parents did to me, that, when I finally become one, I will not force my students or children to endure. Well, I lost three pieces of writing, all of which I distinctly remember receiving high marks and praises from my teachers, and positive comments from my classmates. Alright, not so much that latter, though, to this day, I swear I overheard one of the eighth grade girls said some kind things about my poem that was displayed on the hallway bulletin board (yes, everyone's poem was posted their, but I am certain she was discussing mine). More importantly, I remember the thrill of writing those stories and poem down, and, when done, reading through them and thinking I had accomplished something beautiful and worthwhile.
Alas, in each one of those divine moments of authorship, a teacher committed a grave sin, one which, during my thirteen years of teaching, I have sworn I would never perpetrate on my own students. In all three instances, my teachers never handed back the assignment. In fact, in two of the cases, I am fairly certain they tossed them in the trash (of course, those visions of my fifth grade teacher cackling while burning my wonderful short story while lighting up a cigarette could be a figment of my imagination). Those three texts, which represent my earliest adventures in creative writing, are gone.
Sigh.
So, I am left with only my vague recollections of just how awesome they actually were. The oldest one, was a short story, hand written one three sheets of wide lined, three hole punched, loose leaf paper. It was fifth grade, so it must have been in cursive (it was Catholic school, so it was required--I believe it was an official Sacrament, or maybe punishment for our collective sins). It was historical fiction (I loved history, even back then), but also religious. A story of a Christian boy, with a special note, attempting to cross a bridge guarded by two Roman soldiers. There may or may not have been talking animals (and I may or may not have read The Chronicles of Narnia at the time). Not quite sure on either account. It does not matter. The teacher enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it.
Several days later--so my memory informs me--I asked my teacher for my story back, and she responded with a smile and a wave of her hand, something about throwing them all out (decluttering she claimed), before turning to the class and changing the topic.
Then there was another short story. A supernatural thriller of sorts, written around my seventh-grade Halloween. At least that is how I remember it (my story had a violent ending, so over the years, my mind has connected it to that holiday). It involved a young man, a loner, caught up in his own world, because no one wanted to be friends with him, wandering about a beach at night. Okay, I do not have a clue as to why my protagonist ended up alone. It was either by his choosing, or some tragic backstory. But it does not matter. What I distinctly remember was a walk along a beach, a night sky, a glowing cave, some chanting, and the young man disappearing forever. Oh, and my teacher's praise for it, and my best friend's positive response to reading it.
I would love to know the exact details of that story. Alas, my teacher burned it. Okay, I do not know how she got rid of it, but she never handed it back. Another one of my compositions, lost forever.
Finally, there was that poem. The opus of my elementary school writing career. It was written sometime during the eighth grade. A very important year for me. A time when I shed much of the chains from my past, in order to be emotionally independent from my peers. I rejected the Church (I still have the note that my teacher sent home to my parents, concerned about my spiritual wellbeing). I stood up to my bullies (that did not exactly stop it, but I did manage to be left alone most of the time). And I discovered the value of fearless self expression.
And hence the importance of my third piece of creative writing. It stemmed from one of those structured poem assignments, that provided a series of prompts, and the student had to complete each one. The first line began "I am [blank] who [blank]". It would become the refrain that would be repeated four times. The verses in between would expand on the refrain. I believe some of lines began with some of the following phrases: "I believe [blank], I wish [blank], I see [blank]". I started my poem with "I am a thinker who knows no bounds". And from that clever moment, I took off for the heavens. What followed (according to my memory), was a deep, self-reflective journey into the shadowy corners of my fourteen-year-old mind. It was the culmination of my life experiences up to that point, and how I viewed the end result. There was self-doubt in those verses, a raw voice in those words. And the pleasure of seeing it spew forth from my mind to the paper in front of me.
It was worth saving. If only as a mile marker, from which to gauge my growth from elementary school to high school, and beyond. Of course, my teacher, upon removing the work of all those students from the bulletin board, decided the trash can was the best place for those bursts of creative expression.
In the end, what I do remember clearly, was the sheer joy of writing out those words. I have no doubt of the tension and emotion I wove together as that Christian boy stood struck with fear of having to cross that bridge under the scrutiny of two Roman guards. Or the ominous foreshadowing and overwhelming dread I conjured up while describing the young man's doomed journey along a beach within sight of a haunting cave. Or the courageous and clever outpouring of my emotions I spilled out across a page-long poem that hung on the wall of Catholic elementary school.
So maybe that eighth grade girl, whom I had a crush on, never commented on my poem. And perhaps I did lift the talking animals from C.S. Lewis' books, and dropped them into my story as a deus ex machina for my fear-stricken boy. Finally, that disappearance of a young man into a glowing cave full of chanting? Possibly chock full of cliches and tropes. Since I do not have any copies available, we will never know.
However, I am certain of the exhilaration I remember feeling as I wrote out and read all three of those early works. It the same elation I would feel during my ninth grade writing assignments, whenever I type up my journal entries, and as I finish up this particular blog post. It is the delight that comes over me as I write on Facebook and text on my phone.
It is the satisfaction that arises whenever I transform my thoughts into words.
(to be continued...)
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