Why did you become a writer?
Some people have asked me this question numerous times and I decided to answer it here real quick.
Why did I become a writer? I used to answer this with a lie I would tell people I just liked to write and be creative and that’s not true. The truth is writing saved my life. I at one point in my life was bullied and it was the period of time that I could not find any value in my life, in my family or in myself. I was called everything from n***er, to ape and monkey, gorilla, ugly, stupid all the way to jungle thing, slave and so many other things (you can kind of guess by now that I am Black). I was told “I hope you die”, “I would kill you if I could”, “I’m gonna get my KKK friends to kill you.” “You’re so ugly and stupid why don’t you just die?” Students even threatened to hang me. I slowly allowed myself to fade. I used to tell people my soul already died I’m just waiting for my body to catch up.
I was choked multiple times and once in front of a teacher who laughed. The teachers were no better than the students. They would pull my hair, mumble about me and even call me stupid as well. With my peers I was hit with objects, kicked, pushed down, my hair pulled; people even tried to PET me like I was a dog (but I bet they treat their dogs better). Finally I was hit in the back of my head with an old Del laptop.
At night I prayed hard to die in my sleep but I never did. Finally I stopped sleeping. I would sit awake and cry or imagine my life after death. Then after being choked the second time I actually could picture myself taking my own life (tried, but something stopped me). I began to picture myself shooting up my school (WHOA, yeah I know) but I have to be honest. I’m not the type of person that finds joy in other’s pain but back then I could see it and feel nothing. I was a nine year old kid enduring nothing but hate everyday for years in that school.
I noticed that by picturing everything so vividly I brought myself a certain calmness that allowed me to get through the day. If I could do that for myself I wanted to do that for others so I started writing. Horror, humor, adventure, action you name it, I wrote it. I knew then that if I would have walked through that school and carried out my daydreams I would surely not be here today. Writing saved my life. All those people who called me stupid (including teachers) this that and the other back then, guess what…I am a senior in college now working towards three degrees and I am here on scholarships for my writing. But I still take my good with bad I have PTSD and persistent depression because of my time in that school.
However, I am thankful to my writing (whether it’s good or bad) for distracting me through the times when my mind was not my ally, For forcing me to work towards something; But most importantly for saving my life and now I get to help other kids who feel like they have nothing left, thank you.
And if you actually managed to sit through this long passage I thank you too.
Why did I become a writer? I used to answer this with a lie I would tell people I just liked to write and be creative and that’s not true. The truth is writing saved my life. I at one point in my life was bullied and it was the period of time that I could not find any value in my life, in my family or in myself. I was called everything from n***er, to ape and monkey, gorilla, ugly, stupid all the way to jungle thing, slave and so many other things (you can kind of guess by now that I am Black). I was told “I hope you die”, “I would kill you if I could”, “I’m gonna get my KKK friends to kill you.” “You’re so ugly and stupid why don’t you just die?” Students even threatened to hang me. I slowly allowed myself to fade. I used to tell people my soul already died I’m just waiting for my body to catch up.
I was choked multiple times and once in front of a teacher who laughed. The teachers were no better than the students. They would pull my hair, mumble about me and even call me stupid as well. With my peers I was hit with objects, kicked, pushed down, my hair pulled; people even tried to PET me like I was a dog (but I bet they treat their dogs better). Finally I was hit in the back of my head with an old Del laptop.
At night I prayed hard to die in my sleep but I never did. Finally I stopped sleeping. I would sit awake and cry or imagine my life after death. Then after being choked the second time I actually could picture myself taking my own life (tried, but something stopped me). I began to picture myself shooting up my school (WHOA, yeah I know) but I have to be honest. I’m not the type of person that finds joy in other’s pain but back then I could see it and feel nothing. I was a nine year old kid enduring nothing but hate everyday for years in that school.
I noticed that by picturing everything so vividly I brought myself a certain calmness that allowed me to get through the day. If I could do that for myself I wanted to do that for others so I started writing. Horror, humor, adventure, action you name it, I wrote it. I knew then that if I would have walked through that school and carried out my daydreams I would surely not be here today. Writing saved my life. All those people who called me stupid (including teachers) this that and the other back then, guess what…I am a senior in college now working towards three degrees and I am here on scholarships for my writing. But I still take my good with bad I have PTSD and persistent depression because of my time in that school.
However, I am thankful to my writing (whether it’s good or bad) for distracting me through the times when my mind was not my ally, For forcing me to work towards something; But most importantly for saving my life and now I get to help other kids who feel like they have nothing left, thank you.
And if you actually managed to sit through this long passage I thank you too.
