Where is the Kid I Used to Be?
I remember being in ninth grade history class. Good teacher with an unusual approach and for one of our assignments, I wrote a story. So, there I was, trying not to be noticed as usual when the teacher starts reading my short story out loud to my history class.
I’m not sure there’s a name for the shade of red I turned. Introvert red? That’s probably closest. Anyway …
It was written as a page from the diary of a soldier in World War I, a boy grown suddenly to manhood who is writing down his thoughts in the last moments of his life. Its about his realization that he’s been through too much and he’s alright with what’s coming.
I wrote that in 9th grade because even back then I understood what it was like to live in a war zone. Not, you know, an actual bombs flying over head war zone (that came later) but if you are the adult child of an alcoholic, you understand. If you grew up with parents who didn’t love each other, you understand. If you had a family member with serious mental issues, you understand.
In the trifecta of life, I had all three.
What I remember, other than the embarrassment, was how quiet it was while he was reading. No dumb jokes. No snickering. Just quiet and I thought, I did that. I shut these kids up. They were listening.
At that age, my philosophy of life was simple — there are the people on the stage and the people in the audience. The ones on the stage are insane and they suck up all of the attention. Always. Me? I was audience but in that moment, I got their attention.
Heady stuff.
And yet, somewhere along the way, I got the notion stuck in my head that my dreams had to be practical and in that, I can hear the voice of my inner critic — an amalgamation of every wannabe artist who decided to trash my dreams rather than live their own and my parents who didn’t understand creativity at all. My inner critic was always there to tell me that I’ll never be famous or wealthy doing what I want and show me the flaws. Always.
The kid I used to be didn’t care about any of that. I wrote by hand, in penmanship that changed practically week to week, and I told stories. I wrote one about a painting I saw at the art museum and my English teacher said that she would have loved to read it out loud but my penmanship made that impossible.
My teachers believed in me and my dreams even when I couldn’t and for that, I’m grateful. The kid I used to be was fearless, willing to try and fail and try again. Somewhere along the line, I lost that part of myself but in this year of reclamation, while I’m reading essays and short stories and poetry, I’m going to look for that kid. Maybe we’ll go have a milkshake and talk over old times.
And together we can work out this idea that’s been rattling around in a cobwebbed corner of my brain. Because that’s another part of what Ray Bradbury recommended — write a short story every week. He said that its impossible to write 52 bad ones.
The kid I used to be doesn’t care really. Its the idea of writing them that’s exciting.
