As I sat in Aitoleipa, my favorite coffee shop (for its cafe latte; soft, natural illumination; low chatter; student discounts and public wifi), I came across a phrase in my assigned reading:
"Writing heals. The written word can relieve pain, restore wholeness, give hope and provide comfort in the face of death. The written word can enable the past and the present to join in life." - Elizabeth Ammons in
Short Fiction by Black Women, 1900-1920.
I remember typing dialogues on my dad's black and white Macintosh when I was 11. My parents had recently separated, and mom was granted full custody. Every Wednesday and every other weekend, we stayed with dad, who rented a room in a family friend's house. The furniture included three mattresses, one table, and few possessions. Life at home was often lonely and frustrating. School was my escape from reality; I loved my friends and could feel instantly happy to see their faces. But that inevitable school bell would ring, and I would return to a family I felt didn't understand me, and who I didn't understand. Why did we have to live in one room? Why couldn't my parents buy me new clothes? Of course, home life had its moments. Dad would take us basically everywhere outdoors -- trips to the beach, hikes up mountains, walks around the neighborhood. He was computer savy, and together we made basic computer games or I admired the way his fingers danced around the keyboard. The computer became another outlet for boredom, hopelessness, frustration... I would write unfinished dialogues of family members, animals and kids. None of my neighborhood friends agreed to recite the lines, but it was fun either way.
Writing and reading has both healed and given me hope throughout some of the most difficult times in my life. When I entered high school, classmates started getting into drugs. I couldn't find anyone to talk with about it, so I wrote about it. I questioned peer pressure and social acceptance. I wrote letters to my future self.
In Honoka'a, a beautiful town, but terribly small for me, every following day seemed to be exactly the same as the last. Same scenery, same people, same conversations, same things I learned in school. It was a class on expository writing that fanned the flame somewhere deep inside. Our teacher assigned us many types of creative writing, and my mind and excitement lit up. I found hope in an activity that was always free and available; I started to think of all the careers involving writing.
During my high school exchange in Madrid, Spain, I would spend days at school not understanding more than a sentence my teachers said. Outside of class, I couldn't speak with bus drivers, workers at the bread shop, people on the street for directions. Here I was, surrounded by a foreign language, customs, culture... Soon my language improved, I got used to the culture, I fell into an amazing group of friends, and I felt a part of Spain. But until that point, I felt alone, homesick, stressed out and out of place. The English teacher at our public school seemed to understand what I was going through, sitting through six hours of classes that I didn't understand every weekday. So she would give me books: Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Stephen King, Golden's
Memoirs of a Geisha. I also decided to maintain a blog. If I wasn't able to communicate with anyone during the day, I would pour out my feelings and experiences using a language I was fluent in. It was relieving, stimulating, comforting -- and actually good for my English, as it began to falter without practice.
Now, if I'm ever feeling down, I know that I can pick up a book. If my chest begins to well up with thoughts or emotion, I can write a blog post or e-mail.
Of course, we also read for entertainment and enjoyment, for learning, for class assignments, for developing style or analytical skills.
And when put the book down, put the pen down, stop typing, and day fades into silence, we are left in a reality that is not yet on print.
(The above pictures were taken as I was waiting for the bus, across the street from Aitoleipa.)
