Confessions of a Freshman

Adrianna was a writer; there was nothing she loved more than retreating in her turtle shell and bringing life to all the words she had left unsaid with a pen.

September 28, 2012

Have you ever felt so cold your skin prickles and you feel helpless in your desire for warmth? I experience that often. Sometimes I'm a forced subject of judgment, and I know in my heart that, try as I may, sturdy walls of prejudice refuse to budge. Or when I sit under the glaring light of scrutiny as my adversaries assume my every thought. But maybe, deep down inside the core, adversity was exactly what I needed at that particular moment, and what I will need in those moments to come. Who would I be without conflict? A person floating around in space, with no story because I'd have no climax or resolution? At times it feels as though nights of curling up in seclusion, letting salty tears lull me to sleep are fixed on repeat, like God is holding down the pause button, watching my life on a large heavenly screen. Yet I've come to the conclusion that the flames I encounter are less painful than the clashing cacophony of human indifference. I'd rather feel something, than be caught in a constant state of not feeling at all.

When I observe the blank expressions of my peers at school, I'm faced with this same swarm of butterflies. One glance at the mask of a person's smile, or the glaze of another's eyes, and the same vulnerability returns to the pit of my stomach. Now that I've seen the light, it's up to me to rekindle my torch and venture back into the darkness that reigns over their lives to lead them to the path of redemption. Like Moses, I feel unqualified, not up to par. It's not that I'm shy. Reserve has always been a part of who I am around people, yet I'm not socially awkward. So why do I feel inept?

Adrianna looked up from her notebook, returning to the reality of her class's history lecture about the fourteenth-century cultural revolution of Italy. It seemed as if she was in her own Renaissance period; it was an opportunity for freedom of expression she had yearned for as long as she could remember.

As the teacher's voice wavered in and out of her thoughts, she recalled the passage she had stumbled upon in an autobiography she had read three years earlier. Adrianna had felt drawn to the words on the page; they had stirred the fading embers of aspirations muffled by her past.

"The source of my difficulties has always been the same: an inability to accept what to others seems natural, and an irresistible tendency to voice opinions no one wants to hear. Once I heard a famous Afro-American writer say that from the time she was a little girl she felt like a stranger in her family and her hometown. She added that nearly all writers have experienced that feeling, even if they have never left their native country. It's a condition inherent in that profession, she suggested; without the anxiety of feeling different, she wouldn't have been driven to write. Writing, when all is said and done, is an attempt to understand one's own circumstance and to clarify the confusion of existence, including insecurities that do not torment normal people, only chronic nonconformists." (My Invented Country, Isabel Allende)

The words had catalyzed a spark within her. As if Jesus himself had rubbed mud in her eyes, the scales of personal inadequacy fell from her vision. Too long had she been a muted soul, drifting in the river of existence without ever obtaining something of worth. Adrianna's appearance was plain, but she knew that she held the key to the creation of beauty. Her pen was the breath of life; paper, the vessel. Writing became an outlet for her; on days when she was ridiculed for her silence, or longed for the solace of friendship, she would fill the absences with stories of amity and acceptance.

Yet Adrianna knew in her heart that now was the time for renewal, and moving to a new town had provided her with a clean slate. Starting high school as a mere face in the crowd gave her foundation for a new identity; her hushed character could be no more.

The sound of rustling paper pulled her from her musings, and Adrianna noticed her history notes had fallen to the floor. Leaning down, she bumped hands with a boy in the desk beside her who had already reached the papers. She blushed, and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards as he placed her notes on her desk. In the next moment, she defied the old Adrianna, and though it was foreign to her, she felt her mouth breathe life into utterance, as her pen had exhaled so many times before.

"Thank you," Adrianna said.