I became frozen when I got the news.
"Write a short poem of just a few paragraphs.
Each one will take turns reading it to the class."
The poems would not be graded since it was something
creative, however, if we chose not to read them to the class, we'd fail.
"How could I read what I wrote to the class?" I
thought. "It's personal." I was only able to write anything when it came from my heart. And what
was in my heart was mostly sadness, often coming from the feelings of rejection by my father, who was there for me all
of 10 years, and then one day gone. Just gone. No goodbyes. Just gone.
I was his princess! He called me his princess! But even princesses
found themselves alone and needed to be rescued at times.
I threw everything into writing, even at 14 years old.
Writing revealed my thoughts, my emotions, my dreams, my desires, my silliness, my sadness, and sorrow. Everything.
This was the world I escaped to, and lived in often, and I could not think of one person I allowed there, except
for the characters I created for the part.
I would choose not to read.
I chose to get a zero that day.
At 14 I suffered from depression but very little was known
about depression then. All I knew was that there was sadness that caused me pain, and I had to
get out of it.
There were only two ways I knew to do this.
Writing.
And drugs. I looked for anything
in the medicine cabinet labeled "Needed for pain"
I preferred writing.
But I mostly did drugs because it helped me to be more sociable.
Read my poetry to the class? No way.
On the day we had to turn ours in, Mr Kosko asked me
to come up to the front to read. I told him I didnt have a poem to read to the class. He reminded
me that it would be a failing grade if I didn't. I let him know I wrote the poem, and I placed it on
his desk, but I was going to take the failing grade. I wasn't going to read it to the class.
I went to the nurse's station and asked to lie down on
a cot, and there I cried.
A short while later, Mr Kosko came looking for me and
found me lying there, crying on the cot.
I looked at him and said "That poem I wrote? It's my
life"
He responded "I know"
For the first time in a very long time, I felt connected to someone.
Somehow, "knowing" - not just a knowing of fact, but a knowing that included understanding
- as I discovered that day on the cot, was the key to connecting.
To me, knowing with understanding, is love. Revelation,
a word of knowledge, a word spoken to my heart by someone without previous knowledge of the facts, to me this is love.
This "knowing" restores connection with the Head and unites me with the rest of the body.
This would be my pursuit. To know.
I received an A that day in Mr Kosko's class. He learned a little
about me, and I learned a bit about extended grace.
