Beaming writer

In sixth grade, our class had a show-and-tell every week,
and every week, a small handful of students were selected to participate in the next one.
As I was selected, anxiety kicked in.
I wasn't really proud of anything.
I didn't have anything extraordinary,
like an heirloom from my ancestors that was passed down to me
or an art piece that I made out of clay and acrylic paint.
Maybe they'd make an exception to the "no pets" rule for my cat,
but then I saw my name in the paper.
It was a poem I had submitted to Young Writers Project
and I didn't expect anything to come of it,
but something did. I was out there in dark ink, my thoughts immortalized.
I was eleven years old then, fragile, and I held up the flimsy paper proudly
for the whole class to see what I had created. My teacher beamed.
She had read my writing before, stories that faded with time, but this was stained.
My mother perfectly cut a square in the paper, careful not to clip the outer letters,
leaving space for the eye to pause before each line,
and she placed the clipping in a silver frame on the living room coffee table.
It was the first time I felt real pride in my writing.
I was eleven then and I am nineteen now. For eight years, I've grown.
Though my hair is a different color, different style, and my legs are longer,
I beam with pride at times, though words aren't perfect.
I am still my biggest critic, adding and deleting entire pages,
revising, rewriting, redrawing, redoing everything over and over.
But I am now majoring in English literature, looking to study creative writing,
and hoping to be a part of the influence words have on young people like myself.
This community has urged and inspired me to explore what that means to me.
For that, I remain loyal. I continue to scroll through, even when I don't feel young anymore.
In the younger writers, the ones who beam with pride, I see me,
and I beam too.

Rovva

QC

YWP Alumni

More by Rovva

  • Eleven Years

    For eleven years, I've been a part of the YWP community. I started when I was 11 years old and I went by my old name back then. I used to publish my work here all the time, but much of my publishing has now moved to my university.

  • A Nine-Year Journey

    For nine years, I've been a part of YWP and for nine years, I've felt seen by this community. Even as I've grown up, I've watched new young writers come and share their thoughts, emotions, and stories.
  • Love And Embalming

    They carried you away in a black hearse.
    Our black eyes,
    beaten and bruised by love,
    caressed your black coffin.
    They opened your casket and there you were,
    your eyes closed,
    relaxed and so cold,
    and yet you seemed so alive.