A Lengthy Autobiographical Account of Developing Writing Boundaries
One of my first memories is the desire to know how to write. I recall scribbles in purple gel pen on scraps of pink construction paper— whose original destiny of folding and flight was redetermined— which I would distribute to my grandmother, mothers, and older brother and demand they decipher what I had written. As they guessed “Princesses are cool”, “my favorite flavor of ice cream is strawberry” and “Mema is the best” I relished in refuting every single one of their assumptions. There was mystery in codifying my thoughts onto paper, and I bathed in the beauty of redefining myself through their interpretations. My innate fascination with writing was fueled by my early discovery of its inherent power. I remember the first time that writing made me feel something negative: my brother (who is four years older than me) taped up a “No Girls Allowed (except Mum and Momom)” sign on his door. Keagan’s sign made me furious. I was compelled to develop the same skill so I could write back to him and prove that girls should be allowed in his room. So, at 4 years old, I made it my goal to learn how to write, and more importantly, write well.
Perhaps this is why, when it was time for me to write for my journalism class Junior year of high school, I refused to admit my lack of interest. I had enrolled in the class after spending three weeks at American University taking Backpack Journalism and Flash Fiction classes. My professors there had been candid, honest, and motivating. When I came up with a biased pitch for my backpack journalism video about social media censorship— they told me to rethink. When all of my writing was stuck in the awkward, reflective world of my own self-derived character, my Professor told me to write about something I loved, instead of something I hated. I was forced to engage in the recursive process of writing. By the end of my final presentations, my Flash Fiction professor told me that I had important things to say, and she believed, all of the words to say them. Entering into my journalism class, I was ready to write articulate OpEd’s and play in active role in the school’s newspaper. I had been told people needed to read my writing, and I was determined to make sure people were able to. Alas, what awaited me were several papers and reading assignments on the ethics and protocol of journalism, and as an optional homework project I could post a single article on the school blog. I found myself disappointed— this was not the type of writing I had been told I was capable of. And, even more upsetting, this was not the type of writing I had been determined to master for so long. As far as I was concerned, the writing was therefore purposeless.
Ultimately, the barrier I faced in my journalism class was a conflict with my own context, my specified self-determination of the specific skillset, and the assignments I was expected to complete. This cognitive dissonance muddled my ability to engage in the writing process. I found myself spending hours researching the topic I wanted to cover, only to end up with a page full of links. I spent so much time trying to maneuver the expectations of the class that I was paralyzed in the initial phase of the writing process: thinking, and understanding. Ultimately, I ended up failing the class because I was unable to complete any of the assignments. I had met my first boundary, and I was entirely unwilling to accept that it was my responsibility. It is important to note, that in the same year I was diagnosed with relatively severe and unmanaged ADHD. This could have played a role in my inability to complete tasks, but it doesn’t really illuminate why I couldn’t even start them. And, while learning propose a myriad of challenges in my educational career, up until then, they hadn’t challenged my ability to write.
Disenchanted by my failed journalism class, I changed my prospective career path from journalism to art therapy. Taking my focus away from English courses, I decided to enroll in AP Psychology to get a head start on my future in the same field. Unfortunately, I was met with the same boundary as I attempted to write my summer research paper: I was stuck trying to understand. I was able to turn in a paper, though it received a C- because it failed to meet many of the expectations. When I reported the grade to my parents, one of my moms apologized, because she knew how hard I worked on it. In reality, I had worked on a paper, but I hadn’t worked hard on trying to write the paper assigned. In fact, I hadn’t looked at the rubric once.
In retrospect, I realize that my inability to write what was asked of me wasn’t unique to the discipline I was writing about, but rather my engagement in the writing process across disciplines. Attending university after time off allowed me to redefine my understanding of writing. In Kenya, I saw the necessity of copy and contract writing for the NGO I was volunteering with. In Spain, I found myself engulfed in factual and informative writing in museums and churches. In France, I rediscovered my love for creative writing in the pages of Ben Lerner and Ernest Hemingway. In the Netherlands, I discovered the necessity of persuasive writing as I observed my friend’s business ventures. And when I returned, I was determined to use my newly widened perception of writing to dissolve any barriers of conceived expectations that limited my engagement in the writing process.
As a writing tutor my own experiences remain significant, helping me to understand the barriers that my peers are experiencing. Often times, I find my peers paralyzed by the same cognitive dissonance I recall from high school. This is unsurprising, as college demands that students execute specific writing tasks in a greater context of their writing experience, but leaves it to them to determine whether or not the experiences they’ve had are applicable. In these cases the support I give to my peers is deciphering what aspects of their conceived notions of writing are beneficial, and which are problematic. However, were it not for my own experiences overcoming these boundaries, I wouldn’t know to propose an intervention that targeted the same barrier. Similarly, without overcoming this boundary, the students I help would likely face the same issue across disciplines and through writing. Overall, I think my experience with writing boundaries serves to illuminate their necessity as part of the writing process. To me, it is clear that the development and absolving of these barriers are formative milestones, and help us to widen our own understanding of writing’s purpose.
