My First Time

Baby Girl had her poetry reading last night (she won a contest). She marched up in front of a ROOM full (big room full) of adults, some students, teachers, etc., all but a handful of whom were strangers, to read her poetry. And she was shorter than the lectern. Literally. She stood behind it and there was no part of her--not even the tip-top of her head--visible. She stood on tiptoes, they lowered the microphone. I could see the top of her hair and her forehead. It actually highlighted how tiny and young she is. And she read her poem with confidence she didn't feel (she said she was nervous) and drew huge applause.

When she made it back to me, of course I told her how well she did--she really was wonderful. How proud I was and am. And then . . . I said, "You should be a poet when you grow up. No one really aspires to that anymore." "What kind of job could I have?" "You could be a college professor and write poetry." We talked about that for a while. Then I said, as I often do, "You should follow your heart and not worry about money. Do what makes you happy." And we moved on.

But I started thinking about her big night in light of this post that Stephen Parrish directed me to. That first time you realize your gift with words is a gift.

I wrote a lot of short stories as a child. They were usually about mice for whatever reason. Mice with complex family relationships who lived in libraries. Mice that were not python food (I really, REALLY hate Oldest Son's snake). And much as I loved writing them and reading them aloud to my poor unsuspecting grandparents and parents . . . I didn't think it was a gift.

Until 7th grade. Now to be utterly clear, I had a 7th-grade English teacher who was . . . I am sorry to say it . . . like a caricature of the unmarried spinster. I don't want to publicly skewer this woman, though I presume she is long deceased. But wrap your minds around a really, really plain woman with long frizzy hair piled high on her head. And she would assign us essays. The most amazing thing was . . . sometimes she said, "They don't have to be true." Like the ol' "What I Did on Summer Vacation" one they trot out every year? She said, "It doesn't have to be true." So I made up a story about how I spent it in a government experiment about underwater colonization. She read mine aloud.

I can still remember the angry reactions I got from classmates. "That couldn't have happened!" "Well, she said it didn't have to be true!" And then some in the class thought it was amazing and fun and how did I think of it. I had a lot of details about how our colony worked, where it was located--I even had a moment of crisis written in there about when it appeared that our glassed-in colony had a leak.

From there, we as a class went on to other stories and essays. And it kind of got to be routine that she read mine aloud. And finally, at some point toward the end of the year, my teacher pulled me aside and said, "Have you ever thought about being a writer?" And for whatever reason, I hadn't. I had wanted to be a doctor or a vet. But I hadn't thought about spinning my stories for a wider audience. I thought about it . . . making up stuff for a living. I tucked it away in my head.

Years went by. This movie came out. That seemed like an important job. It combined writing skills with saving the world! (Important music crescendo please.) But after I went to college, I discovered a case of terminal shyness and more importantly, the sense that I didn't really want to PRY (unfailingly polite) was going to doom that career. I just didn't want to butt into other people's business. So my best friend from college went on to journalism, and I became a book editor. Just the perfect job for a woman who preferred to be left in a cubicle with manuscripts for company.

But in my head . . . I never forgot that 7th-grade teacher. And I kept writing stuff that wasn't true. Fast forward . . . here I am.

Yes. Here I am . . . On a poetry night with Baby Girl. And I can SEE she has something. I can see it when she wakes up first thing in the morning, goes to her poetry notebook, scratches out one word ("It's not quite right, Mom . . . it throws off the rhythm.") for another BETTER word. I see it.

I think last night was an important night. I hope she remembers it always. What it felt to stand at a microphone behind a lectern taller than she was, in her brand-new outfit for the occasion, with her big sister's borrowed necklace, and read HER poem.

What was your first time?