I have a new creative writing class this winter. (Because you can never take too many writing classes in my opinion.) My teacher, Maxine Gibson (she prefers to go by Max) is proving to be an awesome teacher. Every class, we have a writing prompt and write for about 15 minutes, and looking ahead to some of the assignments, they all look wonderful and are more writing prompt than writing assignment. She is also a wonderfully energetic person, and seems genuinely in love with reading and writing–poetry in particular.
I finished the piece below and showed it to Mom, and she enjoyed it so much that I knew I had to share it right away.
This piece is for our second assignment. (The first one was a letter to my teacher, which was fun to write!) For this piece, we were asked to write something about our childhood, taking into account “Who, What, and Where Am I From?” We were allowed to write it in any form–poetry, prose, journal, etc. The only stipulations were that the piece be in first person (using “I” and referring to ourselves) and be non-fiction (actually about ourselves).
I thought a piece of poetry would be fun to try, since I seldom write in this form.
Childhood–Who, Where, What Am I From?
- Who am I from? Throughout your life, other human beings have stamped their impressions on you. You have stamped your impressions on them. Your interactions, perhaps, have changed you both. Who are the people you’ve encountered who’ve built you into the person you are right now?
- Where am I from? No matter who you are, the path you’ve traveled is unique. Nobody else have put feet exactly where you have. What are the places where you have left an imprint? What are the places that have left an imprint on you?
- What are you from? What are the experiences, incidents, events that have made an impact on you? What moments–local, global, coincidental–are responsible for who you are in this moment, right here, right now? What events helped shape the person you are now?
I spent a lot of time trying to think of childhood stuff to write about. As good of a childhood as I feel I had, I had serious trouble with this. I even brainstormed with Mom for a bit. Finally, I realized that all my best childhood memories involve my mom, so why not write this piece about her? So that’s what I did.
Because of My Mom
From childhood to blooming adult,
She’s always been there for me.
Before I could walk or talk, read or write,
Through high school and prom and learning to drive.
She held my hand and gave me room to fly.
I am who I am, because of my mom.
Fond memories of peppery bookstores,
Where I was raised to appreciate the written word.
Fantasy and comic books became my world,
My favorite mental getaway.
Books bought, despite the warning, “Don’t tell your father.”
I read to this day, because of my mom.
Endless hours of Star Trek and Alien Nation.
Subjected to oldies music and “Dune.”
I remember old episodes of War of the Worlds,
Aliens in a future world with dinosaur phones.
Science fiction became my nutrition.
Far-off worlds appreciated, because of my mom.
Cartoons and super heroes, dragons and aliens,
Worlds of the impossible and the possible.
No thought, no story, was silly or far-fetched,
Not when we’re reading magic and watching ninja turtles.
I have my imagination, as well as my red hair,
All of this, because of my mom.
The fishbowl with the candle-fish and the rocks.
An impetuous and unminding child, asked,
“Are you playing in that fishbowl?”
“No,” with hands behind me and
The sound of pebble against pebble.
Brought up right, because of my mom.
A tomboy through and through,
I spent more time catching frogs than
Learning to do handstands or cartwheels.
But she always supported me,
Unless I was late for dinner.
I grew up as I wanted, because of my mom.
Being a hobo for Halloween,
That’s the costume I remember the most,
Maybe because I never stopped wearing that flannel.
Making mud pies in brand new shoes.
Selling my Barbies to buy G.I. Joes.
I became who I am, because of my mom.
Always understanding, always supportive,
Always looking for new ways to inspire.
The kindest and most genuine person I’ve ever met.
They say imitation is the best form of flattery.
There’s no one I would rather grow up to be.
I am my mom, because of my mom.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story and all related material are the original works of Awaiting the Muse and Effy J. Roan AKA Effraeti. All rights reserved.
Awaiting the Muse by Effy J. Roan AKA Effraeti is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at https://awaitingthemuse.wordpress.com/.