I vividly remember the first time I ever saw my father cry. I was in middle school at the time and had recently written a poem for my English class. Although I had been writing poems for quite some time, this was the first one I had ever shown anyone before, let alone read in front of the entire class. Based on George Ella Lyon’s poem, “Where I am From,” we were asked to write our own version, detailing the unique ways that we grew up and the home that we were being raised in.
At dinner, my father asked to hear what I had written, so I read it aloud after we ate. I remember my heart pounding out of my chest, the saliva in my mouth dissolving into thin air, and the temperature in my cheeks reaching a feverish temperature. When I had finished, silence filled the air, and I could only hear the loud pounding of my heart reverberating through my ears. I looked up from the printed paper my poem was typed on and looked at my dad. His eyes were red and wet with tears.
I had never seen him cry a day in my life. At first, I had no idea how to react or exactly what his tears meant. But then he broke the silence, “That was so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft and slightly cracking. For the first time, I realized that maybe my poetry had meant something, done something to someone, made someone feel enough to bring tears to their eyes. Just the thought of my writing conjuring such strong emotions in someone who had remained so stoic for most of my life felt like flying.
For as long as I can remember, I have felt deeper than those around me. Things have always mattered more to me, and I have deeply cared about things others seem to push aside or not notice. It was not until I shared my writing with people that I felt truly seen. Through their experience of reading my work, I finally felt they could truly understand me, understand the little things I cared about and why. And when I shared this poem with my father, it was one of the first moments I felt he understood me.
Poetry became my sanctuary, allowing me to express the complexities of my life more openly. Through writing, I could express the deep feelings I felt about my familial struggles, school friendships, and the small, overlooked details of daily life. This intimate connection to poetry resonates with Patrick Rosal’s notion, as discussed in the New York Times article “Poetry is Hospitable to Strangeness and Surprise,” where he highlights poetry’s capacity for observation, reflection, imagination, and discovery. These elements captivated me and drew me deeper into the world of poetry.
Even more so, in Kathleen Ossip’s article “Why All Poems Are Political,” she explores poetry’s role as a liberated realm for language and politics, raising numerous compelling questions that deeply resonated with me. She asks:
“Could it be that poetry aims to stir our consciousness of the profound yet nuanced spectrum of joy and suffering inherent in existence?”
This question encapsulates the essence of poetry for me. Poetry serves as a catalyst for awakening, urging us to perceive the world with heightened sensitivity, to acknowledge the often-overlooked nuances, and to empathize with the countless emotions swirling around us. It fosters a sense of community, connecting us with others who share our depth of perception and emotion, ultimately making people feel less alone. It was in this space (writing and sharing poetry) that I finally felt understood and seen for who I truly am: someone who deeply cares about the world around me.
As I got older and life got progressively more confusing and difficult, writing about it never felt like enough, so I buried myself in sports. For the longest time, that was the only thing I allowed myself to focus on. It was not until the pandemic that I had a chance to stop and sit in stillness. Stepping away from playing volleyball at Wake Forest University after two years allowed me the space I needed to properly reevaluate my life and what I was doing with it. Even then, it took me two years at the College of Charleston, majoring in Arts Management, before I jumped ship and declared an English major. It was not until then that I felt I had truly found my place, or at least a step in the right direction.
Reflecting back on all the schooling I had done, I quickly realized that throughout my educational career, it was the English classes and English teachers that I had loved and connected to the most. Looking around my room, I noticed my floor was covered in stacks of books, my bedside table engulfed in journals, and little notebooks were hidden around my room with short poems that popped into my mind from time to time. It was clear then which direction I was heading for the remainder of my college career and professional life.
An essential characteristic of the English discipline lies in its foundation in sensemaking, a concept introduced by Christian Madsjerg in his book “Sensemaking: The Power of the Humanities in the Age of the Algorithm.” Within this text, Madsjerg dissects various principles encapsulating the notion of sensemaking in humanities and their application in professional settings.
Of these principles, Principle 3: “The Savannah-Not the Zoo,” particularly resonated with me. Madsjerg explains that to properly understand and relay information about the human experience, you have to be a part of that human experience (16-18). Genuine understanding and insight into human nature cannot be attained merely through external observation but through personal experience. This awareness is acquired not only through the observation of others but through introspection.
When contemplating the practical applications of an English major in professional settings, I recalled a project from my 299 Intro to English Studies class where I had written an essay centered on the theme of motherhood in my favorite film, “Maquia: When the Promised Flower Blooms.” Delving into various aspects of motherhood, like love, sacrifice, and societal expectations, I researched extensively, drawing from books, personal accounts, and scholarly articles. This exploration led me to better understand the complexities of motherhood. Through this process, I gained a deeper insight into the motivations behind parenthood and the resilience required to nurture a child.
In an excerpt from “Major Decisions: College, Career, and the Case for the Humanities,” by Ramsey and Grobman, they emphasize the inherent value of intellectual, artistic, and moral pursuits, much like the essay I wrote. These projects enrich our lives, broaden our perspectives, and challenge outdated modes of thought and behavior (54-55).
Initially, I approached the essay intending to argue against the traditional notion of motherhood, questioning the extent of its role in today’s society. However, through the writing process, my perspective began to shift. While I still harbor my reservations about motherhood, my empathy and understanding of the complexities of parenthood expanded significantly.
It was through writing this essay that I tapped into the beauty and significance of what it means to be an English major and the intrinsic gifts that come out of such an experience. Through the research and composition of this essay, I learned more about the experiences of others while getting to know myself better along the way. I found, too, that when I write about things I deeply care about, much like in my early poetry days, my work is persuasive enough to change my own mind.