Personal Narrative: I Am Still Standing?

As I reflect over my life, I am inundated with memories. Memories of verbal abuse, mental abuse, and emotional abuse. Memories of not only just feeling alone but also being alone. Memories of being left on the doorsteps of the Department of Human Services along with my two younger siblings at the apex of my senior year. Memories of being voted to be on the homecoming court, memories of making the cheerleading squad. The good, the bad, the pretty, the ugly, the best of times, the worst of times –my life. As I reminisce, I question. How is it that I am still standing? How is it that I am still laughing, still loving, and still living? I smile because deep within I know the answer –I read. I write. I recite.

For as long as I can remember,

The only friends that I had were my pen and paper with whom I spent hours sharing my secrets and my sorrows. I remember how I used to be tardy almost every day taking the long way to my classes to avoid the mean comments and sneers that some of the girls incessantly spilled on me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to be friends with them; however, I was so different from everyone else. I possessed a fervent passion for reading and writing which were two suicide traits to have if I wanted to be cool at my school. So, I constantly tried to hide it from people, and I continued to drift in the background unnoticed and

when I was recruited into a poetry club called JDL (Just Don’t Lie) by my favorite English teacher. At first, I was skeptical. I loved to write, but I couldn’t see myself actually performing. I remember expressing this to her, but she simply smiled and told me that I could do it. It was her believing in me, and her showing me how powerful my words could be that finally broke the chains of silence that had once been wrapped so tightly around me. Listening to the ladies of JDL, a feeling of joy engulfed me. I had finally found of group of talented young women who wouldn’t look down on my love for writing, but would embrace it. At that moment, I no longer saw my passion for writing as a flaw, but as weapon of warfare and a force of piece. Where at one point of time I was afraid to speak, I then stood proud letting my poetry be heard loud and clear. It was through English, through my poetry, that I was able to build up not only myself, but others as