Angel Gonzalez ’24
My Life Was On Paper
I found my love for writing in my eighth grade English class. Three sets of desks sat in rows in the middle of the room, nearest to the chalkboard and laid out horizontally in fours. I sat next to the air conditioner. It routinely blasted cold air into my face and blew my draft papers away. Behind my desk was Ms. Spencer’s huge dark brown desk, where paperwork was strewn all over. Toward the back of the class were two light grey couches, and two fuzzy dark brown beanbags.
My feeling for writing changed on a “Free Write Thursday,” a time when the class could sit wherever they wanted. I chose to sit under my desk. I felt more comfortable on the cold, off-white square-tile floor. Most people flocked toward the beanbags and couches, while some stayed at their blue metal seats. I always felt restless in my seat. The idea of “Free Write Thursday” was to just get anything down; it didn’t matter what you wrote about as long as it meant something to you.
I was a troubled kid. I wrote a lot about loss and depression, and I’d recently lost an uncle in a car crash. My poems and stories were about that pain, and figuring out how to cope. I wanted to gain control of my thoughts. I’d write and write for twenty minutes nonstop. I wrote about religion and how confused I was about what I believed in. “If god exists, why does he make it so hard to be happy?” I’d call back to this question in all of my writing. At this point, everyone in my class knew what my writing was like. We’d take turns sharing our writing, going around the room. After someone shared, there would be a moment of silence. We were twelve, thirteen-year-old kids pouring our emotions out to each other.
I’d share my work every week, but I felt nervous about it every time. Thirty people all around me, a total of sixty eyes staring back at me. The cold room felt hot. A bead of sweat dripped down my forehead, with more collecting onto my palms. The silence was excruciatingly loud. My ears began to ring. My heart beat as fast as a drummer playing 16th notes. I’d clear my throat and begin to speak, stuttering and stammering. Slowly, I’d get up from under my desk and stand. The cold air from the air conditioner hit the hairs on the back of my neck, which were standing upward; I hadn’t even realized that I had goosebumps. I held my notebook closer to my face in order to avoid making eye contact with anyone. I was deathly afraid of speaking in front of large groups of people.
I looked around the room. My friend Brayan was standing by the teacher’s desk. He was pale, but he always looked pale. His black glasses had thick lenses and freckles dotted his face. He wore a fuzzy brown sweater and grey pants, with black and white Vans. He was five-foot two, a little taller than I was at the time. His hair was short and straight, swept to the side. He looked at me with a friendly smile, which was comforting. I felt my body relax a little. I looked towards Jacob, my best friend since kindergarten. He was sitting in a bean bag towards the back of the class. He was dark and always wore sweatpants paired with a different color plain t-shirt and multicolored basketball shoes. The reds and greens and blues were almost blinding. He was five foot four, and he had curly hair just like me. My friends welcoming stares made me feel more confident. The sweat went away, and I felt more comfortable speaking.
I spent five minutes reading the piece I’d written, about recently losing an uncle, to my class. I read to them about all the times he’d take me out in his speedy 2011 black Chevrolet Camaro. I joked about all the times he’d pick me up and throw me in the air. He was a six-foot two-inch self-proclaimed “gym rat,” so it was no issue for him to toss me up and catch me again. Everyone’s expressions went from smiling to frowning when I told the class that he died in a car crash. I ended my free write with “I don’t know where you are now, I’m not sure what I believe. I believe you’re okay now, wherever you are.” Tears ran down my face, and I was embraced in the biggest group hug I’ve ever been in. I closed my eyes. I could hear sporadic sniffling all around me. That day, I knew I was a writer.
A couple of weeks after that, I took up playing guitar. I wanted to write songs and put my thoughts out into the world for others to hear. Writing songs helped me pick myself up from the place of sadness that I was in. I could express myself in a way that made me feel better about the various situations I had to deal with growing up. In a way, writing saved my life. Using words like a puzzle and putting the pieces together kept me healthy. It helped me realize my worth as a human being. As a young kid that couldn’t do anything about the problems that my family and I had to deal with, writing and music was my distraction. It was my peace when my surroundings were chaotic. I spent eight hours a day practicing guitar after school, and I’d stay awake at night in my notebook. My life was on paper. Sometimes the words meant absolutely nothing to anyone else but me. Other times, I wrote poems about my dreams. Writing helped me realize what those dreams were. One day, I want people to understand my feelings and my thoughts through my music. I want people to know that hurting is part of the human condition. Maybe one day I’ll inspire someone else to start writing through my music, and maybe one day writing will save someone else’s life, just like it saved mine.