Writing About Lives

Much of my time in New York has been me sitting, reading and writing, trying to get my essays to work. Last night we had the annual reading for Our Word, a student group that supports writers of color in Columbia University’s MFA program.

I was the second on the program. Nearly 100 of my fellow students, professors, and my mother in from St. Louis, all gathered in Philosophy Hall to hear seven students read. I nervously walked to the podium and adjusted the microphone. While my Utah narratives have not quite worked in workshop, I really honed in and polished a piece about some of the difficulties I experienced as a black man living in Salt Lake City. Time and space seemed to stand still as I read. For five minutes I stood there reading, not knowing whether or not the crowd was with me. It felt like they could be. When I got to the last line of my six pages, I bowed, said thank you and it happened. Every writing failure I’ve endured in my two years melted when the crowd erupted into an explosive applause. It was the best feeling I’ve had in years, a crowning moment. Nothing else mattered – the debts incurred, the fears that an MFA in creative writing was a waste of time or that I was too old all vanished with the crowd’s response. It was indeed overwhelming.

At least a dozen people came up to congratulate me on the piece and how engaging it was.

I am so grateful to have been a part of Our Word, one of the only such groups for students of color at any MFA program in the United Staes.

Most of all, I was glad to have shared this moment with my mother.