On My Writing

I enjoy reading my own writing. Not because I think I am a fantastic writer, but because it's important for me to see my own progress (or lack thereof) and it's helpful to use my own work as a barometer of how far I've come and how far I have left to go. It also appeals to my vanity to reflect on my own writing process by, well, writing reviews on my writing. I end up either being my own worst critic, or my own biggest fan.

Awhile back, I spent some time reflecting on an essay I wrote for Columbia University. Here is the other essay I wrote the same application to Columbia. I also used this essay for my CUNY application.

I wrote about a thousand words before I decided to hit "delete" and start all over. This essay is nothing like the first draft. It's not even a massaged, edited or whittled down version of the first draft. It's a completely different essay. The prompt asked me to elaborate on what led me to journalism. I wrote about a thousand flowery words detailing my experience as an ESL student who started kindergarten with no English language skills. I rambled on with a thousand words (the limit was 750) because I had no idea where I was going. I think I was foolishly concerned with showcasing my "wounds" when I should have been showing off my talents. So, I hit the delete button and the mental reset button, took a long hard look into my heart and this is what ensued.

I was ten years old when I took the initiative of starting my own newspaper. The beat reporter in me had a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and I was certain that others wanted to know what I knew. Who brought home good grades this semester? Who was grounded? Who got the latest and greatest Astronaut Barbie doll with the movable arms?

I hand wrote each copy on to lined notebook paper with a blue pen and after seven copies, my hands got tired. I delivered my free periodical to both adults and kids. The reviews were mixed. Some laughed, some patted me on the head, some shoved the paper into their purses and thanked me. I was able to follow up my first issue with four more before the demands of my fifth grade education and my strict parents prevented me from taking Children's News to a national audience.

That was the first time my journalistic ambitions were dampened. But despite this career setback, I will always remember the invigorating feeling I got from intercepting newsworthy information and being the first to share it with people. My "job" allowed me to travel around the neighborhood to observe and engage in a way that would enhance my storytelling abilities. I developed a voice that gave me confidence as a person.

My dream of being a journalist was once again reignited when I started high school. I joined the newspaper staff and gained insight into the production of a high school newspaper. I enjoyed my position as a staff writer, but somewhere along the way, the awkward teenager in me reared its ugly head. My insecurities set in and I remember thinking that I will never have what it takes to be an interesting writer. My lack of life experience was another reminder that I would fail to be an adequate journalist and storyteller. When it came time to select a college major, I opted for English literature over my life long dream of communications and journalism. This was another sign that I had given up on a career as a journalist.

Fourteen years would pass before I was once again reminded of my childhood dream. The year I turned 30, the world was in the middle of the worst economic crisis we have ever seen, and I was working in the most volatile industry in that crisis. My pay check and job stability depended on the success of the automobile industry. I witnessed fellow co-workers lose their jobs, while the rest of us saw pay cuts that would ultimately diminish our quality of life and increase our anxieties about the future.

It was a difficult year, but it was also in this year that I realized my own self-worth through my life experiences. By the time I was 30, I had been in the automobile industry for almost ten years. My job allowed me to see the country, while a steady income afforded me the opportunities to travel to Asia, Europe and Africa. I met interesting people, tried new foods, took on new hobbies, furthered my education, experienced some disappointments and success and learned some hard lessons about human triumphs and fallacies. The economic crisis taught me to be adaptable and strong when facing turmoil and uncertainty. I also saw my country elect its first black president days before my 30th birthday.

At 30 years old, I finally had a story to tell.

Looking back, I can see why I was never really ready to be a journalist until now. I lacked maturity and experience. This is apparent in the low GPA I received in college, where the new found freedom of college life prevented me from excelling in school. Even if I had the GPA to get into the competitive communications program, it probably wouldn't have been long before I was dismissed. I see this as a blessing in disguise because I was able to major in two other subject matters that really interested me: English and Asian-American Studies. Pairing my undergraduate studies with my life experiences and a masters in journalism from CUNY would only change me into the engaging, diverse and effective journalist I had always hoped to be.