Letter From the Editor Write a letter to your "Dear Readers." This should fit onto one page including your signature. After a simple welcome statement, include what this is, something like "Welcome to my portfolio. This includes the most recent revisions of three of my creative nonfiction essays [list titles]." You can explain a little bit about the essays. In a new paragraph, discuss your design choices. Conclude with how you feel about the final product and wish your readers an enjoyable experience. To see examples of this genre of writing, you can find these Letters from the Editor in just about any magazine or journal.
Table of Contents Pro tip, do this piece last so that you don't have to redo it every time something shifts your pages. Leave a blank page to add it, THEN number your pages, THEN put the table of contents on that blank page.
Wrap Essay #1: Draft Weirdest Place in Time and Space Summer 2020 To understand the weirdest place I’ve ever been, it is important to understand what led up to that moment. The summer of 2020 was the year a Black man named George Floyd was murdered by a cop who needlessly pressed his knee into George’s neck for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. This came on the cusp of two other senseless murders of Black Americans, Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Abrey. Breonna was sleeping when police kicked through her door and fired 32 rounds, killing her with 6 while Ahmaud was jogging through his neighborhood when two white men jumped in their pickup trucks, ran him down, and shot him dead in the street in broad daylight. At the same time there was a pandemic coursing through the air as if on a mission to wipe out all of humanity with a single breath. For a moment the world fell silent and once busy streets paid ode Chernobyl. We were all locked away in our homes, grasping our phones, so that when the video began to circulate, there was no place to go. “Mama, mama, mama,” were among the only words George could muster knowing they’d be his last. Cries that pierced ears and gripped hearts. Then, as if all at once, the video ended, lungs began to swell, and the exhale came out in a scream so loud it shook the earth off its axle. The result was the largest civil rights protest in world history. As someone who has heard the calling to be a social worker, I went out every single day. Yes, that included the first few days that turned into nights when the protesters were lighting the world on fire. No, I did not participate in any destruction but I think it was important to be present to witness what happens when a series of events has turned up the heat high on the frying pan and an entire race that has been iced out of justice finally meets. I witnessed sorrow, anger, love, rage, peace, anarchy, testimony, community, opposition, and fellowship across all race,
ethnicity, age, gender, and sexual orientation met with swat teams and military fully geared for war. All four corners of the world were in combat with systemic oppression. By the end of that summer despair had taken root and was thriving in what had become the cavern that was my soul. I am diagnosed with bipolar 2 and also consider myself an empath which means that sometimes my mind gets overrun by emotions. A feeling I like to call “the static.” It’s like when you turn on the TV and all you can see is the white and black squiggly lines. The static white noise hits you like a screaming banshee and you clammer for the remote to turn it down or change the channel… but you can’t. With fall semester just around the corner, I did not want to take that dark neurosis into school with me. Therefore, as I have done in the past when I feel out of control of my emotions, I jumped in the car, downloaded an audiobook, and drove. Sometimes I know where I will end up, sometimes I don’t. I find this to be a helpful way to reset and usually spend time meta thinking. It reminds me that I am just this little particle in a vast galaxy and my problems are even smaller and temporary. I had never been north so I decided to check in with my friend who lives in Minneapolis. My thinking in making that my first destination was that she was someone I could call on a whim and inform that I will be staying a few days. The fact that that particular city was where George Floyd was murdered and was therefore the epicenter from which all of my emotions were tied was really more of an afterthought. When I reached my destination I immediately instructed my friend that I would like to see the George Floyd memorial but the moment we got back in the car she was to stop me from any further mention of my feelings or involvement in the Black Lives Matter summer. At the time, it was all I could think of, speak of, or feel and this was my way of redirecting the traffic in my brain. That being said, I also felt it was an important place to be, like making a pilgrimage to Mecca for a social worker whose focus is based in racial injustice. The George Floyd Memorial In social work we talk about “creative play” during a social movement in which art, in all its forms, is used to get a point across. It is meant to create emotional and visceral
breakthroughs. That is what happens at George Floyd memorial. There were about five blocks closed off and filled with art, poetry, and murals. At every point of entrance volunteers stand by asking those who enter to dawn a mask, sanitize, and offer water. At each entrance, there were the names of all the people of color who lost their lives to police violence like bodies stacked on top of each other on the pavement leading up to the center. Names that took up the entire length of all four blocks and continued on each side of a crossroads where a towering bronze fist stood, rusted. It seemed to not only represent the skin of those who lay before it but centuries it has been hoisted in air in the face of injustice. The silence in the midst of a bustling city was deafening and you could feel the trauma in the air. So thick you could hardly breathe. At the curb where it feels as though I had visited so many times and yet a place where I had never stood before was a giant mural of George’s face. It looked as though the mass collection of candles, teddy bears, flowers, and trinkets that laid below became the lungs that kept his memory alive. As if to say it was here that he died but it is here that he will live on forever. At each turn there was something different memorializing the moment and the movement. It was eerily quiet but never had I heard the voices of the many who lost their lives to the blue more loudly. My insides screamed as my face wept. It was beautiful, tragic, calm, fierce, quiet, and loud. Time was frozen in amber on May 25th, 2020. The Weird Place Following that day and upon my friend’s suggestion, I drove to Keyston, South Dakota. Sounded like a good idea as I had it in my head that I wanted to get lost in nature at some point and surrounding Mount Rushmore is a vast national park.I spent all day driving. By the time I pulled into my hotel (which I paid extra money for to have a view of the monument from my room. They failed to mention you needed binoculars) it was dark and I was exhausted so I went straight in and passed out. The next morning is when things started getting weird. As I walked towards my car, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flag I know all too well and does not in the least bring me
comfort. I looked over to find a merch trailer draped in alt-right, Trump super fan merchandise, which included a big blue Trump flag. It was as if in slow motion my head started to pivot and I realized I was surrounded by big brawny guys and gals on a loud Harley’s dawning American flags and red hats. One of the flags on the trailer read “LGBT” but the images above each were as follows: L - the Statue of Liberty, G - an assault rifle, B - a beer mug, T - Trump’s profile. At that moment I remembered I was wearing a Black Lives Matter mask and I generally look pretty queer so I feel it was safe to tell toto that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Suddenly the world was bright and vibrant with red hats, white people, and blue lines. I ripped the mask off and ran to the car. My plan from there was to get coffee, stop by Mount Rushmore for a quick peek, then find a peaceful trail to unplug. The one coffee shop I found on my way was very small. I stepped inside and it was as if I stepped into the only place on earth that did not know there was a raging pandemic. I was the only one wearing a mask and each person was so close I imagine everyone could feel the hot breath of the person behind them on their neck. In my attempt to find even the slightest bit of social distancing I would zig and zag away from the line but to no avail. That’s when I felt the sear of judgemental eyes coming from behind. I turned around to see the typical American dad type with his jorts, white tube socks, and sandals with arms folded, glaring me down. I was so relieved to get out when the barista called my name. From there I went to see Mount Rushmore. It was packed with Trump supporters, people who clearly didn’t believe in covid, and a slew of bikers. Considering how I spent, not just the day before, or the whole summer, but the last four to five years protesting and fighting against the same man that the people surrounding me all but praised on an altar, I truly felt as if I was in a sort of survival mode. I moved through the crowd like a pro-baller, bobbing and weaving through a field of self professed “patriots.” Once at the front, I took a moment to admire Mount Rushmore in all its glory. As I snapped a few pictures I was snapped out of my admiration by a man who yelled out with great conviction that by this time next year we would all be able to
come and admire our greatest President, Donald Trump. A moment that brought me right back to reality and sent me screeching out of there. To be fair, at no point did I actually feel my life was in danger but given the climate of differences today, I had never felt so vividly and weirdly out of place. I have been blown up by two IED’s in Iraq. Over the summer I was at one point threatened by an officer who whipped his baton at me and charged at me for filming an arrest. At another point I was the line that stood between a mob crushing in on another officer. I grew up in a city that glorified the “thug life” and was in several situations I am pretty should not have made it out of. So by no means am I a stranger to dangerous situations but we live in a weird time and I was in a weird place. More to the point, I was alone. A solo traveler that landed in uncharted territory. Not only did I understand that the people around me felt as passionately against my core beliefs as I did theirs but I was wearing a mask, which was a clear statement against their red hats.
Wrap Essay #1: Revision Weirdest Place in Time and Space
Wrap Essay #1: Reflection Write a 1-2 page reflection on the choices that you made in revising the essay. Include references to the feedback that you got from peers and from me (comments on the Canvas document). What specific feedback helped you see how readers were responding to what you wrote? Did anything surprise you in the feedback? Think of this as a sort of autobiography of your essay from the idea stage, through all of the steps, and to your current revision.
Wrap Essay #2: Draft Papaw My papaw was the smartest, kindest, most gentle soul I have ever known. A true southern gentleman whose voice was warm and kind and sometimes strong and stern when (he needed to be) but never in a way that sounded angry. No matter the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like love. J.D. O’Donnell was a small town pastor who came from a long line of pastors. Not just any small town pastor though. Born just at the end of the Great Depression, he grew up and became a college graduate who later helped build and establish a college for the Freewill Baptists. He knew how to fly plains, could build anything by hand, wrote and published books, and worked on crossword puzzles until the day he died so his mind would stay sharp. Education was everything to him. As a little girl, I lived with my grandparents. Looking back, these were the best times of childhood. My papaw adored me. He always wanted a little girl but had only boys with his previous wife. As a pastor, his schedule allowed him to always be available which meant there was always time for me. We’d play outside at the park or in the tree house he built for me. On Sunday evenings after the sermons, church luncheons, and other general pastor business was through, he would let me sit on his lap to read the newspaper’s Sunday cartoon strips. They were the best because on Sunday the cartoons were several pages and in color. I would nestle up in his lap in my PJ’s and he would read them to me in fun and silly cartoon voices. He’d do lady voices, deep manly voices, or goofy voices. He was never too tough to be silly. In fact, he’d try anything to hear me giggle. Sometimes we’d be in the kitchen and he’d bump me with hips while saying “move along little dog, big dog is coming in.” Or he’d come into a room doing a silly dance singing “heeey good lookin, whatcha got cookin? How’s about cookin somethin good for meee.” I didn’t know much about music beyond church gospel and bluegrass but we’d dance and sing-along to Roger Miller albums, which if you're unfamiliar, was a genre of
funny classic country. The one and only time I remember getting in trouble with him was when I negotiated myself into a whoopin, though I am told it was anything but. My granny said he was actually hitting his hand for sound effects. So the story goes that it’s late at night, I’ve already had my bath, and I’m in the kitchen in my nightgown. I saw that he had buttermilk which I was convinced would taste sweet and delicious and I wanted it. Not just a taste but a whole glass. Obviously he tried to talk me out of it but I, at probably 4 or 5 years old, knew best. The negotiation went as follows: Papaw: Chrissy, buttermilk doesn’t taste the way you think it tastes. How about you try a little before we waste a whole glass full. Me (the all knowing toddler): No papaw. I want a full glass. Papaw: Now Chrissy, if I pour you a whole glass, you're not gonna like it and we’re gonna have to throw it out. Me: I don’t believe you. I want a full glass. Papaw: Ok. I’ll pour you a glass BUT if you don’t drink it all you’re gonna get a whoopin. Do you still want a whole glass? Me: yep! Papaw: You’re sure? Me: Yep. (But this time with excitement having won… or so I thought) Papaw: **pours full glass** Me: **Takes one sip, instantly starts crying** I DON’T WANT A SPANKING!! Papaw: I told you but you made a deal. Even though I lost that battle, I don’t remember feeling like I had angered him. He never had to raise his voice to get his point across. Instead he would explain to me what I had done wrong and why it was wrong. His tone was more of the, I’m not mad but I’m disappointed, type which was WAY more effective. Disappointing Papaw was the ultimate devastation.
One of his final and greatest acts of kindness and unconditional love was when I finally decided to come out to my grandparents. I was trembling as I picked up the phone. My granny answered the and the words clumsily stumbled out of my mouth. Voice cracking, nearly choking on the fear in my throat that was holding back tears. I could hear the hesitancy in her response when she asked “are you sure?” “Yes Granny, I’m sure” I answered. I’m not sure how we hung but I remember feeling unsure of what was going to come next. Just a few minutes later she called me back to give their official response. According to her, she had immediately turned to Papaw and repeated what she had just heard. She said that without missing a beat he told her that they were to continue to love me unconditionally and not to make a fuss. I never actually heard him speak directly to me on the issue but the love in his voice when speaking to me never faltered.
Wrap Essay #2: Revision Papaw My papaw was the smartest, kindest, most gentle soul I have ever known. A true southern gentleman whose voice was warm and kind and sometimes strong and stern when (he needed to be) but never in a way that sounded angry. No matter the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like love. J.D. O’Donnell was a small town pastor who came from a long line of pastors. Born in 1929, he was a product of the Great Depression. But that didn’t stop him from becoming a college graduate at University of Alabama. He later helped build and establish a college for the Freewill Baptists. He knew how to fly planes (even survived a small plane crash), could build anything by hand, wrote and published books, and worked on crossword puzzles until the day he died so his mind would stay sharp. Education was everything to him. As a little girl I lived with my grandparents. Looking back, these were the best times of childhood. My papaw adored me. He always wanted a little girl but had only boys with his previous wife. Working as a small town pastor meant that he could spend almost all his time with me. We’d play outside at the park or in the tree house he built for me. On Sunday evenings after the sermons, church luncheons, and other general pastor business was through, he would let me sit on his lap to read the newspaper’s Sunday cartoon strips. They were the best because on Sunday the cartoons were several pages and in color. I would nestle up in his lap in my PJ’s and he would read them to me in fun and silly cartoon voices. From fancy lady voices to deep manly voices, or goofy voices, anything to make me giggle. He was never afraid to be loving and silly, unlike many men from his generation. Sometimes we’d be in the kitchen and he’d bump me with hips while saying “move along little dog, big dog is coming in.” Or he’d come into a room doing a silly dance singing “Say heeey good lookin’, “whatcha got cookin’? “How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with meee.” I didn’t know much about music beyond church gospel and bluegrass but we’d dance and sing-
along to Roger Miller albums. Roger Miller had this silly, fun, but classic honky tonk style to his music. To this day, I can hear our favorite tunes and I’m pulled back to those moments in the kitchen with my papaw. The one and only time I remember getting in trouble with him was when I negotiated myself into a whoopin. Granny later said he was actually just hitting his hand for sound effects but my little feelings were bruised. I remember it like it was yesterday but Granny also reminds me every time I go for a visit. I’d already had my bath and I was standing in the kitchen in my nightgown with my hair still wet. I saw that he had buttermilk which I was convinced would taste sweet and delicious and I wanted it. Not just a taste; a whole glass. Obviously he tried to talk me out of it but I – at probably 4 or 5 years old – knew best. “Chrissy,” Pawpaw had told me. “Buttermilk doesn’t taste the way you think it tastes. How about you try a little before we waste a whole glass full?”. I, being the all knowing toddler, said “No papaw. I want a full glass.” “Now Chrissy, if I pour you a whole glass, you're not gonna like it and we’re gonna have to throw it out.” “I don’t believe you. I want a full glass.” “Ok,” he finally said.. “I’ll pour you a glass BUT if you don’t drink it all you’re gonna get a whoopin’. Do you still want a whole glass?” “Yep!” “You’re sure?” He asked again. “Yep.” My excitement had finally won...or so I had thought. Papaw poured me a full glass of thick buttermilk. I took one sip and instantly cried out: “I DON’T WANT A SPANKING!!” Papaw just said, “I told you. You made a deal.” Even though I lost that battle, I don’t remember feeling like I had angered him. He never
had to raise his voice to get his point across. Instead he would explain to me what I had done wrong and why it was wrong. His tone was more of the, I’m not mad but I’m disappointed, type which was WAY more effective. Disappointing Papaw was the ultimate devastation. One of his final and greatest acts of kindness and unconditional love was when I finally decided to come out to my grandparents. I was trembling as I picked up the phone. My granny answered the and the words clumsily stumbled out of my mouth. Voice cracking, nearly choking on the fear in my throat that was holding back tears. I could hear the hesitancy in her response when she asked “Are you sure?” “Yes Granny, I’m sure” I answered. I’m not sure how we hung but I remember feeling unsure of what was going to come next. Just a few minutes later she called me back to give their official response. According to her, she had immediately turned to Papaw and repeated what she had just heard. She said that without missing a beat he told her that they were to continue to love me unconditionally and not to make a fuss. I never actually heard him speak directly to me on the issue but the love in his voice when speaking to me never faltered.
Wrap Essay #2: Reflection “Papaw” the Reflection In my creative nonfiction writing class, my instructor, Beth Eakman, asked us to think of what it would be like to write in someone else’s voice. I was raised in the South so there are many voices that played back in my mind as caricatures of rednecks or southern belles from Alabama but I found myself struggling to capture that essence enough to write a story about them. In order to write, I have to have a strong emotional connection to the topic which made this concept a learning experience because I had to tap into someone else through my emotions. Which is how writing about my papaw came to be. I lived with my grandparents as a young girl and Papaw made a major imprint on who I am today. He passed away about eight years ago so I found myself having to dig deep into my memories of him to create his essence in my writing. By reading the comments provided on Canvas by one of my peers, Carolynn Dunn, I realized I have become accustomed to writing in an academic style that doesn’t necessarily belong in creative nonfiction writing. Much of her feedback was very positive about how I used a southern style dialect to pull the reader into my story but she also pointed out that there were times when I switched back into academic mode. So as I revised “Papaw,” I really tried to pull back on how I’ve been trained to write scholarly pieces of writing and just write as if I were having a conversation with family. She also gave me advice on how to recreate the conversation between me and Papaw about the buttermilk. Originally, it was written in what she described as texting style which she felt took her out of the story as the reader. So she suggested I edit it to look more like a conversation which I completely agreed with. With her help, I was really able to make that conversation flow naturally. Part of her feedback that I found surprising was how connected she felt to him as a person. When we were talking through our workshop, she really emphasized how well he
comes across through my writing. I realize that this feedback was the assignment but this was my first time writing this way and of all my pieces over the semester, this one really came through as my best work. It is also important to note that I was nervous about closing out the essay with my coming out story and his response. I asked my professor for feedback on that part in particular, partly because she regularly reminded me that I don’t have to “bleed out” onto everything I write, and I was worried that’s how I was wrapping up a story that felt more lighthearted. But, as it turned out, that part became both her favorite part and Carolynn’s.
Workshop Essay #3: Prewriting 10 Aha Moments 1. The moment I realized my power to set boundaries. Mom’s crazy voicemail & abusive language was deletable. 2. The moment I started to realize I didn’t believe in the war I was fighting. 3. The time I felt I could've died and the last words I said to my dad were very angry. 4. The time I realized I wasn’t an imposter but more of a perfectionist. My mom’s words instantly had less power over me. Now tell it with a different narrative technique I’m gonna tell the story of the aha moments that could’ve saved younger me. ●
To queer young me in a strong Southern Baptist and strong conservative home
●
To young conservative me who follows blindly from a liberal atheist me. Believe those gut feelings that you felt conflicted about.
●
To young me that doubted your intelligence.
Wrap Essay #3: Draft It Gets Better: Inspiration for My Younger Self Dear Chrissy, This letter is coming to you from an older version of yourself, or should I say ourself? We’ve somehow made it to 38 years old which, I know, is far beyond our imagination. Don’t freak out. This is real. I can’t say everything is fine because the world is going through some pretty crazy stuff but we are thriving. In fact, you, my darling little self, have developed into a fascinating, strong, independent, smart, and successful badass. So let me clear up a few things that might seem super scary because I promise, it is those things that make you incredible. Right now you are starting to understand a little thing called boundaries. You don’t know exactly what that is or that you’re doing it but it’s the limits we set with other people. It may not seem like it now but we get really good at setting these boundaries, communicating when they’re broken, and realizing when a relationship has gone from fruitful to toxic and therefore must be let go. Unfortunately some of the people you care about the most are some of the most harmful. You will give them more than enough chances to figure out how to treat you better, and that’s gonna hurt, but each time you grow stronger. From this you learn to always respond with love. Responding with love doesn’t make you weak. In fact, it takes A LOT of strength to respond with love. Now, when someone says or does something in anger or to hurt you or make you feel bad about who you are, we have learned to walk away, put the phone down, delete that voicemail, not open that text. Whatever it takes to not let whatever negativity is being thrown at you that is intended to cause you harm. Sometimes that means meditating, doing breathwork, not responding until you have fully processed a rational response, or even not responding at all. The thing that will be most gained by this isn’t how to show others love but how to love yourself. It’s also super disarming because they’re trying to drag you into whatever mess they’re going through but it’s not your responsibility to justify someone else’s emotional breakdown. Learning that last part is a game changer so start now!
Another thing you are going to learn through boundaries is that you are not responsible for how other people feel about you. The reason this becomes a vital part of your life is because right now you are terrified about something you know deep down you can’t change. Let me explain. You’re gay. Right now you still believe in God (sorry, that changes but that’s a whole conversation you’re not ready for) so trust me when I say that you have just been built this way. You’ve been this way your whole life and we’ll try the pray the gay away thing a few times but it doesn't work that way. Looking back, the world around us wasn’t ready to understand what that means but loving someone is never wrong. A time is coming when you realize that in order to become who you are meant to be, ya gotta get outta Houston. Go with that! It is the best decision you will ever make. To clarify, you’re gonna join the army and everyone around you is gonna be super proud that you’re off defending your country. But while they’re all distracted by your service, by being away from them you’re able to start thinking for yourself and listening to your heart. A girl is gonna come along and when you’re with her you’ll feel elated. Like nothing you’ve ever felt and suddenly you’ll realize that this was what was missing when you dated boys. It’s magical. Like putting glasses on for the first time. You know what love is but you’ve never known it like this. Quick notes: 1. Mom and Granny come to visit and stay with you and your girlfriend. Mom knows. Just tell her. She’s not the same person we knew growing up and she actually does love you unconditionally. Not having that conversation becomes one of your biggest regrets. 2. Have fun. Fall in love. But she’s your first, not your forever. 3. U-Hauling is an accurate lesbian cliche and… it is NEEEVVVEEERR a good idea. The thing is that accepting that part of yourself takes time is tough but it becomes one of your most beautiful qualities. You learn to cherish it and protect it at all costs. You even learn to celebrate it and Pride takes on a whole new meaning. Turns out the people who taught you to hate that part of yourself and threaten eternal damnation, are actually the ones missing the point
of God’s everlasting love. God made you in his image, you have been perfectly made, and there’s not actually a single verse in the Bible that justifies believing otherwise. Some will turn their backs on you but remember those boundaries. You’re not responsible for people who choose hate instead of love. As for life at 38, I just want you to know that you end up in college and you absolutely love learning. In fact, it’s a great school and only two semesters away from graduating with a bachelor's degree. Turns out all the tough stuff you deal with puts you far beyond the other students. Life throws you through several loops but they are molding you, strengthening you, and driving you to your calling in life. So don’t avoid those tough situations. Embrace them. Keep listening to that little voice that questions everything you’ve ever been taught. It’s there for a reason. Set those boundaries with mom and protect your heart but love her relentlessly because she needs it more than most. You’ll understand her later. Do whatever it takes to get Danny out of Houston. Maybe our stories are inevitable but if you don’t try to redirect his, your heart will break in ways you never knew possible. That last part is pretty unnerving, I know. Just know that even if the story stays the same, you turn out ok. So, if nothing else I’ve said stays with you, please just remember that it all gets better.
Wrap Essay #3: Revision It Gets Better: A Letter to my Younger Self Dear Chrissy, This letter is coming to you from an older version of yourself, or should I say ourself? Don’t freak out. This is real. I can’t say everything is fine because the world is going through some pretty crazy stuff but we are thriving. In fact, you, my darling little self, have developed into a fascinating, strong, independent, smart, and successful badass. So let me clear up a few things that might seem super scary because I promise, it is those things that make you incredible. Right now you are 11years old, sitting in your room watching the first episode of Friends. You were just flipping through the channels when someone you’ve never seen before ran onto the screen soaking wet in a wedding gown catches your attention. Her name on the show is Rachel but her real name is Jennifer Aniston and something about the feeling you get when you see her. It’s exhilarating! I should probably remind you to breathe. I remember losing track of that for a minute. So take a deep one and listen up. What I am about to tell you is gonna seem really scary right now it won’t be forever. The thing is that you are gay. All those posters of JTT, Devon Sawa, and Rider Strong don’t really take your breath away like Rachel. Sure, they’re good looking. Just because you’re a lesbian, doesn’t mean you don’t see pretty people that aren’t women. And honestly, looking back at those guys… they were all attractive… in a sort of lesbian way, ha! Look, everything you’ve been taught has made you think that homosexuals are demons bound to hell for enternity but that’s just a way for religion to control society. Right now you still believe in God (sorry, that changes but that’s a whole conversation you’re not ready for) but trust me when I say that you have just been built this way. You’ve been this way your whole life. Remember Mrs. Carro in 2nd grade? You couldn’t even talk to her because she was hot and she reminded the sexy temptress in Dirty Dancing. Yeah… that part hasn’t gotten better. I still
lose track of my words around pretty women and one time I fully ran into a door frame like a cartoon character at the library because there was a pretty girl in the room. I don’t know, maybe if you get a grip on this gay thing sooner, you’ll have more time to figure it out by the time you get to 2021. Oh, and you’ll try the “pray the gay away” thing a few times but it doesn't work that way. Being a baby gay in the 90’s is tough all around though. The world around you just isn’t ready to understand what that means but loving someone is never wrong. A time is coming when you realize that in order to become who you are meant to be, ya gotta get outta Houston. Go with that! It is the best decision you will ever make. To clarify, you’re gonna join the army and everyone around you is gonna be super proud that you’re off defending your country. But while they’re all distracted by your service, by being away from them, you’re able to start thinking for yourself and listening to your heart. A girl is gonna come along and when you’re with her you’ll feel like she hung the moon and stars. Suddenly you’ll realize that this was what was missing when you dated boys. It’s magical. Like putting glasses on for the first time. You know what love is but you’ve never known it like this. Quick notes: 1. Mom and Granny come to visit and stay with you and your girlfriend. Mom knows. Just tell her. She’s not the same person we knew growing up and she actually does love you unconditionally. Not having that conversation is my biggest regret. 2. Have fun. Fall in love. But that girl is your first love, not your last. (Trust me when I say we dodged a bullet with that one, oof.) 3. U-Hauling is an accurate lesbian cliche and… it is NEEEVVVEEERR a good idea.
The thing is that accepting that part of yourself that feels the way you do about women takes time and there will be times when you wished you were “normal” but it becomes one of your most beautiful qualities. You learn to be true to yourself at all costs. You even learn to celebrate it and Pride takes on a whole new meaning. Turns out the people who taught you to
hate that part of yourself and threaten eternal damnation, are actually the ones missing the point of God’s everlasting love. God made you in his image, you have been perfectly made, and there’s not actually a single verse in the Bible that justifies believing otherwise. Some will turn their backs on you but remember those boundaries. You’re not responsible for people who choose hate instead of love. As for life at 38, I just want you to know that you end up in college and you absolutely love learning. In fact, it’s a great school and only two semesters away from graduating with a bachelor's degree. Turns out all the tough stuff you deal with puts you far beyond the other students. Life throws you through several loops but they are molding you, strengthening you, and driving you to your calling in life. So don’t avoid those tough situations. Embrace them. Keep listening to that little voice that questions everything you’ve ever been taught. It’s there for a reason. Set those boundaries with mom and protect your heart, but love her relentlessly because she needs it more than most. You’ll understand her later. Do whatever it takes to get Danny out of Houston. You don’t know who that is yet but, man, you’re gonna love him with every fiber in your being. Maybe our stories are inevitable but if you don’t try to redirect his, your heart will break in ways you never knew were possible. That last part is pretty unnerving, I know. Just know that even if the story stays the same, you turn out ok. So, if nothing else I’ve said stays with you, please just remember that it all gets better.
Wrap Essay #3: Reflection The essay “It Gets Better: A Letter to my Younger Self” came from a prompt we were given to write about our most “aha” moments and then we were told to write using an unusual narrative technique. Considering that I’m about as close to 40 as most college kids in my class are to high school graduation, this prompt could have led me down a rabbit hole. So I wrote briefly about my top 3 and what stood out the most was growing up queer in a Southern Baptist home in the 80’s / 90’s. It is quite possible that some of my other moments wouldn’t have been such a big deal had I been able to process my sexuality without being threatened with eternal damnation. I still struggled with how to write about this in a way that used a unique narrative technique so I asked to meet with my professor. We tossed around several ideas but then she asked if I had seen the “It Gets Better” campaign videos where celebrities talk back to their younger selves and talk about how life gets better. That was it. So I started typing away. I talked to that scared younger version of myself who had to overcome much more than just being gay. As I wrote I realized that there was so much I wanted to tell little me that went beyond being and yet I wasn’t sure how detailed I wanted to be because I knew other people were gonna read this letter. I also was trying to keep it tight because I could’ve gone on for pages. And, as soon as I started writing this letter I realized I didn’t know which point of view to write in which felt really confusing to write but I figured my classmate, Carolynn Dunn, would help me when she read it. I was right. Carolynn advised me that the point of view was in fact hard to follow but that as the writer, the point of view was actually a creative decision but that I should pick one and stick to it. Another critique that came from both her and my professor was that the “It Gets Better” stories usually focus on one point in that person's life. Which I was confusing to a reader who doesn’t know my life story. When I revised this essay it felt much more comfortable writing in the 2nd person when I
talked directly to her but I still switched to the 1st person when I talked about my life in this current moment. It made the writing a lot easier and more natural feeling compared to how I wrote before. Honestly, I struggled choosing a single point in my life when I was young that was a pivotal enough moment to tell younger self I was gay. It wasn’t just one moment for me. In fact it was a slow and developing process from a pre-teen to 23 and even then I wasn’t quite settled on the idea. But I can remember the first time I saw Jennifer Aniston like it was yesterday and that was probably the first time something clicked that I was different. So I really tried to zone in on that moment and talk to myself at 11 years old. I didn’t really understand what was different about me but it sticks out. A piece of positive feedback that I got that I found helpful in my revision was about the bulleted revelations. Carolynn said she appreciated them because they were clearly moments that needed more explanation but that a letter just doesn’t allow enough time to develop those moments. I decided to leave them in my letter even though I was more focused on that moment with Jennifer Aniston because they were pivotal to my coming out story. I also decided to leave in the end paragraph that talks about my life now because there are certain things that happen in my life that hadn’t happened yet but had major impacts on my life. There’s just no way I wouldn’t have written that in a letter to myself, even though I cut out some of the advice earlier in the first draft essay to focus on a single moment.
Semester Reflection write a reflection on your writing over the course of the semester. Look at the evolution of your writing, editing, revising--both process and product--and consider what has changed. What inspired these changes? Consider the readings, class discussions, group discussions, feedback, and even factors external to the course. What do you struggle with most as a writer? What are you proudest of in this collection? Are you considering submitting any of your pieces for publication? Where? 2-4 pages -ish.
About the Author Chrissy O’Donnell is a retired veteran who is living in Austin, Texas with two dogs, Tyson the boxer and WinkyBinks the Chihuahua, and her cat Brad. After serving two tours in Iraq, she returned home to Texas and found her passion in social work. She is currently studying at St. Edward’s University and will soon earn her degree in BSW with a minor in political science. With this degree she hopes to tackle the school-to-prison pipeline through advocating for policy changes on the city, state, and national level. While in college she also realized that she also had an interest in writing creative non-fiction, a skill she believes will be useful in helping elevate her social justice initiatives as well as writing about her personal experiences in a memoir.