So Fucking Special

I've been writing since I was 8 years old, give or take. I started before then, learning my letters and attempting to perfect my penmanship but it was at 8, when I was in the second grade that I truly fell in love with the written word and it was due to one of the Third grade teachers at my school making me feel so fucking special.

Do you recall those big sheets of beige colored paper? The top half was a blank space for drawing while the bottom half had red and blue checked lines for writing. My teacher Ms. Humphries had tasked us with writing about out families and then to draw a picture of them as well. My visual artwork wasn't worth a second glance- bit torsos, nonexistent necks, bubble heads, lines for arms and legs. But my words must've been considerably better because I do recall Ms. Rivers- the aforementioned third grade teacher- being in the room(I do not recall if she wandered in just cause that's what teachers seemed to do or if she was invited in to see how we'd be shaping up for her next year) looked at my paper and seemed impressed by what I wrote. Her sole criticism was that I put "I have 4 *persons* in my family." instead of writing "I have 4 *people* in my family." That is the first time I recall receiving a compliment about something I did by myself by someone who wasn't related to me. In that moment I felt so fucking special. From that moment on I was hooked.

(Sidenote: both Ms. Humphries and Ms. Rivers were Black women and I feel forever grateful for having their early encouragement in my academic life because it was truly crucial in watering those seeds of certainty and creativity in my head)

Writing became my thing.

5th grade comes and I penned this two pages of notebook paper front and back short story about the Y2K computer bug was a literal, sentient creature and how my brother and I had to travel to New York to kill it(I was in 5th grade fall 1999- spring 2000 so this hella timely and topical) and my story somehow ended up being chosen to represent my school at this Young Writer's contest down in the state capital. Very cool indeed. They printed up my story and hardcover bound it as to make it look legit and gave everyone at the event reception t shirts with a Dr. Seuss inspired poem on it and in my memory, I recall standing up on stage holding my book aloft and feeling so fucking special.

(oldest piece of clothing I own. Can still mostly fit in surprisingly)

I spent the majority of middle school writing sappy "love" poems that have thankfully been lost in the wastebasket of unrequited puppy crush adoration. Every now and then, a classmate of mine(always a girl but not the object of my affection) would see me writing and ask what I was doing and shyly I'd slide my paper over. I got made fun of a lot in my elementary and middle school years- too skinny, too tall, teeth too gappy in front, too quiet, too weird, but no one ever made fun of my writing. No ever made a cruel remark about my words. It was my words that made me feel so fucking special.

Onto high school now and I was the boy in the back of the classroom, either placed there because I was 6'3 and teachers didn't want me blocking the views of other students or because my last name starting with W sits at the tail end of the alphabet and so the last row was were I'd call home until the teachers had memorized the class roster, writing away still. I barely paid attention if the class wasn't reading or English and mostly got away with it because I wasn't causing disruptions or being distracting otherwise. I just wanted to write.

I don't recall anything specific I wrote during high school except a few start-stop attempts at a novel series collaborating with my brother that we were oh so convinced was going to be the Next Big Thing but it was in this creative period that I continued to feel so fucking special coming up with ideas with my Day One and thinking that there was no greater feeling than plotting out a story and deciding what the characters were going to do next.

Went off to college and was only there for two months. Got asked the same question by everyone to whom I told that I was studying English: "Oh, so you want to be a teacher?" To which I would kinda offendedly reply "No, I want to be a writer." I don't know why I had the attitude back then that teaching would have felt beneath me. Youthful arrogance and naivety I guess- at eighteen and not yet truly hurt and not yet truly heard by the outside world, I still felt so fucking special enough that I still held on to the dream of wanting to write.

Dropped out of college(didn't even make it to Thanksgiving break) and returned home, depressed and despondent and desperate. I had received a journal for my 18th birthday from my church pastor and it was around this time of grief and feeling sorry for myself that I began to chronicle my emotions and thoughts down. I still have most of my diaries from that time although I don't go back and read them. Trying to keep a daily log made me feel like I was still accomplishing something but I don't reckon it felt special at all. I didn't feel special at all by this point.

Experiencing my first actual romantic relationship followed by that relationship becoming abusive followed by the birth of my oldest son was the next major life events for me.Young fatherhood took over my life and didn't really have time for writing between juggling my first real job(shopping cart wrangler at Walmart) my own depressive/suicidal thoughts and keeping myself afloat for my baby boy. He was the only fucking special thing I had during those dark years.

My dad passed away two weeks before my oldest son was born and I know I have not written enough about my father in general to process everything that happened and I experienced with him being my dad. His life, his testimony was so fucking special- I definitely feel it deserves to be seen and known.

I was married for almost 5 years and had my second son from this union. To be in a relationship with another writer is a unique thing. Reflecting upon it now, it seems like an odd thing that we rarely wrote about each other in our work. Is that arrogance? Like *of course* I should matter enough to you, our love should matter enough to you that it would be worth penning. But..no. Subtle foreshadowing that we weren't meant to last? Subtle foreshadowing that this relationship, this marriage wasn't so fucking special?

I am grateful that I rediscovered the words inside of me post divorce and am brave enough to share them with all of you. I am grateful that I am still able to feel something and everything writing like my life depends on it. Because it truly always has. I do not know if I am really special or just meant to feel that way temporarily but for now, still just being able to write about it will have to be enough.