Why We Write.

I'm not sure that there is a good reason to write. Surely, the great bards and playwrights and poets of times past have had something in the back of their psyches to drive them to a profession that could be less than stable and beyond draining.

When I was a young girl, my primary school required students to read from these big text books. They may have actually been pretty small, but they were giant pages of wonder in my little hands. I thoroughly enjoyed the pictures of bunnies and of foxes. I loved the way the teacher narrated as we, the children, read along. This way, I could sneak glances of the other pages and still find my place. Those were enchanting moments for me.

One day, whilst embarking on my stealthy page hunt, I stumbled across a poem by a man who I grew to adore. He went by the name of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was a simple poem entitled "The Rain". Though that poem was only four lines long, it gripped me. It was in that moment that my curiosity of words became a drive to create and arrange them. That was the day I became a writer. Yet still, I did not know it.

From that day forward I scribbled down stories in my note books. As you would imagine, they were awful. I couldn't figure out how to write an entire piece in one tense. Parallelisms was still a foreign idea and modifiers were unheard of. Though grammar was not my strongest suit, storytelling came naturally. Bad writing made my pieces painful to read. Once the messages were able to be deciphered, they were solid.

A few years after my writing skill began to be honed, my family suffered the loss of my grandmother. A beautiful woman who took more shit than she deserved. As a child I didn't understand how important she was. Upon her passing, I was still not very familiar with the idea of death. It wasn't an easy lesson to learn.

For her funeral service I recited a poem that I had written for her.

A Poem to You

your warm love

your tender touch

I'll never forget you

because you loved us so much

you held me tightly in your warm arms

I'll always love you because you took me through the storm

you’ll always be at the top my list

and I just want you to know you'll always be missed

It was at this point that I realized that words truly meant something. But I was still not a writer.

Fast forward a few months. My transition into American culture was paramount in the development of my writing. When I moved to this country, I was lost. I was without my parents and family for three months. I was put into a program with children from around the world who had also been lost.

The entirety of this story will be spoken of on a different day. For now, I would like to focus on a few points. With the other children, I learned a lot about different cultures and people. This drove me into my love for the world. During my time there, I drew a map of the world and labeled all of the capitals and all of the official languages. All information that I found in an atlas. The atlas has always been and will always be my favourite piece of literature.

Along with my beloved atlas I found books that I have never seen. That was the summer that I read my first novel, At the age of twelve, I read "The Adventures of Robin Hood" by Roger Lancelyn Green. I was overwhelmed with pride. The pride was quickly shut down with a crippling sense of ... self. I was lonely. In my time with Boys Town, I grew more and more bitter. I was angry at the adults in my life whose decisions allowed me to be in that place alone. I was angrier at the grown up of the other kids. I was only there for three months. I met girls who had been there for three years and that infuriated me. Though the situation could have very well been out of their parents' control, no one should feel as alone as we did. I cried every night. I was not alone. Mine was one cry in a sea of sorrowed voices. My heart broke for the other girls because I understood why they cried. They wanted home and so did I.

The lonelier that place became, the more I scribbled in my note books, I wrote a poem every day. I drew a map every day. I read everyday. I did everything I could to not feel so... mad.

When the day finally came and my mother took my home. My heart was not filled with joy. It was beaten down too heavily by resentment. Not only because of those three lonely months but because of the twelve years of being made to believe that my parents didn't care.

I would like to take this moment to say that my family is fantastic. These thoughts of resentment were running through the mind of a twelve year old girl who was confused about where she stood in life. I come from a group of strong and selfless human beings. I love my family and they love me. I am so proud to call them mine.

But the story still stands.

When I entered the big Orlando house, I felt tiny. Everything was huge. Seeing this drove me to the most disgusting point of rage. Not thoroughly understanding my past at this point, my sentiments were, "You have this big house, your children are dressed so nicely and you couldn't take care of me?"

At this point, I shut down. No voice permeated my ear. And no figure registered through my eyes. I was livid. My only confidants were pen and paper. I had a diary. In it, I wrote the most disgusting things that I felt in my fits of anger. Over time, those angry words became stories, poems and most importantly songs. This was when my songwriting went into full effect. Music had always meant a lot, but my music story will come on another day as well. In this first year, I wrote something on a daily basis. My left hand was always moving with a writing utensil in fist. Until this day, ten years later. I write something everyday. Even with all of that writing, I still did not know I was a writer.

Let's push for a few years. In high school, I spent a lot of time in the theatre: all four years. I was good at it, but I was mainly there to stay away from the house. In the first half of my senior year, I was looking into doing an individual event for the District 5 International Thespian Festival. I entered with three events. One of which was the playwriting segment. I spent an entire semester writing and perfecting my one act play. This was the longest I had ever spent on a project and I loved every second. It felt right. When the day of the festival came, I was proud to not only get a score of superior, but for my piece to be ranked 5th in the district. I was happy with that placement because I did not consider myself to be a writer. I just knew that I liked to write.

Before that year ended, student directed one acts rolled around. I jumped on the opportunity to adapt a story that I had read in the "Cicada" literary magazine entitled, "Love Is A Fallacy" by Max Shulman. While I chose this story, another director chose mine. A good friend of mine, the artist, Anthony Rivera took on my play. I was nervous and excited. On May 13th, 2011, I saw "Letter Box" performed for the first time. It was performed on the stage that had been my sanctuary for so many years. The proscenium of the Freedom High School stage held my dreams. It was in that moment that I realized that I was a writer.

My name is Manouchca Joseph.

I write because it makes me proud.