heartshape

I withdrew even deeper into the world of language, cleaving the diamonds of verbs and nouns, plunging into the brilliant light of poetry’s regenerative mystery. Words gave off rings of white energy, radar signals from powers beyond me that infused me with truth. I believe what I wrote, because I wrote what was true. My words did not come from books or textual formulas, but from a deep faith in the voice of my heart. ---Jimmy Baca


Who would’ve thought that a ninth grade drop-out could come up with these exquisite lines with words only imagined to have come from the minds of the most educated writers? For someone who did not know how to read and write until his late teens, Jimmy Baca has pawed his way through the labyrinths of the English language, and endured Life’s punishments in prison – his unofficial classroom where he obeyed his thirst for language. No one knew of the experiences – good or bad, memorable or not – he had undergone while pursuing his goal of conquering words, molding paragraphs out of phrases, and eventually mastering the English language. I came across one of his works, detailing his struggles before “coming into language,” and realized that it is never too late to learn.

At times when I feel angry or frustrated about getting my homework done, I would look at the computer screen or stare at my poster-filled wall and utter, “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” Then a tiny voice would emanate from the depths of my head, slowly but surely enumerating all the reasons why I need to do all my assignments.Math problems were never a problem. Sure, there was the traditional mind-boggling showcase of equations one needs to simplify in order to extract an answer. But that’s it: there is only one final answer. However, if one gets bombarded with reaction papers, essays, or research papers to be completed within the next few weeks, chances of procrastination are quite high, unless of course one adores writing as much as he or she loves a favorite pet.

I used to write poems and compose short stories that never went unnoticed. Back in high school, my teachers would encourage me to “edit” my work not because it needed improvement but because it had to be changed completely.What was I thinking? Why was I trying to become a literary disciple when I couldn’t even distinguish one right prose from a series of wrong ones; when I couldn’t even master my tenses? Hadn’t I learned my lesson when a teacher who I still despise humiliated me in front of the class for writing “plotform” instead of “platform”?

Essay writing contests would become a source of great anticipation only to have my works neglected; only to be condescended upon.“You’re compositions are not contest material.” I remember them say. Daunted, I abandoned my short stories, locking away my imaginations and hiding them in a chest full of disappointments, and found comfort in my journals. I remember writing about my rebellious escapades at fourteen, my turning points at fifteen and the seemingly endless quest for a better life at eighteen. I found a partner in my journal where I can write whatever I want heedless of parallelism, tenses, or focus.

From the moment I open my journal my imaginations fly free, as if knowing their places in every page. All these years I seek refuge in my journals that until now, I lighten up after thirty minutes worth of writing. But what started as a hobby didn’t exactly evolve into passion. To coin a phrase from Jimmy Baca’s story, it helped me “come into language.” Baca’s story made me realize that huge mistake I made about giving up and giving in to my fears. My teachers thought my stories were trash so I retreated, leaving them victorious. Regrets are not really sweet but how I wish (clichés, clichés) I had practiced…how I wished I were strong enough to go on.I wish I had discipline, just enough to slap my face once in a while. I admit to being an impatient person, and am contented with my hasty disposition.

I go into details and make sure I’m doing things efficiently, but when it comes to writing I tend to float and just blab it all away on paper. I wanted to create a prose that could move my readers, one that is contest material. I wanted to organize phrases into paragraphs that blend reality with fantasy. But somehow, my soaring imagination remains stuck in my journal waiting to be unleashed. Right now I can’t seem to get my head on the right words. I feel that whenever I start with a few lines, pen dangling between my fingers, and paper waiting to be doodled on, I seem to forget what I was supposed to write. You see, I like writing but it clearly finds ways of evading me.

This is probably why I ask myself “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” when showered with reaction papers and writing projects to be submitted in the next few days.Who would’ve thought someone with more than ten years of education could easily get intimidated by small things like a bunch of English assignments? Who would’ve thought someone who once dreamed of creating a poignant story would just trash those dreams out of fear of being rejected?

I know Baca’s hurdles were nothing compared to mine, but he succeeded! His work transcends ordinary achievement, all because he worked hard to pursue his dreams. I’m currently dancing to the tunes of college pressure, and am learning to dwell on my strengths. I may not possess the gift of words but a vision of me finishing an inspiring novel lingers in my mind. My compositions may not be “contest material” but I know they are true.

Like Baca, I want to write “the way I wept, and danced, and made love” and think I would succeed.One way or another, I know I shouldn’t be afraid because the words I put on paper, the computer, or the wall, are words that resonate from the crevices of my heart.




---this was originally submitted to the author's EL 33 professor.