My Writing And English Class

1813 WordsMay 25, 20168 Pages
It hurt me to see the ones I loved thinking such harmful ways, but my hypocrisy hurt even more. It reminded me how close I came to never seeing the truth. All the stories and essays I had written for my creative writing and English classes in college were kept in a wicker basket in my small apartment room. One morning, I went through everything to try and part with some material. I picked up my portfolio from a writing class I had my junior year and began reading the story I submitted as my final piece. I knew that reading it now meant I would be cringing at the young, flawed writer I was. Except I wasn’t focused on the writer as I read it but the person. There was only one villain in my story and I remembered creating him out of memory but his description was out of thin air. Throughout the entire story, the narrator described him as the brown man. Every scene he was in, so was his skin color. After I took that senior seminar class in college, I knew I was seeing the world through a different set of eyes. I just never evaluated who I was beforehand. I knew most of what bothered me wouldn’t have previously, but I didn’t remember being someone who dirtied my writing with blackness because in my white world, there was nothing more evil than the otherness that sometimes crept inside. Perhaps I had been subconsciously trying to make up for that person buried in the wicker basket, and this only continued as I promised myself to keep showing

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