A lesson in developing my authentic voice and confidence as a writer
“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” — Eleanor Roosevelt
Confidence. Self-help gurus say we need to have it. My therapist says we need to develop it. And we all agree the lack of it leads to a life of second-guessing and indecision.
As my introductory post on Medium, I decided to write about confidence. This nuanced idea of believing in yourself has been a stumbling block to me starting my writing career since I’ve started calling myself a writer. Let me explain.
It all started with poetry. Aah. My love language. I remember the first day we met. I was in Ms. Hardy’s 4th-grade English class. Ms. Hardy was one of my favorite teachers because her voice was a combination of smooth, melodic Caribbean comfort and rough, gritty Brooklyn confidence. And when she read poetry, she breathed life into each syllable, each word, and each line. Each 40-minute poetry lesson was like listening to Remy Ma and Derek Walcott perform a ballad. I looked forward to every performance. And then one day — she let us write our own.
As I sat down to write my first poem, I realized that just because I was excited about something, didn’t mean I knew what I was doing or that I was even good at it. This awareness made writing the first line of my poem an insurmountable task. I’d write a line. Then erase that line. I recalled poems we read during the lesson and would try to imitate other poet’s sounds and rhythms only to be dissatisfied with the final creation at the end.
Twenty, or so, crumpled pieces of notebook paper later, I discovered the haiku. The rules are simple in a haiku. Three lines. Seventeen syllables. Five. Seven. Five.
So I wrote a haiku:
My voice on paper
Now my mind can rest awhile
Til it’s time to write.
I submitted my haiku. I wasn’t overly excited about the piece, I was just glad I adhered to the format. Ms. Hardy read my poem and smiled at me.
“This is profound,” she stated, “now, write another one.” So, I wrote another one. Then I felt confident enough to experiment with different forms. Each time I finished a poem, I would take it to Ms. Hardy for her approval and she would say, “Very good. Write another one.”
For one assignment, I decided to write a longer poem about my mother’s hair salon called, “Them Old Women Talkin’.” My mother was a full-time cosmetologist and worked as a kitchen beautician from our 2-bedroom apartment. I would often sit in my room, about 5 nice-sized steps from the kitchen, and listen to the cackles and the chatter that spilled into the hallway. They talked about everything. But what I remember most is each distinct voice and how sure they sounded when they spoke. These women were boss women. Confident, independent, wealthy (some of them), and full of personality. And I admired them and wanted to be like them, so I wrote about them.
I submitted my poem to Ms. Hardy, but this time, her decree was to the entire class, “Place your poetry assignment in the homework bin.” I don’t recall her ever looking at me or my paper as I placed it in the bin. I went on writing other poems during her class that day but I felt dejected. I don’t recall if anything I wrote that day was any good. Even though Ms. Hardy spent the days prior to praising my amateur-ish poetic work, her silence on this day was soul-crushing.
I went on to lunch and recess, still ruminating on my favorite teacher’s silence about my latest piece. I looked forward to hearing her thoughts after recess since that would have given her all the time she needed to review my poem and provide feedback. As my classmates and I filed back into the room, Ms. Hardy calls me and two other students to her desk.
“I’ve read your poems from last night’s homework,” she began, “and you three have been selected to enter the Young Poets of America Poetry Contest. With your consent, I will enter your poems into the contest.”
I didn’t even attempt to hide my wire-laced smile. “Yes! Thank you, Ms. Hardy!” I exclaimed. Then she sent the other two students to their desks and leaned in closer to me. In a hushed tone, she said, “Alysha, you are a very gifted poet. If you keep writing, you’ll find your voice and then you’ll know you are one of the dopest chicks in the room.” Then she pulled out a book from her teacher bag and handed it to me. “Here is something for you to stay inspired.”
I took the book from her hands and read the title. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I opened the first page and inside, Ms. Hardy inscribed the following quote:
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” — Maya Angelou
I walked back to my desk feeling a complete 180 emotionally from the hours before. My esteem, restored. But more importantly, I learned a valuable lesson about confidence: It can only be developed from the inside …and then projected out. Not the other way around. I can’t look for someone else to validate my voice. I have to do that.
Oxford dictionary defines confidence as the state of feeling certain about the truth of something. What is your truth? Beneath all of our years of performing for others, lies the truth about who we are, what we think, and who we are becoming. In that space, we discover our unique voices. From that truthful voice, we embody confidence.
“Repetition is the father of learning.” — Dwayne Carter
As I reflect on that moment, over twenty years ago, the lesson is still as relevant at age thirty-two as it was at age nine. The more I create and the more I share my creations, the clearer my voice becomes. And the clearer my voice becomes the more confident I am to share it. And therein lies the neverending cycle of developing confidence. Just do it. Jump into it (whatever it is). Be excited! It’s okay if you have no idea what you’re doing. Because guess what? Repetition is the father of learning (or whatever Dwayne Carter said). You will get better. Being great at it is the easy part. Believing you are great at it is where the real work takes place.
As Ms. Hardy would say, “Now, write another.”
