When I was an impressionable teenager, I had a small obsession with Sarah Dessen. I read everything available quickly, and then waited impatiently for anything. Then, I went to college, got into errotic fiction, and that was the end of that. Still, for years I stopped by the young adult section every now and again just to look at the Sarah Dessen Novels. Just the sight of those book spines filled me with an unexplainable joy. I knew I would always remember those stories fondly.

Fast froward, it's about three years ago and I meet the love of my life. Sarah's books had nothing on the way I felt when he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. When you feel that incredible, it’s hard to imagine there will ever be another day that you don’t. Even so, it’s hard to walk on air when a pandemic hits smack dab in the middle of planning your wedding. I was determined to stay posotive, so I was on the hunt for anything I could think of that made me feel good. Between working full time and setting up a DIY wedding that we may or may not have had a place to throw, I needed everything I did to be time and cost effective. I found myself meandering the public library's vitual shelves. It gave me the idea to re-read one my favorite Sarah Dessen books, just for a little peace during the day.

When I did that, it all came rushing back. I devoured that first book (my old favorite, Ther Truth About Forever) and returned to curbside pick up several times to check out everything they had, written by Sarah Dessen. That's when I realized just how intregal those books had been in helping me build my confidence as a young woman. I orginally read them because they were romantic, but I realized upon re-reading them, that each one was about a young girl's very unique journey to finding herself. They taught me how to do the same. In the difficult ways, like how to ask for help, and be honest with the people I love. To define myself by no one's standards but my own. That even though some girls had stabbed me in the back thus far, I would find my girls, if I was willing to be patient. In the simple ways, like how incredibly easy staying organized could make my life and sometimes, actions speak louder than words.

Without even realizing it I had reffered back to these stories years after reading them. They were a huge help when I hit life's inevitable road blocks and milestones. In the end I used a quote from The Truth About Forever in my wedding vows. Then I spent the six months leading up to my wedding reminding myself what I had learned the first time around. If I can trust myself above all else, my life can't help but to turn out alright.

Mid-jump I was deciding whether that running start was a good idea. My foot did sink in the muck quite a bit when I pushed off, making me think that I should have just stuck to the broad jump like Sam and Pete. But I figured I’d have a better shot at getting across with a running start given my more substantial frame. It’s not that I’m fat; the lady in the husky section told me that I look like a strong young man as she pinned my school pants. And you’d think that being strong would help you jump farther, but I’ve really never found that to be the case. That goes for running too. Last summer Sheri Sandelson beat me in the beanbag relay and would always tag me first in freeze tag. I spent a lot of time frozen. But I think it’s because Sheri’s uncle was a baseball player or something and because Mom made me an extra stack of hot cakes and three extra sausages that morning. Mom had been making sure I had enough to eat since Dad died, so she always saw that I ate my normal share plus some. She’d feed me two fried chops instead of one, three scoops of mac and cheese on chicken night, and would sometimes come into my room with more bread pudding saying that I should eat it because it was the corner piece. My stomach hurt often and sometimes I told her, but most of the time I didn’t want to upset her. She’d say that she wanted to make sure I grew up to be a big man like my dad and then she’d stay at the table watching me until I swallowed every last bite of extra mashed potato. Once, after my shower, I let a whole dinner of meatloaf and peas go into the toilet. I tried to be quiet, but Mom heard me and walked in as I retched. She cried herself to sleep that night. Since then she started calling me in from playing earlier and earlier and I always came home and ate for her. But today I decided I couldn’t hear her, and I followed Pete and Sam into the field. A clear sky above, I looked down and saw plenty muddy water still ahead of me. I flopped down as gracefully as possible and sent water spraying into the cattails where a red-winged blackbird took flight. Sam and Pete doubled over with laughter. Then they jumped in and we splashed each other under the setting sun.

When I first read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting I didn’t get it. The forgetting, I mean. Not the laughter. The scene at the funeral, with the hat? Classic. But the struggle of memory against forgetting under an oppressive regime? I was American. The stories and history grounding my people were so strong I couldn’t conceive of them being erased. Hell, they were viral before viral was a thing. The whole world wanted in.

Cold War kids, right?

Ten, fifteen years later, I get into a writers’ workshop. Intensive six-week residence. One of seventeen others is this shy black Adonis named Kai Ashante Wilson. Guy’s a genius. We all know it. A few years later Kai publishes The Devil in America, about a black child gifted with power she can’t understand. It runs in the family, but America took their history away, made them forget. Nor is there much to laugh at when the girl makes an unknowing deal with the Devil, and the devil takes his due in the form of a white mob come to lynch and slaughter the whole town. As white mobs did, though my America forgot to tell me that story, and I, blessed innocent, did not think to look.

I was supposed to be one of the good ones.

Reading has taught me all kinds of things: how to think, how to empathize, how to person. For a long time it taught me that character and choice matter, that a person can make a difference, that justice, in some form, will be served. Those are good stories. It’s no wonder they catch on. But there are other stories those stories buried, ones where the best you get at the end isn’t justice but the will to persevere, the strength, somehow, to carry on and try and remember where you came from. Sometimes you don’t even get that. To unbury those stories and bring them into the light changes the ones that so filled younger me with confidence. It’s the struggle of memory against forgetting, and I laugh to think how fooled I was.

https://www.tor.com/2014/04/02/the-devil-in-america-kai-ashante-wilson/

When we read, it’s a form of escaping, entertainment, even stress relief. Through these symbols we’ve deemed a form of communication, we become heroes, villains, lovers, and killers. Those that read fiction, as I do, know that a book can bring us unending joy as well as pain. The point is not the emotion we feel, rather, it is that that emotion comes from a separate place than our realm. We can leave this realm to any author’s realm just by reading, and we can leave that author’s realm by closing the book. The only thing we as readers are not in control of is the journey and its end. We follow the story along and when it ends, it ends. Many call it a “book hangover” when you are sad or longing for more after finishing a book. You could seek out more of the author’s work or fan fiction, but nothing will feel quite the same as reading that story for the first time.

Couldn’t we say the same for all life situations? Just as every story ends, every life event, including life itself, must end. No particular story could teach a reader this, simply reading books one enjoys and experiencing a “book hangover” can teach this rule.

The most devastating ending for me was The Cipher by Kathe Koja. The entire novel didn’t feel real to me. It was an unending feeling of depressed awe, until it of course finally ended. I was left in grief, saddened that I didn’t have anywhere quite like it to escape to. My safe haven was gone. Rereading it would not convey the same emotions, and I didn’t have anymore of Koja’s work at the time. Similarly, I felt the same way when realizing my best friend from childhood no longer wanted contact with me. I had this ache of never returning to a place I loved ever again, just as I did after reading The Cipher later in life.

Everything must come to an end, and reading is a great way to understand and cope with that. The positive side is there’s always more. There are more people out there for you to see. More events for you to go to. More books for you to read. Moving on has proven to be easier for me in recent years, and I’d like to thank all of the stories I’ve read for teaching me that endings are inevitable, but they don’t always have to be bad.

Prose is a supportive, inspiring community for emerging writers, and it has been good to me.

I'll confess that I laughed the first time I spotted the phrase "emerging writers" on a publication's submissions page: what a pleasant euphemism for us unpublished nobodies! I thought. That italicized thought reflects the view I once held of my writing, more closely than I care to admit. It's an aggressive form of self-deprecation, a defense mechanism of equal parts arrogance, shame, and denied vulnerability. If I say I am not a real writer and declare that I suck, the unexamined reasoning went, then rejection will hurt less. Writers face more than their share of rejection.

But not on Prose. We're all here to do what we do for the love of words, stories, poems. Prose is a place where we can read and be read - I know I'm not the only one here who never had a real audience until Prose. This is a place where one need not apologize for writing, where we can cast aside the self-deprecation and share our writing without fear of a condescending and skeptical "oh, how nice." Writing feels solitary, but in truth we're all packed into a very large boat, and Prose gives us the chance to paddle together awhile.

The company is good; some marvelous writers post here. I've read chapbooks by a couple of stellar young poets who have said Prose helped a lot as they started out. Connecting with them and other writers whose work I admire, with whom I can commiserate about rejections, and who have encouraged me made a world of difference to my writing. For the first time in my life, I kept at it. I've gotten better. The support of Prosers fortified me sufficiently to go out and get rejected - and eventually accepted... two stories and two poems now. I'm especially proud of the one I posted the link to last week: "River Walk, Upstate Town." I'm used to rereading old pieces and seeing the flaws, but when I read that one, it's actually still kinda pretty.

I'm still sending pieces out. I'm still getting rejected. I'm also still writing on Prose. If I haven't told you this recently, or if you're newish here, I really appreciate your reading my work. I'll try to read yours, too, as a good Proser should. It's a pleasure to emerge with you.

I'm dyslexic, something I didn't know until college. Before this I thought I was just "dumb,” as I was told many times. As I write this, the computer program superimposes letters, flashes red lines and strains to come up with solutions. Yet, I find myself most attracted to writing — maybe it's the challenge of it, maybe it's my anti-authoritarian nature. Reading, too, is a process, and it can be a months-long ordeal to get through a book.

Rhythm seems to be key — a writer who can flow in the same strange systems my brain does — an organic reworking and restructuring. Fragmented minds and meanings have always struck me. As a child I found science fiction, immediately I fell for Phil.  

Philip K. Dick imagines worlds extrapolated from fear and cultivated in Kafka. His universe is often cold and lonely, paranoid in its stillness. A hologram of a simulacra; a child alone. Perfect.

If you can't already tell, my reading difficulty has imbued me with an outsider perspective. I hold on to it, almost as a friend — one of my “little black dogs”; a magnetic north.

There are souls in this world that can’t be shaken, that won’t be removed. They are too close to something, too near a truth to leave us. I imagine we are navigated toward people who are right for us, maybe we simply hang on when we find them.

For me, that relentlessness of being is perfectly personified in Phil's writing. An amalgamation of philosophy and feeling. I never knew there could be so much truth in fiction before I read Phil — steeped in a cumulation of inter-dimensional, extra-galactic entities. At times you have to absorb his thoughts between words; to take in the beam of energy latent in his prose. At twelve I read “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.” I’ve tried to read all of Dick's forty-four novels since, a thing distinctly difficult yet relentlessly rewarding.

I'm almost embarrassed to speak of my cosmic entanglement with Dick. Each time I read what he has left us, I feel it intertwining with my current journey — I dare say I have become a spiritual person in his wake. When I get to his last writings, will I find myself on my deathbed? Will I be too frightened to thumb through the penultimate work? Am I, like so many of his protagonists, a joke? Do I exist? I expect Phil knows the answers to these pretentious pointless questions.

In “Divine Invasion,” Dick embarks on a theory that the universe is something internal as much as it is external. This theory plays an important part in his later works; it seems his way of making sense of our world. His parting and piecing together fits into my “dumb” brains, wormhole-ing through the written world and this one — one that can feel much like a hologram. One where I feel alone, removed and confused. One that I hope I share with Phil.

Reading keeps a person limitless, especially if you are a person of color. I am from Hopkins, SC. It is a small town, but as a black kid growing up in the early 90’s, I knew not to be lazy when it came to reading. The funny thing is when I was in second grade, I had difficulty pronouncing words as a reader. My second grade teacher told my parents about my reading problems.

I never gave up trying to learn how to read, even after my report card came and my teacher shared her concerns. One day, I miraculously began reading words unfamiliar to me. I have been reading ever since. Now, at 32 years old, I understand the endless opportunities of being an active reader.

My past time reads are usually poetry, a biblical chapter, children’s books, or newspaper articles. I have such a busy schedule these days, but I still want to make sure I read something. Recently, I read a book called, Who Owns the Ice House? Eight Life Lessons From an Unlikely Entrepreneur by: Clifton Taulbert and Gary Schoeniger. This book has been such a game changer for me!

It shares different lessons from someone not from a background of entrepreneurs. I will not spoil the details of the book by assuming everyone has read it. Still, I can share my life reflections. This book confirms my journey into self-identity. I have been an entrepreneur since I was five years old. As a kid, I felt like I could do anything and be anything.

Deep down, I knew I wanted to be a writer. When I started getting older, I realized that I connected well with youth. I found this out at the age of 12. Life has a way of creeping up on you. Your inner circles can also make you question and reshape your true identity. For me, I kept trying to please my father and stop people from asking me what I was going to do with my life.

I decided to work on becoming an elementary school teacher. Well, a person has to pass the Praxis II Exam to become a certified teacher in South Carolina. I could never pass the exam. I would end up taking it ten times and spending ten years of my life trying to pass it. At age 30, I finally threw up my hands and told myself I would not take that exam again.

Now, I am doing what I truly love. I am writing books to give hope to young people. I perform my poetry. I go after my dreams. I also bring inspiration to others. After reading that book, I believe I can do anything. I feel like a kid again. I am unstoppable and so are you. Do not let anyone tell you differently. Go out there and find something to read! The more knowledge you open yourself up to, the more limitless you will be.

In my early twenties, I worked data entry for an HMO in Southern California. During a soul-crushing meeting about EOBs and unapplied payments, I stared out of an indistinguishable office building at cars zipping by on the freeway. My focus zoomed in on one passing driver at a time, imagining what the world must look like through their eyes. 

To whom were they racing? From whom were they running? What hurt them? What brought them joy? What, in that moment, were they dreaming of?

Reading gives me the magical power to answer those questions and experience the world as someone other than myself. It allows me to break free from the limitations of my own body, mind, and environment, from the color of my skin, the shape of my eyes, the length of my bones, my gender, my sexual orientation, my spiritual practices, the city and country in which I live, my perception and interpretation of past experiences, and the class and caste into which I was born and raised.

No matter which character I inhabit, no matter the programming or laws that limit and/or free them––if that character’s story is grounded in humanity, I always manage to find myself there. 

I’ve recognized myself in stories about British aristocrats living in the nineteenth century. I’ve recognized myself in clones, monsters, and Artificial Intelligence. I’ve recognized myself with brilliant clarity in a Puerto Rican parrot. 

Like traveling somewhere new or listening to someone’s deepest secret, reading has taught me to find myself, not by remaining sheltered in the comfort of my own perception, but by temporarily surrendering my own view of the world while exploring someone else’s. And with a brief letting go, my perception inevitably evolves, expanding in depth and breadth. 

That was my experience the first time I read “Flight Patterns” by Sherman Alexie. 

As a once self-hating Filipino American who had no interest in reading about the minority experience, I believed reading even a short story about an Indiginous American would be a grind. Instead, it set me free. 

I saw myself reflected in Spokane Indian William because I too remain “ambiguously ethnic, living somewhere in the darker section of the Great American Crayola Box.” I too do not want to choose between Frank Ocean and my ninang Cora.

Up until the experience of inhabiting William, I believed no one wanted to read a Filipino story. And even if someone did, I certainly wasn’t Filipino enough to write it.

But I am Filipino-American enough to write a Filipino-American story. And if I write that story in a way that captivates readers with the same energy “Flight Patterns” captivated me, readers who don’t look like me or share the same class or caste as me will still see themselves there.  

This realization unlocked a universe of stories for me to tell, which meant my unique experiences are worthy enough to be shared. And if my stories are enough, maybe I’m enough as well. 

In the middle of third grade my family moved from a suburb of Detroit to a rural town an hour away. On my first awkward day as The New Girl, I stood in the cafeteria line and stared at a poster, a painting by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, a portrait of a man with a zucchini nose, peas for teeth, and eyelids made of tiny figs. I was horrified. I barely caught the caption, “You Are What You Eat.” Today I understand: every cell in our body is comprised of the food, air, and water we consume, which is distilled into parts and built again into blood, bones, muscle, fat, a beating heart, a stomach that breaks down food to begin the cycle again. Likewise, with reading.

Everything I’ve read—each book, story, poem, essay—has fed my mind and helped shape my perspective of the world. Childhood reading instilled a love of language and books, and provided a portal out of that tiny town. Reading was a key that opened infinite doors. I could enter the lives of other people, some who might look, think, and behave differently than me. Reading taught me to care and understand. Without it, who would I be?

One story that’s changed me is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah. In it, a Nigerian college student, Ifemelu, moves to the US and learns what it means to be Black in America. In Nigeria there’s no concept of race; people identify with their ethnic tribe, like Hausa, Igbo, or Yoruba. Throughout the novel, Ifemelu is confronted by America’s racial stereotypes, the distinction some people make between African-Americans and African immigrants who they consider the “good” Blacks, and the ignorant attitudes of even well-intentioned whites.

Reading Americanah, I recognized my behaviors in some characters, like the liberal white folks who don’t understand the difference between their intentions and impact. Or those who say they’re color-blind, ignoring the experiences of People of Color living in a racialized society. And on and on. Stories can snake into the backdoors of our brain in ways nonfiction cannot.

I learned race is a social construct that has been taught. Which means it can be un-taught. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Americanah set me on a path of anti-racist study. For nearly two years, I’ve participated in an anti-racism book group. I’m taking a six-month anti-racism course. I’m reading more fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and attending virtual talks, by writers of color. I’m working to recognize and eliminate my biases.

Science says our cells are constantly growing, dying, and being replaced. Every seven years we have a brand-new body, a replica of the old. More nutritious food builds healthier cells. Likewise, with reading. By feeding our minds a diet of diverse stories, the characters, feelings, and turns of phrases can strengthen our brain’s scaffolding. We can change our thoughts and expand our understanding of others, both people who feel familiar and those from whom we have much to learn and unlearn.

Over a random phone call this morning, my father disclosed to me that he hated reading as a kid. Never once in my 20 years of life have I ever seen him pick up a book. Not even a magazine. So, this wasn’t exactly surprising. But, anyway, the phone call today went a little like this:

“Oh, that old book? Yeah, I had to read One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was in high school. I would fall asleep. I absolutely hated it and I never even read a sentence,” he said.

“Really, why not? I mean, how can you hate something you never even tried?”

“Well, you know I’ve never been the most cultured person. Once a teacher asked the class about important things in Italy and I didn’t participate because I didn’t know shit about Italy. Meanwhile, these fuckers were naming the Vatican and other places right off the top of their head.”

“Everyone knows the Vatican and—”

“Not everyone. Not the poorer children on the block who didn’t have A/C at home. Definitely not me who didn’t even have shoes for school. I mean when the fuck were we supposed to learn about Italy? In between shifts at the local textile business? Not everyone has had your education and parents to fund it. You don’t get to value shit like the Vatican and One Hundred Years of Solitude as a kid growing up in the poorest neighborhood of Venezuela.”

The silence was loud. And I mean that literally. You could only hear the static and faint breathing in the background.

“Well, it’s good you’re reading again. I know recently you’ve been lazy and sleeping—”

“Not lazy. Depressed. There’s a difference,” I corrected him.

“Right, well, it seems like you’re enjoying the book. You’ll have to lend it to me when you’re done. I have to get back to work. I’ll call later.”

I didn’t even process what he said until much later. He wanted me to lend him the book. Lend it to him. The same man who didn’t know what the Vatican was. The same man who doesn’t believe depression is real. All in an effort to understand his depressed daughter and educate himself?

It was odd, to say the least.

My dad has always stressed the importance of education since I was very young. As a kid, I would read almost a book a day. I saw it as a means of escape from a friendless childhood. A way of traveling and seeing new things. But today, One Hundred Years of Solitude taught me that it was also a way of reaching people. A way to get through to them. A way of learning basic empathy.