Finding My Voice Through Literacy
A Journey of Self-Discovery, Letters, and Legacy
Illustration by Roshni Capewell
Story by Jase Picanso
An Unexpected Opportunity
The announcements seemed to blur together during lunchtime. Children’s sounds bounced off the walls, every day drowning the microphone’s voice in a suffocating vortex of chatter. I never bothered to listen attentively. My mind fuzzed out the noise like the static on an old TV. However, this day was apparently more impactful than I had assumed, as for once the voice over the speakers grappled for and held my attention. The middle school counselor gripped the microphone sternly as she made her announcement.
"We are offering a chance to win a laptop. Simply compose an essay on the significance of college in your own words," she proclaimed proudly, her voice struggling to rise above the commotion.
I squinted at her, hoping it might help me to understand what she was saying, but after a moment I gave up.
Later that day, I received a school email informing me of the upcoming “Washington State Laptop Essay Contest.” I glanced over the flyer and wondered if there was any way I could participate.
"What does college mean to me?" I asked myself. I had no idea what I could possibly say.
When I was 16, I would write letters to my grandmother, who had Alzheimer’s. I would jot down my worries and achievements for her, knowing that she wouldn't remember them if I tried to tell her in person. Sometimes she couldn’t recognize my face, but she always remembered my voice.
In elementary school, I would visit her before class. As I licked envelopes for her letters, the two of us would chat for hours until my tongue was tart with the taste of the sour glue. My memories of those moments are etched in my mind like a treasured painting, each detail vivid and adorned. My grandmother had a special way of making me feel truly seen as a person and as a writer.
She would gently seat me at her old typewriter, her eyes full of unwavering support, her warm, encouraging smile melting away my doubts. It was in those moments, with her guidance, that I discovered the power of words and the beauty of self-expression. I would clash my fingers on its keys and listen to the musical clicks of the typewriter for hours. We were in sync like a melody – time flew by at the blink of an eye.
She would read all my stories and adventures as though they were beautifully written poetry, and would then pin them to her fridge like a shiny gold medal honoring me.
A Nerve-Racking Attempt
As I sat at my mother's laptop in my childhood room, staring at a blank document, my mind was swirling with uncertainty. "What does college mean to me?” I tried to conjure the image of a college that I would fit into when I grew too big for all my favorite clothes. What would I think of college, when I turned that magical age that would see my kid brain swapped out for a fully formed adult one?
My fingers typed and erased, rewriting and rewording every sentence, trying to make it sound smart and unlike me. I always hated typing on a computer – it felt like cheating. Handwriting was the only time I felt I was truly creating something beautiful.
Cell Block Promises
When I was in the sixth grade, my aunt wrote me letters from prison. Her words, penned with meticulous care, promised new beginnings, not only for herself but also for our relationship. The pages were filled with intricate, beautiful handwriting, and I found myself drawn into the artistry of her letters. I kept them in a memory box for me to glance at whenever I was reminded of her. However, she had already lost my trust, as her addiction had eaten away at her positive traits. There was no way of knowing if her words were true or if she was just going to continue with her destructive patterns. I never wrote back to her. Instead, I devoted my time to pouring over every pen stroke on the page, analyzing the curves and loops, and trying to absorb the essence of her words. If there was any truth to them.
Her letters spoke of transformation and hope, and slowly, her handwriting began to influence my own. It was a silent attempt to connect, a secret dance of ink and paper. As I decided to submit my writing to the essay contest, I realized that it was time to begin crafting my own voice, no matter how much it made my stomach crawl with discomfort. The prospect of baring my soul on paper was daunting, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I tried to awkwardly detail my hopes and dreams on the application. Laying my aspirations in the open was like revealing a hidden facet of myself, one that I had concealed and protected with a large lock and a key that had been thrown away. With a deep breath, I pressed 'submit,' and in that moment, I erased the possibility of ever telling anyone about my attempt.
An Unforeseen Outcome
The middle school graduation ceremony was underway. Students filled the auditorium, their voices merging in a lively symphony of chatter as they clustered on the bleachers. The excitement in the air was palpable, a mix of nerves and anticipation for this chapter of our lives to finally be closed.
As we settled into our seats, a speaker took the stage, commanding our attention. The room fell into a hush, and I felt a strange blend of emotions swirling within me – a mixed pot of fear and excitement. The speaker's voice became magnified by the microphone, enveloping us, the words reverberating against the cavernous walls.
"Congratulations, everyone," the booming voice declared. My focus began to drift.
I found myself lost in thought, fingers fidgeting with finger tips. The world around me seemed to blur, as my mind wandered, exploring every possibility of what my future could look like.
Suddenly, a firm tap on my shoulder brought me back to awareness. I turned to see my friend, her face alight with excitement.
"Hey, did you hear that? You won! We both won!" she exclaimed, her words dazzling me. Without waiting for my response, she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the center of the stage.
Saying Goodbye
I talked to my grandmother one last time before she passed. I told her I had been accepted into college. I knew she couldn't respond, but I hoped with every fiber of my heart that she was able to hear me. When she died, I wrote to her again. I mourned her, and wrote to her about all the things she would miss. The things I didn’t want her to miss.
I needed her to hear my voice at least one last time. I couldn’t say goodbye without one more story. So I wrote another letter, the week after I graduated from high school, telling similar things of my accomplishments and stories. This time, the main thing was an application for an internship I saw in a school email on a whim. I compiled my writing and ambitions, and once again submitted without a second glance. "I probably have no chance," I thought.
The next day I received a call for an interview, and later, an email stating that I had been selected as a summer intern at The Spokesman-Review. It was a paid internship, and what was more, since 1893 the paper had been run out of a beautiful historical building, and continued to be. That email was an acknowledgment that I had something powerful to share with the world – my voice. I spent a whole summer learning and growing, writing other people’s detailed stories in my yellow notepad. I scribbled my questions, answers, and thoughts into these pads until each page was filled with the intricate handwriting I had developed so many years ago. I clicked and typed away until it was all neatly arranged on the computer screen, framed into completeness.
That summer, I realized I wanted to be a journalist. I learned that I could be a voice for people who couldn't speak for themselves, and that my voice was worth listening to. Deep inside, I think I always knew this would be my chosen path. I loved to write and create words that danced on the pages, just like my favorite authors. In my college application, it was already listed: "Major decided: Journalism and English." I don't recall choosing, but I'm grateful I listened to that voice in the back of my head in middle school.