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morrigirlWant to hear something lame? Now that I have some publications under my belt I've decided it's finally time to apply to graduate school. I think an admissions committee might be willing to look past my shitty undergraduate transcripts if they see that I have been crafting poetry on my own, going through the submissions process, and getting my work into print. If I can prove that I am committed then I might get in.
That's not the lame part.
This is the lame part: I've been sitting here working on an application essay which asks me to describe my development as a writer in 500 words or less. Since poetry is my area of concentration I've decided to focus on my development as a poet. I was writing about the experience that got me interested in poetry in the first place, and I got all teary eyed! How lame is THAT?!
I'm turning into a wimp. Just yesterday I was telling![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gender_euphoric that over the last couple of years I have turned into one of those overly-sentimental saps I once laughed at. Like the people who cry during Zales commercials. I still think crying at commercials is one of the dumbest things a person can do, but now I do it. It's retarded.
What especially retarded about today's weepiness is that I have written about my introduction to poetry TONS of times and it has never made me cry. Sure, it was one of the defining moments of my life, an experience I will remember until the day I die, but it wasn't anything tear inducing.
I don't know what's different about today or what's different with me. I wish I had an explanation as to why I've turned into a cry-baby. It would be nice to watch television without a box of Kleenex in my lap.
Anyway, that moment of teariness made me go digging for a piece I wrote last year detailing my introduction to poetry. I didn't write it for the purpose of submission or anything like that. I wrote it for myself, so I'd always have a crisp account of that moment available to me. I've always wanted to post it here but just never got around to it. So, I'll do it now.
I give you
Gains
It is 1993 and I have just turned fourteen. It’s nearing midnight and I am sitting crossed legged in front of the television set flipping listlessly through the channels. There is nothing on. There is never anything on. My mother is even considering canceling our premium movie channels because they never show anything we want to watch. I barely pay attention to the programming passing before me. I finger the threads of the olive green carpet that is about ten years older than I am. The fibers have been mashed flat, each one wearing dirt like a second skin. I have lived here all my life and I’ve never seen it get shampooed, years of habitual foot traffic having lead to complacency on my mother’s part.
MTV is my last resort, not because I dislike it, but because it’s the place where I am most likely to find something worthy of my attention. I like saving the best for last. When I turn it on a young man in baggy jeans, a baseball cap, and a jacket that is far too big for him is taking a small stage. He carries a microphone and when he brings it to his mouth it’s not singing or crooning that comes out, but words. He is talking, only he's not. His words are rhythmic and rhyming, but he isn’t rapping either. He moves along with his words, punctuating his thoughts with a calculated swagger, glare, or gesture. He speaks directly to the audience, yet he inhabits the space so easily and unconsciously you’d think he was alone. I listen.
my air jordans cost a hundred with tax
my suede starters jacket says raiders on the back
i'm stylin . . . smilin . . . lookin real mean cuz
it ain't about bein heard just bein seen
I know this refrain. I hear it everyday at school. I am the only person there who doesn’t care what she looks like. Everyone else is all into designer clothes, and making sure their shirt matches their shoes, even the boys. People make fun of me because I don’t know how to put an outfit together. I don’t understand why I should learn. I listen.
my crew's laughin at me cuz i'm wearin old gear
school's almost over summer is near
and i'm sportin torn jordans and need somethin new
there's only one thing left to do
I know what he is talking about. Over the last few months the eleven o’clock news has reported case after case of teenagers murdering other teenagers in order to steal their name brand clothing. Sneakers, jackets, handbags, it’s all fair game. These reports always make me glad I shop at the Gap. This man, this young black man, has assumed the stereotypical persona of the thing his predominantly white audience is most afraid of: young black men. He is committed to the part. He speaks with attitude, with authority, with the conviction that he is only doing what is absolutely necessary. It’s pure theatre, pure performance, pure poetry. That’s what this is, it’s poetry! I’m watching a poet perform poetry. I have never seen anything like it. Not eight weeks earlier I told my creative writing teacher that poetry was the lowest form of art. When asked why I thought that I said it was because poetry didn’t make any sense. By that I meant that I didn’t understand what little classical poetry I had been exposed to. The language was impenetrable. I didn’t see why poets employed so much symbolism and metaphor. Why couldn’t they just come out and say what they meant? Why did they create writing like a safe they expected the reader to crack? But this guy on the TV isn’t doing that. He is clear and concise. His words are accessible and the topic relevant. It forces the audience to examine their own feelings of discomfort. This is art, theatre, and social commentary all rolled up into one arresting package. I am hypnotized as the speaker describes following a young boy and shooting him for his pristine Air Jordans. He delivers the final stanza with a smirk on his face.
the very next day i bopped into school
with my brand new air jordans man was i cool
i killed to get them but hey . . . i don't care
cuz now. . . i needs a new jacket to wear
It is terrifying. There is a moment of silence, then applause as an MC runs out on stage and yells “Give it up for Reg E. Gaines.” Reg E. bows, and I clap, letting out the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. I am astounded. I didn’t know you could do that with poetry. I am even more astounded when I grin and whisper to no one in particular, “I want to do that.”
That's not the lame part.
This is the lame part: I've been sitting here working on an application essay which asks me to describe my development as a writer in 500 words or less. Since poetry is my area of concentration I've decided to focus on my development as a poet. I was writing about the experience that got me interested in poetry in the first place, and I got all teary eyed! How lame is THAT?!
I'm turning into a wimp. Just yesterday I was telling
gender_euphoric that over the last couple of years I have turned into one of those overly-sentimental saps I once laughed at. Like the people who cry during Zales commercials. I still think crying at commercials is one of the dumbest things a person can do, but now I do it. It's retarded. What especially retarded about today's weepiness is that I have written about my introduction to poetry TONS of times and it has never made me cry. Sure, it was one of the defining moments of my life, an experience I will remember until the day I die, but it wasn't anything tear inducing.
I don't know what's different about today or what's different with me. I wish I had an explanation as to why I've turned into a cry-baby. It would be nice to watch television without a box of Kleenex in my lap.
Anyway, that moment of teariness made me go digging for a piece I wrote last year detailing my introduction to poetry. I didn't write it for the purpose of submission or anything like that. I wrote it for myself, so I'd always have a crisp account of that moment available to me. I've always wanted to post it here but just never got around to it. So, I'll do it now.
I give you
Gains
It is 1993 and I have just turned fourteen. It’s nearing midnight and I am sitting crossed legged in front of the television set flipping listlessly through the channels. There is nothing on. There is never anything on. My mother is even considering canceling our premium movie channels because they never show anything we want to watch. I barely pay attention to the programming passing before me. I finger the threads of the olive green carpet that is about ten years older than I am. The fibers have been mashed flat, each one wearing dirt like a second skin. I have lived here all my life and I’ve never seen it get shampooed, years of habitual foot traffic having lead to complacency on my mother’s part.
MTV is my last resort, not because I dislike it, but because it’s the place where I am most likely to find something worthy of my attention. I like saving the best for last. When I turn it on a young man in baggy jeans, a baseball cap, and a jacket that is far too big for him is taking a small stage. He carries a microphone and when he brings it to his mouth it’s not singing or crooning that comes out, but words. He is talking, only he's not. His words are rhythmic and rhyming, but he isn’t rapping either. He moves along with his words, punctuating his thoughts with a calculated swagger, glare, or gesture. He speaks directly to the audience, yet he inhabits the space so easily and unconsciously you’d think he was alone. I listen.
my air jordans cost a hundred with tax
my suede starters jacket says raiders on the back
i'm stylin . . . smilin . . . lookin real mean cuz
it ain't about bein heard just bein seen
I know this refrain. I hear it everyday at school. I am the only person there who doesn’t care what she looks like. Everyone else is all into designer clothes, and making sure their shirt matches their shoes, even the boys. People make fun of me because I don’t know how to put an outfit together. I don’t understand why I should learn. I listen.
my crew's laughin at me cuz i'm wearin old gear
school's almost over summer is near
and i'm sportin torn jordans and need somethin new
there's only one thing left to do
I know what he is talking about. Over the last few months the eleven o’clock news has reported case after case of teenagers murdering other teenagers in order to steal their name brand clothing. Sneakers, jackets, handbags, it’s all fair game. These reports always make me glad I shop at the Gap. This man, this young black man, has assumed the stereotypical persona of the thing his predominantly white audience is most afraid of: young black men. He is committed to the part. He speaks with attitude, with authority, with the conviction that he is only doing what is absolutely necessary. It’s pure theatre, pure performance, pure poetry. That’s what this is, it’s poetry! I’m watching a poet perform poetry. I have never seen anything like it. Not eight weeks earlier I told my creative writing teacher that poetry was the lowest form of art. When asked why I thought that I said it was because poetry didn’t make any sense. By that I meant that I didn’t understand what little classical poetry I had been exposed to. The language was impenetrable. I didn’t see why poets employed so much symbolism and metaphor. Why couldn’t they just come out and say what they meant? Why did they create writing like a safe they expected the reader to crack? But this guy on the TV isn’t doing that. He is clear and concise. His words are accessible and the topic relevant. It forces the audience to examine their own feelings of discomfort. This is art, theatre, and social commentary all rolled up into one arresting package. I am hypnotized as the speaker describes following a young boy and shooting him for his pristine Air Jordans. He delivers the final stanza with a smirk on his face.
the very next day i bopped into school
with my brand new air jordans man was i cool
i killed to get them but hey . . . i don't care
cuz now. . . i needs a new jacket to wear
It is terrifying. There is a moment of silence, then applause as an MC runs out on stage and yells “Give it up for Reg E. Gaines.” Reg E. bows, and I clap, letting out the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. I am astounded. I didn’t know you could do that with poetry. I am even more astounded when I grin and whisper to no one in particular, “I want to do that.”
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-10 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-10 04:20 am (UTC)Naturally, I'm going to apply to Sarah Lawrence. That's the whole reason I took my job in the first place, so I could go to grad school for free. (Unfortunately, since SLC only lets staff take one free class per term I could end up being in grad school forever unless I receive some very nice grant aid.)
I'm considering Brooklyn College. I'm also considering out-of-state low-residency programs. Right now I'm feeling pretty good about Ashland University in Ohio. They have a dual MFA program in poetry AND creative nonficition.
And there are a couple programs I'm feeling kind of wishy-washy about - Lesley University in Cambridge,MA, and Bennington in Montpelier, VT. Still need more information before I decide if they are worth pursuing.
And that's about it! Most of the other MFA programs I've looked at, both NYC metro area and out-of-state low-residency just don't meet my needs. I need a school that won't require me to move or quit my job. I need it to be cheap. I need to have an actual shot at getting in.