Dear Poetry Class from my Freshman Year of College,

I'm addressing every single one of you that took the class with me, though none of you will read this. I was a freshman, it was my first semester at College of Charleston, and I loved to write poetry. At this point, I thought I was going to be a double major in Secondary Education and English with a concentration in creative writing. I had already taken the freshman level English classes so I decided to take this poetry class with the idea that I would be in there with second, third, fourth, or even fifth years with the possibility of a few other freshman. I thought there was no way I would be the youngest one in there.

I couldn't be more wrong.

Every one of my classmates was in grad school. The class was to further them into their writing careers. Needless to say, I was intimidated. I had been told for years that I was an excellent writer in my own unique ways. I mean that is what writers do. We're all different, we have different styles. Literature and poetry and screenplays and really everything would be incredibly boring if we all wrote or talked the same.

In this poetry class, we were supposed to write a poem once a week. The professor would give us the prompt on a Thursday with the intentions of us turning them in the following Thursday. Towards the end of semester, our professor tells us to choose two of our personal favorite poems. We were told to print out enough copies of the poems for everyone to have a copy including ourselves and the professor. I was extremely proud of the two I chose. One was about how I thought I was a bad Christian while the other was a poem describing the emptiness I felt when I lost someone close to me. We were to read the poems aloud to the class and listen to them criticize our work for fifteen minutes.

We were not allowed to say anything during those fifteen minutes.

When the time was up, we were only allowed to say, "Thank you" and we would move on to the next person. I was confident that they would not be cruel about my poems. I mean my professor had read them and loved them, only asking me to make minor revisions.

I read the poem about being a bad Christian first. I listened to them completely butcher my poem. They had nothing good to say about it whatsoever and I had to take it all in. They were not kind. My professor had to jump in to try and save a sliver of my dignity. He failed. I thanked them, holding back my tears as I waited for them to pass me the printed copies back to me. As if hearing their snarky remarks wasn't enough, I had to read them too.

One guy literally marked out the entire poem and wrote, "Why are you even in this class?" He left two lines unmarked out of thirty three. TWO.

I thought I was good enough to be in that class with them. I mean obviously I had to be if I was a freshman among grad students. But that day, they made me never want to write again. They made me want to give it all up, leaving my stories untold and forgotten. I was close.

I had a poem due the next week on whatever I wanted it to be about. I waited until the night before it was due to write it. I stayed up all night with what I thought was writer's block but it was really me telling myself I'll never be a writer and why not? Because I let a class full of intimidating grad students get to me.

When it came time to read my other poem a couple weeks later, I checked out for the entire fifteen minutes. I did not want to hear them say what I was already thinking: You shouldn't be in this class. You aren't good enough to be here. You're just smart, that's how you wound up here.

It wasn't until finals when I had my final individual meeting with my professor that I found out the truth.

He told me that my poems were the most entertaining ones he'd read that semester. He said that he knew the only reason why my classmates were so hard on me was because they were upset that a nineteen year old was on the same level as them. In truth, they were jealous. To my surprise, he went on to say that my poem on being a bad Christian had become his favorite poem because it was relatable.

I didn't give up writing that day but I did take a break. I have not written a poem since the class ended and I have no idea if I'll ever start back writing poetry.

So to the poetry class that almost made me stop doing what I love, thank you but screw you.

You made me question my talent, my worth. I had an existential crisis because I thought what the hell am I supposed to do if I'm not a writer? But here I am, still writing and I'll be damned if I let any of you tell me that I don't belong here because I do. I may just sign a copy of my book for you one day, we'll see.

Sincerely,

The Girl that DIDN'T Give Up