Anjali Bali
Professor Kyle Hoehne
English 110
September 9, 2018
Art Imitating Life
The most pivotal moments of our lives can usually be remembered through the art we immersed ourselves in at the time. This can mean music, literature, poetry or whatever medium an artist chooses for self-expression. As a child, I fondly viewed literature and poetry as escapes from reality that I could live vicariously through. I would even make up my own fantastical worlds, which my family fawned over since I was the only child. However, it wasn’t until years later when I would discover the beauty of true self-expression through poetry and just how much I needed it.
During the first few weeks of seventh grade, my teacher tried tirelessly to engage us in the poetry unit we were studying. While I was interested, I had just endured a dark and somber period of my life following my grandfather’s passing. In addition to that loss, my parents decided to separate that year and things felt out of place. The concepts that had once made sense to me became abstract. The emotions that I struggled to suppress were unable to find a suitable outlet. This could have been due to the transition into adolescence or it could have been due to the series of unfortunate events occurring around me. Regardless of the reason, I needed an outlet and one fateful day of English class presented it to me.
I distinctly remember walking into class to find my teacher handing out flyers to every student who walked in. The flyers read “6th, 7th, 8th Grade Poetry Contest” and proceeded to describe how each class would select a winner to participate in the middle school contest. I contemplated for a bit but decided to shove the paper into the depths of my backpack, too afraid to consider participating in a contest. Everyone knew that I was quiet and nearly antisocial. The thought of me broadcasting my emotions to an unfamiliar audience seemed almost laughable. Once everyone was seated and prepared to listen, my teacher started off by mentioning that the classroom contest counted as an assignment. The class groaned, all sharing a general distaste for the word “assigned”. Our teacher went on to explain that whoever wins in the class will have their poem placed in the middle school newspaper alongside other winners’ poems. I caught myself getting excited at the thought of exploring my writing abilities and seeing if I was good enough to place. I grew up around poetry. The strong words of Maya Angelou that my mother read resonated with me. The dark tales of Edgar Allen Poe captivated me during class. The works of old Indian poetry read by my grandmother on my dad’s side incited interest in me as well. Poetry, I realized, was a beautiful piece of self-expression. I decided that day that I would at least try.
The next few days of class were daunting. We worked on rough drafts and were expected to allow our teacher to make small remarks on how to improve our writing. I was a prideful child and did not want to be critiqued on my writing, so I waited until the last day of rough drafts to hand mine to him. I sat patiently while he went through all the poems. I knew that for the first time, I put my heart and soul into words. I knew that even if he didn’t like it, or if there were errors, that I tried. My emotions and my fears became metaphors for flowers thriving and withering in a garden. I described the dreams that carried me to bliss and the ones that buried me deep in an abyss of insecurity and solitude. I still couldn’t help but feel my stomach churn while he went through the poems. We were supposed to be quietly reading but my eyes continuously darted to the front of the room, attempting to catch a glimpse of my work. However, he was unable to make any commentary on the poems that day since the class period ended so soon.
The next day began with thickening tension and suspense as we waited for the winner to be announced. The prelude to the announcement felt like a blur, I remember my heart pounding fiercely in my chest. I stared down at my hands nervously until a familiar stimulus jolted me from my spell. The sound of my name…followed by the sound of an applause. A sense of accomplishment and pride flooded my mind as I received a certificate. This small accomplishment was what prompted me to write more. It prompted me to use my voice and embrace being vulnerable around others. Less than a week later was the first time I had ever spoken publicly. I recited my poem with as much emotion and rigor as I had written it with. It felt liberating. There were parents, teachers and students alike expressing their awe when I was finished. This was a breakthrough. Throughout the rest of my years in middle and high school, I felt comfortable exposing myself to all sorts of poetry and submitting some of my own works for more competitions. In high school, one of my poems made it into a published book with other teen poets nationwide. It felt exhilarating to be able to express my life and my experiences into an artform that would be heard and appreciated by others.
One of the most enchanting things about poetry and other forms of literature in general, is that it represents some sort of self-expression. Sometimes it can be perceived through the underlying themes presented, the diction or the conflicts in the plot. It is a form of art. Through reading and writing poetry, I was able to open my mind and heart to raw emotion that would have otherwise been ignored and dormant. I was inspired to create. I write every day, whether it be sweet nothings on Post-Its or lengthy works derived from the soul. It is something that cannot be judged or stripped away. The most pivotal moments of our lives can usually be remembered by the art we immersed ourselves in at the time. I immerse myself in art every day because each day is a crucial piece of the story that is our lives. I want to remember all of it and so I will forever create my art imitating life.
Anjali Bali: Portfolio 