"A Poem Lovely As a Tree" - Part Two (the wounded writer series)

In Part 1 I shared how, at the very start of my creative journey as a writer, my grade school teacher all but accused me of plagiarizing a poem I wrote, and then confiscated it from me. 

This is Part Two of that story.

 At this point my sense of failure obscured the seed of rage that wouldn’t fully bloom until much later in my adulthood, when I finally began to realize my self-worth as an individual and a writer.

I of course reported the incident to my mother. While I hoped that she would march into Mrs. Bloom’s classroom the next morning and demand my poem back, my teacher never faced any consequences that ever knew of. But I waited patiently until the end of the school year.

Mrs. Bloom dealt her final blow on the last day of school. I waited until all the other kids had cleared out. The halls were empty. Classroom windows and doors were open so the air could circulate. A warm, early-June breeze whispered into the hallway and rustled the discarded papers that never made it into a book bag or the trash.

I walked to Mrs. Bloom’s classroom where she sat at her desk, preparing to start her own summer vacation. I approached her with much more trepidation that I had all those months ago, and she greeted me with all of the same ire and irritation she had before. I asked her to return my poem with a reminder of her promise to me. She said: “Oh, I don’t have it anymore.” I heard “Why are you bothering me, stupid girl! Why would I have kept your worthless poem?”

Did I implore Mrs. Bloom to look for it? Maybe. Did she? I wonder. It’s entirely possible that my wounded memory blotted these parts out.

No, disappointment doesn’t even begin to cover it. This experience was a triple threat to my confidence and sense of self-worth: first Mrs. Bloom questioned my integrity by doubting that I had penned the poem; then she committed theft by confiscating my poem; and in the end she further betrayed my trust in her by carelessly tossing it and failing to return it to me as promised.

I’m not without empathy, which has actually been an important part of the healing of this wound. Because whatever creative wound that thwarted Mrs. Bloom’s desire to become a poet is what embittered her and motivated her destructiveness. 

As for my mother, God only knows how hard it must have been for a single, divorced woman to raise and care for me, much less wage war on my behalf over a poem. 

I chose to keep writing. Not long after I lost my poem to Mrs. Bloom (I was unsuccessful at recreating it beyond the first two lines), I wrote my first book in the third grade. My first three books, actually, and my mom was a great help and support—she typed the pages of one, sewed the binding for all three, and took me shopping for colored contact paper for the covers. I won a Young Author’s award for the first one, and I still have them on my bookshelf.

I also chose to write through every creative wound I endured in the years since then, and there have been many. But each one holds a hidden gem; each creative wound has shown me a new facet of my worth and strength, and each has served to confirm who I am and what I do.

Are your creative wounds holding you back in your writing practice? Let's talk.

I’m a writer of magical realism, a mentor to women writers of all ages, and a story magic archaeologist. I hold an MFA in Creative Writing, and I live in Los Angeles with my husband and our two Imp Muses (cats) Stanley and Sofia. Join my mailing list and receive eligibility for a free touchstone call in support of your writing practice.

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