A little bit of courage

I realized this afternoon that I am a writing major, yet I hardly ever share any of my writing. Sure I've had Alyssa look over something or occasionally talked about a project in the works, but I never just put myself out there. Writing is such a personal experience for me. Not because I've had some terrible life situation or I write things that would somehow imply my "soul is a swirling black abyss," (actual comment from a literary journal editor at the national college media convention this fall about student poetry) but because I consider it a piece of myself that is somehow lost, given away, taken from me. But I've also realized that writing for myself is selfish, and impractical as a career option. So here is a short piece I turned in for my creative nonfiction class as part of a writer's notebook. It was written in response to the prompt "pick a place in nature that has meaning to you." And at first I was wholeheartedly against the prompt: transcendentalism nature writing (Emerson and the like) makes vomit a little in my mouth. But I went for it, and was actually pretty excited about where I ended up. So enjoy.

The dock squeaks when the current gets strong. After they open the dams, usually. The railing, chipped like a beat up chunk of plywood, seems to wail and moan with the weight of its memories. It’s the only secluded dock on that stretch of the river. Hidden behind the tall oak tree, a world of possibilities is revealed. A beaver’s lodge is wedged between the edge of the fading wood and the luscious green bank. At dusk you can get lucky and catch a glimpse of his tail as the beaver leaves his haven to explore his limited terrain.

During winter you can try to catch frozen chunks of river as they float by. The hinges on the bridge freeze over. It stops the squeaking, at least. The winter dock smells like desolation; even the ever-present whiffs of geese droppings fade into the arctic island. But during the summer, the smells of freshly-cut grass collide with the stench of river water, invading your senses with the idealism of all things pure. For the dock is not just an old, squeaking platform. It’s a way of life.

I never visited that dock until high school. My family always went to the Park St. end of the long a narrow city park. That’s where all the table and swings were anyway. The Albertson’s fried chicken would leave our fingers too greasy to make it across the monkey bars, so we would take turns wiping our hands off on the other sister’s shirt until the friction was just right. The dock was past our boundaries; it was beyond our experience.

But the dock became my rebellion. The edge of the wood was like the edge of my childhood. I could stand on the threshold, staring into the murky wet freedom just below me. I knew those two girl had drowned; they were different. They jumped in May, not August. The water was swifter then. I would be fine. I had a towel in the backseat of my Nova just to make sure they couldn't find a drop of water on the driver’s seat.

So I jumped. I hit the water of my adolescence and gasped at the frigid waves that flooded over my head. Once I gained by breath back I kicked to the surface and bobbed for a moment. I stared back at that dock, at what I had left behind. And I knew I could never really climb back on.