That's Why I Write

“When I am too sad and too skinny to keep keeping, when I am a tiny thing against so many bricks, then it is I look at trees. When there is nothing left to look at on this street. Four who grew despite concrete. Four who reach and do not forget to reach. Four whose only reason is to be and be.” When I read it, I feel as if it is written for me. Like those skinny trees, I also grew up despite concrete. Like skinny trees, I always feel an outsider in the group people. Like them, I always feel tiny. And I am one whose only reason is to be and be.

I  am one, who never loved by the mass. I am one, who always sits at the corner and thinks about her own stuffy world. Considers herself so boring. So idiosyncratic. Sometimes I think that I have to write my own story. The story of my ugliness. The story of my unbelongingness. The story of my hard work. The story of my pain. The story of my uniqueness. But I am not a good writer. Most of the time, I write about myself. I tell my own stories. I tell my own secrets because there is nothing worth to tell about others. I never have any good experience with an outer world. Any pleasant experience at all. People always considered me badly born, ugly, someone who is good for nothing. Sometimes they questioned over my size, sometimes over my colour, sometimes on my nature. So, I want to make my own story. Story of my own journey. And one day I will have a story to inspire my daughter.

From childhood, I always like to tell stories. One day I will tell a story about a girl who didn’t want to belong. Or people did not include her in their dictionary. Because of her tiny body, black complexion and her idiosyncratic nature. But people are unknown about her own mental journey. Innocent girl to mature girl. Stereotypical to a self-conscious girl. If you think she is other than you are wrong. She is me.

Similarly, sometimes I think that I am here to listen to many bitter words. Sometimes grandmother told me that you wouldn’t get a good life partner because of your outlook. When I listened to those things, sometimes I felt bad. Mostly I kept quiet and wrote something. But  I feel there is a limitation of language too. We cannot able to express in words what we exactly feel at the movement. Recently one night I CRIED CRIED N CRIED whole night or up to morning. Most of the time I don't want to show my tears to others, it is a ridiculous job. It is something people don’t want to see.

Sometimes I feel that I have a different journey of life. And If I WRITE those things, it might resemble other's life too. But mostly I write all the stuffy experiences of my life. That is only to express me. Only to explore me. Nothing more nothing less.

Instead of that, I am that person who never imagined to be good, excellent in any area. So, I ALWAYS imagine my life would be like that, “Not a flat. Not an apartment in the back. Not a man’s house. Not a daddy’s. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody’s garbage to pick up after.” But it is fiction, there is a vast difference between life and fiction. But I always found myself in Esperanza, the main protagonist of THE HOUSE ON MANGO STREET.  If someone asks me which character of the fiction that you read is similar to you I always say Esperanza. I identify myself with her. Like her, I achieved my maturity by observing the girls of my surroundings, but I never wanted to be like them. Never feel a sense of belonging where I am living. Judgemental. Story wRIter. Poet. Like her, I am an ugly daughter. I am one nobody comes for. This is the one never-ending dialogue which my relatives have been telling me since my childhood. Sometimes I tell if nobody comes then I will live the happiest life. Like Esperanza, I have begun my own quiet war. Simple, Sure. I am one who leaves the table like man, without putting back the chair or picking up the plate. But the people call me a feminist. Some people call me a radical feminist. But literally, I enjoy it in a sense that I have awareness about my status in my own community and society.

There is one situation in the novel, “The House on Mango Street which I like most, when Esperanza’s aunt tells her, “You just remember to keep writing, Esperanza. You must keep writing. It will keep you free, and I said yes, but at that time I didn’t know what she meant.” I like it because it is so near to my heart. Because I also feel that I write so I am free from my own bad or evil experiences. I ponder all my insecurities, bad fortune and all those things in the paper. I almost write all my life. But mostly I write when I feel bad when my friends hurt me when they ignore me when relatives say no one comes for you because you are ugly when people say you do not get a job because of your physical structure. When my brother says you are good for nothing. I usually write when I overcome these circumstances. I write because I have no one so close to telling those things. So, pen and paper give me full freedom to express myself. Sometimes I CRY with them. Sometimes I laugh. Without them, I am nobody and my life is nothing. Sometimes I think this beautiful habit will make me a different person. I know, one day my parents will be proud of me. It will stop the mouth of my relatives. But for that, I  have to cross my own silent journey. The journey from silence to silence. I know, writing is not an easy task. It needs devotion and hard work. It is like a journey of life that we learn out of our own mistakes. It demands lots of hard work. But I never frighten with hard work.

Today I almost write my whole life. I write a lot of things about myself. Good or bad. Pleasant or worse. Cheerful or depressing one.

At last, I want to say, I like to tell stories. Stories about myself. Stories about my friends. Stories about my parents. Stories about my bad fortune. Mostly, I tell my stories to my pen and paper. They are my good friends. Those who listen to me seriously. Sometimes they laugh with me. Sometimes they cry with me. Sometimes they angry with me when I paper my own realities. I DON’T know WHY but I LOVE them.  Maybe because they give me a warm company whether in bad or in good condition like a good friend.