Entry # 03.
Expressive Writing.
A liberating craft, unconstrained by structure, a cornucopia of content. Three dozen kids come together, most to develop their writing skills, some to seek avenue for their material, a few to find solace in the company of like-minded souls. Theoretical talk is centered mostly on the art and science of expressive writing, how it tinkers with the brain and how our mushy self-aware organ responds to the cathartic craft. Sound knowledge is conveyed, questions answered, sentiments ignited. Finally, it is time to put the pen on fire.
The meeting room goes quiet, screens go blank, the humdrum of activity from facilitating a class is dwindled to the sound of migrating birds, lapping waves and humming centralized air vents. I am once again in my apartment, although I never truly left. Half an hour of time back to myself, I pondered on my learners. They were curious, interesting and still completely unknown. Ultimately, not for long.
Screens zip back up, the class once again reconvenes, and the next minute it diverges. It is fun assimilating the intricacies of modern day learning, and as I am still dizzy with enthralment in the newness of online teaching, I get ushered into a smaller meeting room. More intimate, more pronounced. They read. One by one, they read. The personal masterpieces organically created from the brief period I gave them, fresh from the coaxing of a session born out of a craft that is not entirely new, are poured out to fulfill the hungry listener, to feed the wanting ear. My learners read their material. They welcome us into their minds.
Imagine thirty-two stories painted with words, each one unique, each one emotionally authentic, each one heartbreakingly true. I wish I can read them all to you, but for now, we take it easy, and instantaneously, somehow hard. Let me show you Entry Number Three.
"In Silence.
On the day that the city announced classes would be suspended, my friends and I ran as quickly as we could to get our thesis printed and submitted. It was a Friday, and I remember we were forced to come back to school on the next Monday and Tuesday just to have our finals over with. Although that plan never pushed through, we spent weeks finishing up projects to be submitted online. I would’ve been fine with it. I’m lucky I’m privileged enough to own gadgets where I could comfortably do my work. Sometimes, I could even use it to practice my art and earn money from it. However, I do go to a public school. The words “online classes” still ring in my ears, but I’m sure I have classmates who haven’t even heard of the news yet. I had friends who didn’t know that we weren’t allowed to come back to school on the next Monday, friends who were not able to have their name listed on projects because they weren’t able to help, even friends who live in at risk areas, but we don’t know how they are. I didn’t really bother with this thought at first. I was just excited and angry. Excited that the finals would be cancelled, but angry that the government didn’t do anything earlier. Because I didn’t think about it a lot back then, I would usually find myself doing one productive thing every day during March, then scroll through Twitter just to pass the hours. As much as I tried to tie myself together with the fake illusion of productivity, I was falling apart at the stories of underprivileged Filipinos who have been arrested, who barely have anything left to eat. Of course, I had to voice out my opinions. To be honest, I was never into politics a few months back, but ever since I was tasked to debate in class, I witnessed many different stories that are better resources than official publications and scientific journals. I don’t understand why it’s so easy for other people to believe scientific evidence, but cannot believe real life stories. I cannot fathom how people can look into someone else’s eyes and doubt what they go through. Throughout the next three months, I have been very vocal about my stand regarding politics and how the government is not able to provide for the unprivileged. I try to speak, but all others do is shut me off and say “I’m not doing anything to make the situation better.” It pains me that it has to be that way. It pains me that all I can ever do is listen to stories on the Internet. Stories of real people that cannot be heard from a high horse. I wondered, is the world really just all about money? Is that how selfish everything is? I didn’t agree with any sentiment made, but I stayed quiet. There’s no point making an effort for a future that won’t arrive. If we aren’t allowed to work on it now, fix whatever is broken in the system, then I don’t think it’s worth living up to. I guess that’s why my past three months haven’t been productive at all. I’m out of hope that any of this will ever make sense, or if any of this will ever be worth it, or if any of this will ever end. I wish we hadn’t walked all the way to the print shop on the last day of school under the hot summer sun, just to get that thesis printed and submitted. There’s hardly any point in its existence now. I wish I had said something else."Author does not wish to remain anonymous, so we create her image and picture her name in the thousand-and-some words that came before this. But if you wish to know more about her, we ascertain that you can. All you have to do, is read her work again. For that is what we gain, when we embrace Expressive Writing.
#dancinginthestrain
Penned by Zane