In the sixth grade, my teacher read a story I wrote and she offered me the chance to share it to our class. I sat in the front row of all the desks, overly aware that my crush was a mere few feet away. I opened my bright blue marble composition notebook on my lap, anxious at the thought that my classmates might not like this story. Sixth grade is the start of it all, isn’t it? Your awareness of others. Your shift in consciousness to now include them…But before the “what ifs” could roll in too quickly, my teacher gave me the nod and I began to read. Page after scribbled page, I read this story of a little boy who has to avenge his father’s death by hinting down the killer…A little intense for sixth grade, I know, but what can I say? I had probably just watched another James Bond movie with Grandpa.
So there I was, pouring out this story, and there they sat, an audience. Now, granted, some of them begged me to wrap it up already so we could go out to recess. Others’ eyes dropped in dismal disappointment. I’m pretty sure my crush was busy eating a glue stick. Eleven years old and even I wasn’t stupid enough to believe a single person sat in awe of me or my words. But then again, eleven years old and I saw: Stories can give you a seat at the table. Not everyone might be thrilled about it, but you’re there. And for a split second before James Hoffman eats the glue or Lacey Monroe shoots you the stink eye or Vincent Soreca tells you to shut up already, you’ve got their attention.
a scribble of jo 