These hands, 

Stretched 

Broken 

Cracked, 

Filled with the liberty to create, 

Filled with a desire. 

Desire that burns. 

A desire that traces to every single vein, 

connecting to my heart 

pulsing rhythmic word. 

Changing thought to art. 

Changing soul to hymn. 

These hands entice me,  

These hands have changed me. 

From air to sound drifting in the wind. 

From withering to blossoming.

From sin to virtue. 

Carved with a delicacy that identifies me. 

These hands, Sacred, Cracked, Yet Beautiful, never fail to captivate me.

Untitled Poem by Me*

My first memory of Wooster is vague. The fog-induced rain and petrichor glaze over the image of walking in the middle of Beall. I wasn’t nervous or tinged with excitement, just numb, and I had already spent the past three months arguing with my family over my decision not to run track and field at the collegiate level. Ultimately, Wooster was the only school I applied to without posting recruitment videos, and they didn’t require SAT or ACT scores. 

What I do remember, was that the weather and soggy leaves mudding under my feet were fitting for someone who had given up and settled. As a first-generation student, the goal of college is to avoid self-expression and surmount all the struggles your parents had. My parents were not going into debt and taking out loans so I could find myself. Conversely, the only thing I intended to find was a law degree. 

Individualism was a gift and privilege not entitled to me. 

I remember planting my feet on the broken bits of concrete while sitting on the curb of the street. I had been leafing through the sodden pages of a study abroad packet while my parents grabbed the car. In all honesty, the condensation that escaped my lips was more enticing than attending college. I liked that I could control how shallow it was, the size of fog slowly inflating then disappearing into nothing amongst the foreground of passing cars. 

Individualism was a gift and privilege not entitled to me. 

I cried the first day I spent alone in my dormitory. I sent my family away early. I grieved for freedom lost since high school, where mistakes were innocent and didn’t result in the the loss of scholarships and my future. I grieved the idea that I would have to become an adult in a matter of months, and consistently justify my major. I grieved that those around me are weeded out by autonomy, while I am forced to stay in one place like a stagnant pond. 

In a way, not much has changed in my perspective. By sophomore year I had three jobs, participated in numerous organizations, concreted a life plan, and maintained my GPA. 

I still find individualism a luxury, but also a by-product of growing up.

It wasn’t defined or hallmarked with a warm smile after years of suffering when the credits rolled.  

I just realized one day that I had changed immeasurably.

Individualism was a gift and privilege not meant for me.