I began writing when I was fifteen years old after a close friend’s brother committed suicide. I remember the day like it was yesterday. On May 9th 1995, I picked up a pen and began pouring out emotions onto paper. The first piece I wrote was about a young boy coping with drug abuse, depression and suicide. I named it, “Whatever happened to John Doe?” I thought it was some sort of overnight inspiration that would come and go, but the next day I found myself writing again, and the next day, and the next. I filled page after page about sadness, sorrow, depression, anger, and sometimes I tried to find hope inside myself, love. No matter how much I wrote, I never had direction to use my writing effectively other than as a vehicle for venting bitterness.
I am now a senior in college, seven years after that turning point in my life. I’ve taken many constructive courses at Plymouth State to strengthen my writing skills; such as Technical Writing, Organizational Communication, Creative Writing, Scriptwriting, and the list goes on. Yet, out of all the courses I’ve ever taken to further my education, none have been as beneficial to me, as a writer, as Mr. Bonnet’s Creative Writing class my senior year in high school.
Mr. Bonnet never treated any student like a high school student; we were treated as if we were already in college. His assignments were demanding, like writing a story with all the characters being the opposite sex of the writer. That may not sound difficult, but writing characters of the opposite sex and making them believable with little to no formal writing experience is a challenge. He challenged us with words; such as verisimilitude, catharsis and integral, words I never heard outside his classroom till I came to college. Above all, he encouraged us. Unfortunately, I don’t think many students realized that, since most of them were more interested in what next weekend’s plans were. I remember sitting in the midst of all the chatterboxes, waiting for Mr. Bonnet to hush them. He was the one teacher I had in high school who never bothered yelling over students to make them be quiet. Typically he would wait, then start speaking in a normal tone. When he would begin, most of the class was ready to listen. Students ceased their gabbing, which no longer protected the left over gossipers from exposing their juicy stories for all to hear. When that enlightening moment came to the busybodies to silence, it typically came with embarrassment.
Only days before high school graduation, the seniors sat in the gymnasium upon display for the rest of the high school students to gawk and paw all over. It’s not like any of us ever did anything significant…except get through the four years of the living hell we called high school. I sat among the ranks of the female white cap and gown students, staring into space. Disappearing into my own thoughts was more entertaining than watching the same five high honor roll students get up to receive award after award. I was deep in a daydream with the company of my characters locked inside my head, when suddenly the girl in front of me turned around and looked at me. At first I thought she caught my vibe of staring at the back of her head, which made me blink awake from my lack of cognizance behavior. Then I heard over the loud speaker, “Is she here?” Everyone who sat around me was staring at me. “What?” I asked and then shortly heard, “Bethany Gates for the Creative Writing award.” “Holy shit!” I exclaimed. I got up and marched to the podium. I felt a sense of accomplishment without even realizing there was anything to accomplish in the first place. I looked over at the high honor students who were insulted that it wasn’t awarded to any of them. With my award in hand, I smirked and marched back into the ranks.
Not too long before graduation, I caught Mr. Bonnet after class. “It was you who chose the student for the Creative Writing award wasn’t it?” I asked. He never said so. Instead he smiled. “Thank you,” I said. As I started to leave he said, “You’re welcome.” It wasn’t necessarily Mr. Bonnet’s lectures, teaching new definitions or assignments that make me grateful for his class. It was how he opened my eyes to a different way of expression.
If you aren’t part of the “right crowd” in high school, it can be rough. After May 9th 1995 I became very quiet and kept to myself. When you go through a hard time, such as trying to understand suicide at the age of fifteen, and you don’t verbalize your t houghts, it can lead to repressed feelings. Writing thoughts and emotions you feel is only the beginning. It’s constructing and using the thoughts and emotions that make a writer. As Mr. Bonnet once said, “Good writer’s write a lot. It doesn’t matter what is being written as long as something is being written.”