Happy MLK Jr. Day

Nearly 20 years ago, I won a local MLK Jr. essay contest. I was twelve, and the winners in other age categories and I were invited to speak at a banquet honoring Dr. King. There were hundreds of people at the banquet, and I was petrified, but I was also terribly proud of myself. I'd gotten a $75 savings bond and a big pat on the back from my parents, my teachers, and even my principal. (Those of you who know me know that I thrive on pats on the back.)

But even as a kid, even when I was walking up to the microphone during the banquet, I suspected the contest judges had made a mistake. This wasn't modesty--I've had a classic writer's ego all my life. Instead, I had a vague feeling that I'd managed to infuse my essay with the proper emotions not necessarily because I was articulating something real in me, but because I'd learned enough about the form to employ a few simple techniques, such as using a quote from King and letting his eloquence close out my essay. I felt a little like a fake.

(Keep in mind, this was also the year I won a personal-narrative contest for writing about a best friend who died in my arms Christmas Eve. My language-arts teacher had told us--I swear!--that personal narratives could be made up, even though they're generally, um, not. Of course, my narrative was completely untrue and entirely inspired by Beaches, much to the chagrin of the contest runner-up, who'd written with brutal honesty about the time she accidentally ate rabbit poop.)

Maybe it's too much to expect that I would have, at twelve, looked across the banquet crowd and understood that most of the people in the audience had been around for the Civil Rights Movement, that most of them could remember what life had been like before King and others gained voice, that King's work affects all of us, and that the Movement wasn't an era that had tidily ended with his life. I don't know what criteria the contest judges were working with, if they were seeking authenticity or an accurate portrayal of King or good grammar or what. I don't think I tricked anyone, exactly. First, I wasn't mature enough or smart enough to do that. Second, I do think I felt something when I wrote my essay, but I suspect those emotions were akin to the emotions I felt when singing "The Wind Beneath My Wings" to myself in my bedroom mirror. Basically, shallow and highly self-conscious. Could I have been capable of more? I don't know. The only ages I'm familiar with these days, from a developmental standpoint, are thirty-two and one.

Today, I read student writing for a living. Often, I'll read the work of a student who's nailed the academic voice or who has a great ear for rhythm and syntax, but who seems, to me, at least, more concerned with form than substance. I think the two are intertwined, but I also worry about what happens when saying something the right way takes precedence over what's being said. (Current discussions about the role of political rhetoric have me thinking about this even more right now.) My worries take me back to that essay contest and, although I guess I can give myself a little break for being a selfish twelve-year-old, I do think I took from that experience a fledgling sense of how important having empathy and something at stake is to a writer. I'm still self-conscious and probably shallow--this post is trite to me--but I want to move in the right direction. The difference this year, since Bean's been around, is that I don't just want to be a better writer (I've always wanted that, and anyway, that's really about me again), but I want to be, finally, a better participant in the good things people are trying to do in this world.