Back to My Roots
This week I had the privilege of reading at two elementary schools in Ottawa. I spent Tuesday and Thursday morning in libraries pits (remember those?), reading my book to children. Homemade signs sat in October-themed book displays, kindergarteners squirmed with anticipation, grade six girls giggled with each other as they found spots, and all eyes fell on me.
And Lorelei.
Me walking into my old elementary school.
In total, I spoke with around 120 kids aged three to eleven. We used my book to discuss invisible disability, how accommodations aren’t always obvious, and the importance of thinking independently when voting. Older students extrapolated the message to fit their strengths and weaknesses. One used his autism as an example of how he is unique.
I could have cried with how quickly they grasped the point or audibly gasped in parts of the story.
Though there were many well-thought-out questions, the youngest audience members had the most entertaining ones. They clawed at my ankles chiming in with urgent queries like why do lemmings have eyes, are lemmings real, and do you like my shoes?
The kids trying to figure out lemmings.
The school librarian asked when I knew I would be an author, and I recalled the day. I was in the same school, exactly 20 years before in grade three. The halls seemed bigger, the library more intimidating, and adults were a foreign species.
I wrote a story about a tree for a creative writing assignment. Not just any tree, but one who was angry with life. He couldn’t fathom that other creatures could walk while he was stuck in the soil. He was furious but ultimately powerless to change his circumstance.
All bark and no bite (sorry I had to).
My teacher loved it. So much, in fact, that she read it over the PA system to the whole school. I was at once mortified and motivated - a concoction of emotions I recreate every week with this blog. That’s the first time I remember the thrill of someone else liking my work.
Frankly, I’ve been chasing that high ever since.
This week I was drunk with it.
I already looked the part, that’s for sure.
I wrote Lorelei in a basement apartment at the start of the pandemic. I had no idea if the final version would resonate with young minds, nor did I really think any of them would get to experience it.
Watching their reactions in real time was validating. It clicked for me that I wrote something good - something that at least a few kids will remember, and maybe even enjoy. There are copies in elementary school libraries that may help them with reading. There are discussions happening around the symbolism of my words. There are young people who will reminisce on Lorelei as a character from their childhood.
I’m an author.
Near the end of the sessions, I asked the kids if they wanted to write their own books. Over half raised their hands. I was blown away by the unbridled confidence. At some point, most of us stop believing in ourselves so outwardly. Our arms stay firmly rooted in place, and we stick to the lanes we know.
Being around a group that still revels in their own potential is thrilling. It reminds me that, 20 years ago, I would have shot my hand straight up too.
Between now and then, there have been many moments where I doubted myself. There are still days when I wonder why any of you bother to read this blog. I see the flaws in Lorelei that I wish I had tweaked a little more, and I think I’m kidding myself that I can make it in the ruthless publishing sector.
Walking into the schools, I felt like an imposter. I figured I only had the opportunities because my parents were teachers, not because of my merit as a writer. I got up to read silently praying that the kids would like what I had to say or think my drawings were good enough.
I left with a thousand new ideas swirling in my head. Students told me the parts they loved, some came up to give me hugs, and others left talking about what they were going to write at home. And, in each session, someone asked me the best question of all:
“Do you have more books you can read us?”
To which I could only reply, “Not yet.”
As a special treat, here’s the story I wrote in grade three. My mom and I spent hours digging through old memory boxes and found dozens of gems. It’s amazing to be reminded of your own creativity, even when the humour is unintentional.
For fun, I’ve kept some of the more outlandish spelling, but I have added some edits to make it easier to read. Get ready. 7-year-old Jamie packed a punch:
My Life as a Tree
Do you think it’s easy to be a tree? YES, well you better listen to this buster, because you’re way wrong! Do you think it’s fun not being able to walk, dogs peeing on you all the time, people thworing trash at you all the time? Do you think all that’s fun? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I have a derpressing life and that’s true! If I were a dog or a preson, I’d be nice to all trees! I should stop talking now, not because I want to, but because that dog is about to pee in my mouth!
If you’re looking for your own inspiration, remember that the same girl who wrote that passage is now reading non-pee-centric work to elementary school students. Anything is possible.
