A Thesis Presented to The Faculty of Alfred University The calm before the storm By Jenna Howland In partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Alfred University Honors Program May, 2021 Under the Supervision of: Chair: Dr. Mellissa Ryan Committee Members: Dr. Susan Morehouse Whitney Hubbs For Mom And my Grandma Who told me to “write a book” Introduction I’ve been writing in circles for about four years. The same story has been written and rewritten on paper so many times I never thought I could actually finish it. It’s likely I’ll keep writing it for years to come. This essay will be the start of something that I need to keep working on as long as I can. It’s strange looking back on how I started this project, because I was such a different person. I tried to write about my story for the first time during my freshman writing class. The assignment was simply to write an essay about something we knew well. I fiddled with a few subjects, but then it occurred to me that I knew about one topic sort of well, maybe better than the average student. I wrote about my time in Haiti, titling it “Deadly Sex and Destructive Winds”. I remember being proud of the title. For the first time I felt like it was an outlet for me to write. I had a deadline and a reason to actually complete a thought about my experience. Even better, I had someone who would actually listen to me very closely. I was exhausted when I finished writing the essay. It took so much out of me to even complete a mere 6 pages double spaced. If I told myself then I would write a 30 page essay on the subject over the course of one semester, I don’t think I would believe myself. It was the first time I had really thought about my experience in depth since I had come back. In fact, I spent much of my time trying to run away from the experience, and it was intense to live through it again with every word I typed. I think it had tapped into a lot of trauma in an unexpected way. I had used my coursework before as a means to distract myself, and now it felt like worlds colliding. I don’t think it’s surprising that it bit me in the ass later. Maybe some part of me thought it would be done if I could just write it down quick enough, and then I would just be over it. The end of my Freshman year came and went and I realized it was all still with me, I was still carrying this story with me, and a decent grade on my paper about it hadn’t really helped. Repression is obviously not a sustainable tool that will carry you through any trauma. The shadow of death that loomed over me in my childhood had seemed to weaken me, and it was only a matter of time before I snapped. All the while I was writing. It was informal and somewhat infrequent, but every once and a while a burst of inspiration would compel me to write stuff down. However, I was still frustrated. I didn’t know what to do with my story yet. The thought of writing a novel would creep into my brain every once and awhile, but it seemed so abstract and impossible that I never really seriously considered it. Only really put together people wrote novels, and I was certainly not put together. My writing was all compiled in a blog that I had to create for a class my freshman year. I think most people hated the assignment but I loved it. I treated it like a diary even when the class ended and renamed it “keyboard therapy” I always tried to keep a diary as a kid but I never really could commit. They would all start off the same way, “I’m starting this diary to try to write every day”. It never really worked out like that. Personal writing is one of the more difficult things for me to sit down and actually work on. I think it’s hard for me because it’s actually good for me. A year after I wrote my essay, I sent an email to the one who inspired me to write anything in the first place, Professor Morehouse. She was the only person I could think that might be interested in helping me, the only one who seemed to take a story from a 20 year old seriously. I explained that I wasn’t quite done with my story, and it was like she was expecting it. The wit and wisdom essay contest gave me a chance to revisit my writing. The winner got a forum to talk about their subject. With a thrill I realized it was the kind of thing I had been waiting for. I had written my story down but it was for an English class. I finally got the acknowledgment I wanted from a professional reader, but now I wanted a real audience. I wanted my thoughts to be recognized. I lost. I was ashamed to admit to myself that losing had upset me, but I knew my work wasn’t complete yet. My essay was decent and gave me a chance to articulate some word vomit on paper, but I wasn’t satisfied yet. It was only my first try at really trying to dig into something complex, and I didn’t have the opportunity to process what it meant. I still don’t quite know. I know now that it’s okay not to know things and there is merit in asking questions. I also know that I can continue to work and produce writing without a deadline or any kind of recognition. I started from scratch at the beginning of the semester after digging through all the content I had written over the years. Since I had been using my blog as some kind of therapy, it was mostly incoherent yet passionate rambling. My committee members all agreed that none of it was really usable. I would have to start fresh. I think they were almost hesitant to tell me that because they thought it would scare the shit out of me to discard about 50 pages of writing to write a 30 page thesis. It kind of did, but it was also kind of relieving. Since I wrote my original essay I had been slowly adding more and more disjointed and sometimes poorly written pages. Dr. Morehouse told me I carried around this story with me like a heavy backpack. She was right. The more I looked at all my past writing the more it haunted me thinking how it all fit together. It was a blessing to purge it all and start from the beginning. It was a strange thing to dig through my memories and fit them into a kind of continuous storyline. It felt like I was grasping around in the dark most days until I finally landed on some relevant memory. It was a process made all the more difficult because of my dedication to erasing it all from my memory when I got back. Above all, writing this made me appreciate writers and critical readers more than ever. It is one of the most difficult things I’ve done in my college career, and at several points I thought I would never finish it. Luckily, I had the support of a first rate committee. Each of my members deeply understand how much of a struggle the creative process is. I owe them gratitude for guiding me through the process of finishing my thesis, and also offering endless wisdom. They treated me not like the dumb kid I might have thought I was, but like a young critical thinker that they could guide. I owe Dr. Morehouse for believing that my project could be something more than just a short essay for her intro writing class, and always offering her incredibly valuable wisdom and experience. Without her, I am not sure if I would have ever been confident enough as a writer to start this essay. In addition to Dr. Morehouse I owe Dr. Ryan for taking so much time to edit and guide my writing into something readable. I also owe her for reassuring me that I was on track when I felt deadlines start to creep up on me. I always left her office feeling much better about my work. I owe Whitney Hubbs a debt of gratitude for always being a mentor and keeping a critical eye on anything I show her. She always asks me the tough questions that I sometimes might not want to hear, but always improve my work The person I owe the most to is undoubtedly my mother, who I look up to the most in this world. It was an obvious choice to dedicate my thesis to her. She brought me into this world with a special blend of kindness and insanity, and supported me every step of the way. She is definitely one of the craziest people I know (even in public) and I am so grateful and proud to be her daughter. As a fellow writer, she has also encouraged me to stick with the process every day even if it gets tough. I also dedicate my essay to my Grandmother. She was one of the kindest people I had the pleasure to know, and instilled me with a sense of creativity.