Starting the Personal Essay

Well, I haven't posted in quite some time. It appears that my "accountability" plan isn't working out so well. Or is it?! Because Daniel called me out the other day, asking me why I hadn't posted in a while! Thank you, Daniel. So, I've started writing a personal essay for my creative nonfiction class, and I'm going to post sections of it as I write them. Thus, the very beginning of an essay in the works for your reading pleasure. It will appear to you that this essay is all about swearing, and indeed, that is all it is about at this point. If you find that offensive, I apologize, but I must contest that it is a part of the world and a part of almost every young person's development, and therefore, cannot be ignored simply because it is offensive. Also, I want you to know that this essay is not actually all about swearing. You will find out what its about if you continue to read in the posts to come! So, here it is:

I have tried tirelessly to dredge up the memory that contains my first exposure to that word. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself in the seat next to Aaron Kiehler in Mrs. Dorris’s Language Arts class, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron Kiehler’s second grade mouth was not as bold as his high school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter, “Shit.”
* * *
I can recall the first time I uttered it. To be truthful, “uttered” is too light a word to describe the way I entered the shiny and forbidden new world of swearing. My birth into this world was welcomed with celebratory displays of fireworks on a humid Fourth of July.

At this point in my childhood, we gathered at my Granny's house in southeast Texas to celebrate the Fourth with my dad's family. The event was marked by barbecue, Budweiser, and my cousin Brandon experimenting with firecrackers in the beaks of dead birds. By the time dusk fell, the sky over my Granny's Alleyton neighborhood was erupting in sparks. On this particular night, some neighbor decided it would be a super idea to show his appreciation for American independence with a gun shot. When the shot rang out, myself and the family members surrounding me were, understandably, startled, and I shouted out, "SHHIIITTT!!!"

According to my family, it was lucky for me that my father was inside and had not heard me swear so passionately. At the time, I did not understand the weight of the word. All I knew was that it was a word people said when something surprised them. But suddenly, my mom was yanking me into the bathroom by my elbow, and my mouth was being stuffed with a bar of Dial. I cried as she told me never to say that word again, and especially not to let my dad hear me say it.

(that's it for now. more to come!)