Putting it into words

I graduated last month. In many ways, the ceremony was like others I'd participated in when I was 18 and 22. Family and friends were there. I wore a black robe and received a diploma. But that is where the similarities end. There were only 27 of us marching into the small theater -- to the beat of African drums -- at the summer residency of Bennington College's Writing Seminars in Vermont. An English biographer gave the commencement address, reminding us of the importance of the sisterhood (and brotherhood) of writers. I was the 26th to walk on stage to receive my diploma and graduate hood. My girls and their cousins were seated in the front row.

For the processional, the faculty stood in two friendly columns and the graduates walked out between them, again to the beat of African drums.

Like my fellow students, I stopped to hug each of my teachers, presenting them with a Gerber daisy. One faculty member, a well-known New York essayist, whispered in my ear, "You go, girl."

It may take a village to raise a child, but it took the population of a small nation to get me through the past two years.

The week I was accepted into graduate school, my daughters, then 11 and 13, made a sign for my workspace door. One side read: "Do Not Enter, Mom at Work," and featured mermaids with crystal encrusted costumes. The other side read: "Enter! Mom is Available," and was illustrated with a drawing of a mom hugging her daughter.

My husband, bless his heart, loves to cook, and when my schoolwork spilled over into weekends, he planned meals. Meg, a friend and a third-grade teacher, assisted with school pickups and homework assignments, and even helped the girls fold laundry when the pile became too high to see over.

I write nonfiction, so I was fortunate that my brother and sisters, and aunts and uncles entrusted me with a treasure-trove of family stories.

My cousin Ron, copy editor extraordinaire, pored over every line of every draft of my 150-page thesis. When I thanked him in the acknowledgments, I jokingly sent him that page to copy-edit. Ron never got the joke. He died unexpectedly the same day.

I've always known I wanted to be a writer. I've always seen stories everywhere but lacked the skills to tell the stories well. When my children were small, and my husband was traveling for work, I'd fit in a writing class wherever I could. At one such class, the teacher had us repeat aloud, "I am a writer." I choked on the words.

When I hit my fifth decade, I realized that if I didn't get past my fear of plunging into the deep end, I would be forever dog-paddling in the shallows. So I jumped. Fortunately, there has been a "gracious plenty" complement of lifeguards -- including my editor at The N&O, Adrienne Johnson Martin -- to make sure I didn't drown.

I know a few writers who would write even if no one ever read them.

I'm not one of those. So I want to thank the village that nurtured me throughout the past two years -- and all those who continue to read my stories -- for now I can say aloud, and without hesitation:

I am a writer.