In my
high school, there was a staircase that led down into an odd underbelly of the
school. These were underground classrooms with no windows, low ceilings, and the
first few times I prepared to enter those rooms, my claustrophobia kicked in as
soon as I opened the stairwell door.
But
those rooms became a place I loved. A haven. A refuge.
They
were where I went for my overabundance of English credits in the form of
Creative Writing, Journalism, and Publications. It was where we birthed the yearbook
and put the newspaper to bed each month.
It was
where I found the words to express myself through poetry, fiction, and
non-fiction, and eventually as the Editor-in-Chief of the school paper. It was
where I wrote about my beloved hockey team and homecoming, and the lack of
response by the police to a broken-down car full of teens – until curfew hit.
It was where I created my first out
of the house office after my friend/sidekick/assistant and I faked press
badges/passes, picked a lock, and moved into the little-known hidden room.
School funded landline and all. No one knew we were there.
It was where we would hide out
during lunch, study hall, and any other class we felt like skipping for the
day. I spent at least 20 hours a week in there for 2 years.
It was
where I learned to put the feelings in my heart into words from my head onto the
paper. It was where I learned I mothered others because I had missed out being mothered
by my own due to her early death.
It was
where I mourned both loves and lives lost.
It was
where I met three incredible women – Sara, Mary, and Angie. Women that became
such role models to me, I named one of my children after one of them.
It was
where I learned women had a power all their own. One that may often be hidden,
but none-the-less, it’s always there. Our
job is to dig inside, pull it out of the depths, and dust it off for everyone
to see. We included.
It was
where I learned I had an attitude and a voice, and I knew how to use them.
It was
where I became the person, I was for many, many, many years.
But then, life happened, and she was gone. I was gone.
It’s
time to descend those familiar stairs again.
The
wave of claustrophobia doesn’t hit anymore. It ended when those rooms became my
home.
Three
rooms which made up so many hours of my life, became my life.
It
doesn’t matter which door I choose to open. While each room offers a different
view, each became intertwined with the others. Opening one, opens all.
And
behind each one, I stand.
But
now, I’m 30 plus years wiser.
The Queen is
back ya’ll.
Better
than ever.
