‘The Smallest Portion of A Lion’ by Alanna

‘The Smallest Portion of A Lion’ by Alanna - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

Turn a candle inside out
and you’ve got the smallest
portion of a lion standing
there at the edge of the
shadows.
-A CandleLion Poem, Richard Brautigan

When I met Mr. Padilla I was excited to be welcomed into a warm workshop and encouraged to write, write, write. Despite my numerous personal issues- dysfunction at home, my blooming alcoholism, poor health, rejection from the college I’d wanted to attend, no friends left in town, then undiagnosed learning disability, abusive boyfriend, working 2 jobs and an internship to make ends meet- I had this one class twice a week that I looked forward to.

I’d been privileged to excel in a rigorous humanities magnet in high school, finding my affinity for literature and writing to be unquenchable. But my inability to take standardized tests well held me back and would then follow me to this strange new place: community college. Despite getting an A in Advanced Placement Literature, I was still required to take a standardized ‘placement test’ upon enrolling- the results determining I had to begin study in an ESL (English as a Second Language) paragraph writing class. Through much struggle and escalating despair I was at least able to get the administration to let me take a creative writing class.

Mr. Padilla loved my writing, he would give me positive critiques that helped me edit my work, sometimes after class we’d stay late and discuss our favorite authors or he’d introduce me to poets I’d never heard of, sometimes he’d even let me lead the workshops- his encouragement and friendship felt like stumbling under a sturdy awning amid a storm. Maybe all wasn’t lost, maybe I should keep going and try again to get into a university…

And I did, but was denied. Well, I thought, at least I’d already enrolled in another workshop with Mr. Padilla. He and I would continue to share favorite authors and even began sharing our own writing via email, it felt so nice to feel seen and acknowledged by someone else I’d grown to look up to.

One evening I arrived to class, we all sat down and passed around our various pieces to everyone, and that night Mr. Padilla asked the class, ‘if it’s alright with everyone, tonight I’d like to workshop a piece of my own’, we nodded. He passed it around; ‘Alanna,’ he said, ‘would you like to start?’ gesturing for me to begin reading aloud. ‘Sure’ I replied. I looked down at the page and froze.

Complete confusion and horror ran through my body as my brain tried to compute what was happening. The two pages I stared down at were a poem I had emailed him asking for feedback. He had taken out one line and made it the title, and inserted some of his own writing between every other line, while the original lines, my own, remained exactly the same- he had taken a poem I shared with him, butchered it, and called it his own.

The first icy pins and pricks of shock burst into sparklers of rage and hurt. I sat still for a moment longer and looked up and said ‘No,’ holding back tears, ‘I won’t read this- because this is my work.’ As soon as the words came out of my mouth I scooped up my belongings in a single motion and walked out of the room. Mr. Padilla ran out after me yelling ‘what are you talking about?!’. ‘Me?’, I asked ‘I sent that poem to you in an email asking for feedback, that isn’t your writing.’

He begged and pleaded, insisting he would never do such a thing. Then after a few minutes declared who knew, maybe it was possible he read so many pieces he ‘accidentally’ memorized someone else’s and wrote them. The hurt rocked me like a hunger pain.

But then I did something. I tried going to all the various departments and administrators only to be bounced around within the bureaucracy like a rubber ball. Eventually I landed at the small dusty office labeled ‘ombudsman’ and told a patient woman what had happened, handing her my work and that which had been plagiarized. She helped me have it documented, on file, so there was at least a record this happened.

In the months to follow I had finally been accepted to the university New York. The hardest thing was finding my way back to writing, or trusting professors again. But I realized two other profound lessons came from this awful, confusing experience: For one, I came to realize I could trust my gut- I wasn’t crazy or worthless and my writing was good, and it mattered- I mattered- I was worth standing up for.

Secondly, it made me reflect on what an important role a teacher can play in someone’s life. While this one ended with tumult, initially, it had been one that aided in enriching my perspective the world at large. Who did I want to be? What could I do with my writing?

This fall I will have the privilege of attending graduate school for my MFA in poetry, and, concurrently, I will be a teacher of creative writing. A job I’m most excited about, I’m excited to be of service in a positive way- to create an inspiring space for students to explore their creativity- all with the support of a safe, invested teacher: me.