VCU Writing Center Blog

Virginia Commonwealth University | Richmond, Virginia

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Our New Location

The VCU Writing Center Blog has moved! You can now find us at https://vcuwritingcenterblog.home.blog/

Archived posts will remain here, but keep an eye out for new and exciting writing on our new site!

The VCU Writing Center Blog is now accepting submissions for Spring 2020. Please send your submissions (or any inquiries) to [email protected]. Submissions should be between 100-800 words, or may be split into a two-part submission. Submission emails should contain the title of your work, your name, and a brief bio about yourself. Any images used within your submission must be Creative Commons images.

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“Black English Musings” by Malcolm Richardson

I love me some Black English. Speaking more of it of late. Writing more too. Just cuz. Feels right. Mighty hard though. Not much practice under my belt. Never had a high chance in heaven. My mama would whoop me, she caught me speaking like a slave. Whole other level of sin. Son of an English major. Grandson too. Both of em teachers. Grandma just retired. Mama still in the school system. I used to run through the halls of the school she was principal at. She used to yell up a storm.

This harder than regular English. Different part of my mind accessed. Almost like another language. One I feel I've forgotten long ago. Switching in and out of dialects. Barely understand myself. Never have. That's nothing new though. Never really knew who I was. Still don't. Still tryna figure it out. Closer than I ever been before. I think. Reaching for the purest form of Malcolm. Ultimate goal right there, boy. Physical, spiritual, intellectual too. Whole lotta facets to this man. Wonder what side he gon show next. Only time will tell. Or whatever. Hoping issa good one with patience and truth and virtue enough for a king.

Can't nobody tell me I ain't royalty. I am on this Earth for something special. Good Lord put me on here for a purpose. Somebody's heart I'm sposed to touch. Maybe a single word is all it is that could change a mind or save a life or both. The limits placed upon me are internal. I stop myself from being excellence. That shit stupid.

It's really simple. Follow your routine. Love and hug yourself. Treat your people right. We are all the same, even if we're not. Mostly cuz we're not. Language is an example of the power of the tongue. Whole world made from the Word of the Lord. That ain't no figure of speech neither. We say something, it means something. You can feel the energy of it. Its effects are everlasting.

Everything changes. Language included. Time will continue. English is like the pot of stew other languages get thrown into. Mixing melting bubbling brew, tastes like none you never knew. Little bit of youth adds a whole lotta flavor. Sprinkle on top then stir then savor. Originality recipe guaranteed.

Shame that our language leads to violence and war. Differences dividing us with prejudice and more. Just cuz we don't speak the same that make me less than you? That don't make no sense to me. I hope it never do. All it takes is time for us to understand the truth. Got no time to waste on petty dissimilarities. We need to come together and decipher this reality. It is our only hope for survival. I know imma die someday. Humanity don't have to too. Can we save ourselves from each other?

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Journeying

Lisa Hermanson 

March last year was different for me in every way. I’d just received an invitation to interview for a reputable graduation program out in Virginia, a state I’d never been to before. I dropped everything, cancelled meetings, re-arranged the classes I was teaching, and bought tickets. I kept a frantic eye on the weather as a snowstorm rolled through across the Midwest the night before I was supposed to fly out.  In the end every flight except mine was cancelled, somehow; I flew through that snowstorm from Seattle, Washington into Washington, DC, to take a train down to Richmond, VA for an interview that would completely change my life. I was, understandably, quite nervous.

The problem with traveling is the timing. The few days before - and especially the night before - are nothing but stress. Did you remember to pack everything, did you load your boarding pass onto your phone, do you have enough food for the journey, is your bag too heavy? Couple all this with getting to the airport or station on time, holding on to all your belongings at all times, making sure you get on the right train or the right plane at the right time - it’s a lot to keep track of. My family has a saying, though: “once you’re en route, there’s nothing you can do.” And it’s true. Once the plane takes off or the train starts to roll, there’s nothing you can do but sit back and - what? Enjoy the journey? Relax?

The strange dichotomy strikes me every time I travel via lengthy public transportation. For a period of a few hours, I have no responsibilities. No one can reach me. I can reach no one. I am in a liminal state, between one place and the next. There is nothing to do - sometimes quite literally nothing. Nothing but travel and wait. Strange how the most active part of traveling is not actually the traveling itself.

When I took that train down from Washington, DC to Richmond, VA, I had three hours to look out the window. I was eager to use this time as a preview of the new landscape I might be moving to. What would the cities look like as the train petered through? What might the countryside be like? Would there be gorgeous trees, serene clouds, wide open fields full of who-knows-what? I was looking forward to how beautiful this train ride would be.

It was not beautiful.

The East Coast in March is a dull countryside, mostly barren and spindled with leafless trees and dead vegetation. For three hours I stared out at this dormant countryside, unreasonably disappointed. This was winter, after all. This was winter? Did I really want to move here?

Ultimately yes, I did. The interview went well, my Master’s program accepted me, and six months after the first journey I committed to a new start and moved to Virginia full-time.

Flash forward a semester and a half later. I’m on a train headed south again, this time for spring break. Unlike this time last year, I wasn’t dreading this trip for any reason. The wide span of seven hours with “nothing” to do appealed to me. Plenty of time to do homework or - maybe - even take a nap. I didn’t have to drive. I didn’t have to make decisions. Nothing to do, really, but to wait and to travel.

I knew this time I’d have to find ways to occupy myself, deliberately. There wouldn’t be enough vegetation or green life in the countryside to catch and hold my attention for any amount of time; not in Richmond. Not in March. Not again. This time I knew the landscape would not be beautiful. This time I was prepared.

This time, though, I was surprised.

The countryside out my window was dry, but the recent heat waves here have done wonders. I was taken aback. The country outside my window was brown and barren, yes, but - not completely. The trees were leafless, yes, but - budding. The bushes were stubby, yes, but - flowering. Hints of bright color poked through the underbrush as tentative grass, relearning how to grow. Entire fields rolled past the window, half-inch carpets of eager yellow-green. It was a journey full of surprises: a countryside not dead, but done with waiting, just beginning to teem and flood with new life.

It was the same time as my journey last year, but in a different direction and in a different place. Maybe the difference is that the sun was shining on last week’s trip. Maybe the difference is simply that last year I wasn’t looking hard enough. Maybe there is no difference, and maybe this was there all along.

Maybe all we have to do is get through the hard part of the journey - and wait.

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Lisp Bliss

Valerie Dinavo 

She said, she sells seashells by the seashore.

She sips songs sung Sunday service. Sour

seducing sounds into sizzling snore

speeches. Sautéed sermons, a showering  

of centers circling. She is superb,

spikes of salvia sclarea, legs:

sonnets of sex, shivering shaking, curved

tourettes, sends souls shuttering, soaring, begs  

to satisfy rage, saffron sage. Sanction

syndrome, she shifts silhouette slits. She saves

salt sprinkles for somber preservation.

Slender stilt, salamander bright bathing

snake, She’ll shake the nightmares out of your sleep

she’ll rake the spring stutter out of your teeth.

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Meet Your Writing Center Blog Team!

Each year, the Writing Center has the pleasure of bringing a group of people who love to write together to work on the blog. This semester, we thought we’d introduce ourselves by writing a haiku. Enjoy!

A teacher to be,

A waitress for the moment,

It’s Holly and me.

- Natalie C. Esch

Write, Ask me to Write

It is hard when you ask me

I prefer freedom

- Mariah Williams

Watch in silence

With a mouth dirty as pirates

Foolish in my eyes

- Jonathan Figaro

Soaking in knowledge

Getting myself together

Ready to succeed

- Michelle Hairston

I’m calm by nature 

I shine brightest through my words

Laughter is my peace

- Valerie Dinavo

Optimistic art

Bright as you keep on going

Coffee also helps

- Lisa Hermanson

You can talk in class

No one will judge you for that

Go on, speak your mind

-Elizabeth Thomas

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Anywhen

Heather Simon

If you could go anywhen in the world, where would it be? We thought about it for a while and considered visiting the pre-Socratic philosophers in Turkey. Surely ancient guys with names like Anaximander and Anaximenes would be fascinating to chat with and slightly more available for hanging out than the big kahunas of the golden age of Greece. Can you imagine the line to get Socrates’ autograph? Think he’d even sign it? That guy did not believe in writing things down. You’d ask him for his autograph and he’d answer, “What is an autograph?” (Whether he knew what it was or not he’d probably throw a question at you. It was hard to tell with Socrates.) And what about the crowd to see Jesus? We’d literally die in that line before we got to talk with him, and the next thing you know you’re facing Jesus in heaven. That’s confusing and kind of a waste of time. Better to go live your life and figure out the afterlife stuff later. We tossed it around and toyed with going way, way back and checking out some dinosaurs in the Pleistocene. Sounds cool, and then you realize it’s actually a terrifying idea.

But really, when and where would you go, if you could go anywhen in time? Would you travel to a specific place just to get the feel of it? Like dirty Elizabethan England or quiet Pompeii before the volcano? Would you go to a historic event? Imagine hearing Lincoln deliver the Gettysburg Address. Or watching aliens land in Roswell. (Or being really bored waiting for aliens who never land in Roswell.) Or would you want to see a certain person—make music with Mozart or hug your grandma? Would you try to change something or just observe what’s going on around you? Would you go into the deep past, the recent past, or into the future? Depends upon what motivates you, I guess.

Ultimately, we decided to go somewhere terribly unsexy but special to us—we’d visit the 1980s and have dinner at one of the Chinese restaurants where our parents used to take us. For two Jewish kids, no memory could loom larger than the family dinner at a Chinese place. Would we see them and our younger selves there? Would we join them or just observe? Each of us could picture it perfectly. The big to-do over the menus, the pretend musings—whatever shall we have this time?—knowing we’d always get the exact same thing. Oh sure, you’d look at the 300 items, but it was always the wonton soup and crispy noodles. The juicy eggroll. The spareribs. Mongolian beef and cashew chicken for my family. Moo shu pork and shrimp with lobster sauce for his.

Would it even taste good to us now? Had Chinese food changed all that much in the last 30 years? It’s hard to remember. Say, when did the Chinese people decide to add all of that sugar to their sauces? That has to be an American thing. And who in the world invented the fortune cookie? More to the point, how did everyone else know to get in on that action? Those are the larger questions. Zooming in a little closer. Why did my family not even look at the pork dishes on the menu? It was as if those items didn’t exist. I literally didn’t know that pork was a thing in Chinese restaurants until adulthood, even though little-me read the entire menu each time we went out. We’re guessing it’s a vestigial holdover from a family that used to keep kosher generations ago. But isn’t it weird? There’s no reason not to eat pork now—no one in my family is observing the Jewish dietary laws anymore—and yet, pork was not an option for us. Not even something we’d see and turn down. Completely invisible, although in reality all over the menu.

Funny what you can see and what you can’t. Would the distance of time help us see, hear, or taste anything differently? If only we could go back and not just in our minds, then we might know for sure. Anywhen. Anyhoo. Off to other times and topics.

[vcuwritingcenter]

The Last Thursday

Valerie Dinavo

November. New York City. Freezing. Thanksgiving. Family.36 dollars spent on cheese. Baked Turkey, fried turkey, fried chicken, fried squash, fried fish, fried Ham. If it ain’t fried it ain’t food. Greens. Rolls. Casseroles. Mashed potatoes. The best stuffing ever made. Sweet potato pie, chocolate pie, chocolate sweet potato pie, apple pie, key lime pie, cherry pie, blueberry pie, pumpkin pie. Everything’s homemade. 

Never Any Leftovers. Five more pots on the stove. Four more dishes in the oven. A bunch of Negros in small house. *When your                   *When your stomach                   *When that one aunt fixes                                                                                                                                      Kitchen smells like                           sounds like a Sunday      her to-go plate   a fried Negro spiritual*             service praise break*                  before her actual plate* *When that one aunt                             *When your Granddaddy                       *Thanksgiving with this complains about the food              looks at all the people                   black family:                                       but can’t cook*          in his house and wonders                         a compilation of memes*                                                          if having seven girls to get his                                                                                first boy was worth it* Waiting for dinner. Cards in the dining room. Poker. Pinochle. Spades. Blue chips, red chips, black chips, white chips, gold chips, missing chips. We never replaced the chips. We like them like us: mismatched, but they work hard for the money. Bills. Quarters. Nickels. Dimes. The hard stuff in a cold glass. Boom box jumpin’. TLC. Lauryn Hill. Biggie. Brandy. Brownstone. Luther. Whitney. Stevie. Snoop. Raised voices. Big smiles of disappointment. The wise man laughs, Granddaddy always wins. Avoid the heat of the game. Sittin’ on the front porch. Talkin’ smack. Auntie Vanisha smoking. Uncle Shelton smoking. Auntie Lynette smoking. Cousin Isaiah smoking...            You gonn’ pass that or nah? Inhale. Dirty Queens. Exhale. Mary Jane. Food finally done. Perfect timing. Gathered together in the living room. Everyone holding hands. Going around the circle. What are you thankful for? God. Healthy Hair. Food. Health. Life. Family. Friends. Wi-Fi. Yard Sales. Thrift Stores. $2 pizza from Vinny’s.   Aunt Dawn

                                                                                is thankful

for everything. Bless the food. God is good all the time and all the time God is good. Hallelujah. Praise him. Won’t he do it? Let’s eat. Paper plates. Plastic Forks. An abundance of paper towels. Fruit Punch, sunny D, lemonade, sweet tea, gotta have that Hennessey. Couches. Chairs. Big Larry on the ottoman. Little Larry on his lap. We don’t believe in “the kids table.” Seats in the dining room. Space on the floor. Criss-cross apple sauce. Get in where you fit in, we’re all family here. An abundance of butter and seasonings on my plate. Mac and cheese: my favorite hello and hardest goodbye. Eat slow. Sip slower. Savor every Bite. Contagious laughter. Memorable conversations. House buzzin’ like a high school cafeteria during lunch.

YO! Uncle Shelton put his whole foot,      Tasha, Why your hair his ankle, his thigh, and his left butt cheek into this mac!    Look like every strugglin’                                  Woman in the Color Purple?           Ay auntie, you got my 5$?                   Chiiiiiild you need a perm-                    I know you ain’t talking about my hair when it looks like Moses came down on your ends-                Shelton, lemme get your lighter real quick          HAAA! She got those                                                                                                       apartheid ends!      Girlllll yo ends are split as I don’t know what     Ok everyone, just a warnin’ for everyone,   hurricane Larry is about to enter into the line, I repeat,       Ay Cuzzo!       Hurricane Larry is entering the line. So if anyone                            Get me another roll! Wants any more food, you better get dat ass in line ASAP.      And put some butter on it! HA! Trina! Remember when Gail Snuck Marcell Johnson Through the back porch?   Dang ma, I didn’t know you got down like that NO, I swear Auntie Daria this is the last kid. I ain’t havin no more   Miles, don’t play.        Tasha! Remember that time when- Randal!? I see you with you fresh cut! Lookin’ sliclk. Rachel, that’s you third plate, sit dad ass down       YES! She’s gonna’ graduate in the spring!      You gonna’ eat the rest of that? Girl, where you buy that weave? I need a new one these roots cannot deal… -and that’s why I told her not to mess with   those weak men- RIGHT? Cuz if you let a homeboy slide, he gon’ think he can ice skate! Yo! Did you see that movie trailer? It looks so good, we gotta see it. -yeah, and he has another tooth tryna’come in too. Yes girl! Did you see the music video?

“Good times, these are the good times leave your cares behind these are the good times…”

 *When your family is   the greatest family   in the world*

[vcuwritingcenter]

One Simple Request

Blood runs deep in Richmond’s soil. On the surface, it’s a city of college students, good food and art. But below, its history festers. The monotony that becomes our lives as students and teachers often shields us from seeing Richmond, and from learning from and about its rich history. If we are lucky, we learn about the city in our classes, but some of us rarely take that learning outside of the classroom. We rarely walk the city blocks beyond the confines of campus. We rarely look up from our phones to observe the new development taking place. We become numb to the social inequities.

So here is my simple request. Take a walk. Somewhere off campus. Look up, look around and observe what is going on. What is this city in which you live? Who are the people living here besides the transient college students we all know? Sit at a local café and make note of who is in the space. Think about the story this might tell of space and place in the city. Dig beneath the surface. Who knows, maybe you’ll see something and be inspired to change it.  

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Comfortable

Jonathan Figaro 

There’s something

about suffering that

I miss

not necessarily

the scars or the bruises

or the trauma or the tears

though they have their place

but the feeling, the

feeling of worthless

that nobody cares,

no one giving a @$&!

the isolation

the deprivation

the stillness in the smoke,

the peace in the madness, the eye of the storm

the hours of silences

the senses going wild as they

experience true

solitude

water so still you

can see your reflection

thoughts of self-sabotage

the destruction.

I use to wake up

in the morning and give it all I had

[vcuwritingcenter]

Bubble

Jonathan Figaro 

We all live in

our own little worlds

our own little bubbles

from the moment we leave our father’s wand

 from the moment we’re born

someone whispering into our

ear

 their thoughts, and their beliefs

their diets and hot air

the good and evils

meanings and interpretations

 solidifying their whispers

as law

building

blowing us into

the biggest bubble

they can make us to be

 for a moment

we ascend with grace

with a child’s curiosity,

like a balloon,

a hot air balloon

taking it in all

growing

admiring

 then, like teenager

we rebel,

 slowly

like the Apollo rocket

plummeting down into the chasms

of the valley of death

shattering the roof of our

glass houses of thought and belief

 wanting to go with the winds

of our emotions and intuition

tumbling toward

the inevitable moment

 on our travels

down

we start question

our direction

 are the philosophies and beliefs of the this society

pillars that I subscribe to

or conditioned to?

streams of curiosity for

asking question dried and

answer was given

before I could before I could form

the questions.

integrated into a society

*pop*

[vcuwritingcenter]

My Friend, the Moon.

Mariah Williams

[vcuwritingcenter]

These Dishes

Jonathan Figaro

greasy and used

like me.

waiting to be cleansed

as they sit in their own sorrow and filth

dry juices from the night before

with others on top

weighting me down

holding me under water

(holding them above me).

but when they find their

cleanse

when they’re baptized

and resurrected

and rebirth

they’re put on shelves on high

the exodus they’ve been waiting for

a glorious triumph

they’ll forget

when the temptation strikes

and the flesh can no longer

bear it’s desire

they’ll be just as dirt

back down here

with me.

[vcuwritingcenter]

Gone, Girl

Mariah Williams

According to the National Crime Information Center" Black girls represent only 13.3% of the total United States population but comprise 33.8% of those missing. Recently it was reported that 14 black girls had gone missing in one day in Washington, DC. Although this was a false report, it shed light on the silence and lack of attention given to missing and exploited people of color. 

This piece prompts the reader to imagine that the women who go missing are peers from VCU and to encourage dialogue around this issue so that victims do not remain mere statistics.

“I was in a class with her,” he said.

“I used to see her at the compass all the time,” she said.

“Oh yeah, she was cool. I just figured she decided school was too hard.”

From the quads of campus, she vanished. Her professor withdrew her and marked her as a simple “No Show.” Kept on teaching her lesson, making no mention of the empty space that now filled her class room.

Students continued their activities as usual, forgetting the face of the girl they had grown so used to seeing on her way to class.

One month later, another girl disappeared. “She must’ve finally gotten burned out,” they said. Another name withdrawn from Blackboard. All signs of her presence deleted with a click.

Black girl gone. No one knows her name, who she is nor where she goes.

But no one asks either.

Assumed that she ran away

From something.

School, home, life, abuse. Something she could not take so she left everyone wondering

“She said she was just taking some time off.”

“She will be back. I mean, she has to take her finals, right.”

31, 231 students.

59% females

16% Black/African-American

7% Hispanic and Latino

Except, the black and Latina women who disappear daily are not numbers. Not just your classmates

They are mothers, sisters, wives, friends, students.

Human.

Gone, girl. Too soon.

Not a trace in sight

Just written off in a teacher’s planner. Erased from the mind of a fellow peer.

Where they go. No one asks.

But the frequency of bodies gone ghost reflects how we see or don’t see them in the first place.

Don’t allow her to disappear easily.

That girl you sit next you, let her know that you care if she is present.

Be accountable for the well-being of the peers you see day in and day out

Question if she goes absent or missing.

Do not let her go in vain

Mariah Williams is a graduate student at VCU pursing a Masters in Urban and Regional Planning. She enjoys reading, writing and is passionate about social justice issues within the Black community. She loves her Black and her magic and wants to become an urban planner who works with women of color to develop cultural and inclusive spaces within neighborhoods and cities.

[vcuwritingcenter]

Choose-Your-Own-Adventure

Rebekah Rifareal

Does anyone remember the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books? You started on Page 1, read through a bit of a narrative, then were offered a choice for the next plot action. If you chose to wander through the forest with your new talking plant friend, the book would direct you turn to Page 17. If you chose to sit on the couch and wait for your mom to come home with a soda, turn to page 13.

Of course, anyone who is familiar with these books knows the best tactic was to jump to each option to see which was better—(usually it was whichever option wouldn’t lead to a giant explosion or leave you as an alien king). It was cheating, maybe, but even today, I often wish there was a way to “jump ahead” and see what options could lead where. (Especially during the end of the semester, when the desire to veg out and just chill comes up against with the looming deadlines scribbled across your real or mental calendar.) Sometimes, it feels like no matter how hard I try to focus, something distracts me. If you have trouble too, maybe we could experiment. How long can you last? (Without cheating!!!)

START: You are a student at VCU. You have a ginormous assignment (either a paper or exam) scheduled for 10 AM tomorrow. It’s currently 4:00 PM. If you choose to go to Cabell Library, cozy up by a window seat, and pound out two hours of good work, go to 5. If you choose to get some fuel first and grab some friends to hit the Commons, go to 1.

1. While walking through the Compass, an art student ahead starts walking up to you. He’s doing a performance piece and begins asking you and the surrounding crowd to to write your favorite quote on his arm in a Sharpie. You’re still on a time budget. If you choose to help him out, go to 4. If you choose to hide out somewhere until he leaves, go to 2.

2. You head over to the nearest bathroom. You notice the Stall Street Journal advertising an event about mental health awareness, offering free yoga classes outside on the Commons Plaza. De-stressing does seem like a really good idea. If you choose to check out the free yoga event, go to 3. If you choose to walk around and get some fresh air, go to 4.

3. You end up at the Commons. The place is packed with the free event put on by the VCU Well. The event looks interesting, but you find out there was a registration deadline that morning. There are no more spots open. At this point, you’re incredibly hungry. If you choose to push through the crowds to get food, go to 6. If you give up on your mission and decide to go study, go to 5.

4. You run into a friend who seems very stressed out and needs to walk and talk. You’re not sure if you have time to do so. If you choose to study instead of hang out, go to 5. If you choose to walk around and hang out with her, go to 3.

5. You find a decent spot by the first floor. It’s sunny, the noise-level is perfect, your chair is comfy, and things seem to be going perfectly before you’ve even cracked open your book. Except, a woman at the desk right next to yours has the most delicious meal with an aroma that wafts over in a way that you can’t ignore. You must do something. If you choose to give into the taunt of food and go grab something to eat at the Commons, go to 6. If you choose to do something else until the person and their delicious distraction leave go to 2.

6. The Commons restaurants are all shut down due to random renovations that were probably announced at some point, but you forgot to read the VCU TelegRam this morning…The End.

Moral of the story? Bring snacks when you study and read your VCU TelegRam!

Rebekah Rifareal is an English graduate student at VCU. She is interested in an interdisciplinary approach to healthcare and education policy. She has always viewed writing as a way to clear her head and as a useful tool for people to creatively express their voices. She hopes to never stop learning how to listen well and be heard.

[vcuwritingcenter]

The Moon Controls the Tides

Jonathan Figaro

Remember getting to the beach early saturday morning

And running into the ocean like a father with open arms

Stepping over seashells, diving under waves

As I stared at the shoreline,

Wiggling my toes in the sand.

*Thinking* “I should have been a pirate”

as water continues to lunge towards me wanting me to dance

I open my eyes underwater

And stare down at the depths

(to find the columns of Atlantis) wondering

if my lungs would collapse or

if I would

suffocate before I witness

the flags on the Titanic, waving

What is it that makes children want to build a kingdom?

Enslaving themselves, while the sun is high

To be ruler.

they all build moats, fearful of the outsider.

Hearing the stories of the trojan horse

Cautious of even their brother’s entry

[vcuwritingcenter]

The Four Kinds of Seniors

Meredith Lewanowicz

     1. The “I’m So Done!”

You’ll typically see this person powering down the walkway, weaving around the slow, strolling Freshmen and inconveniently-placed sidewalk conversations. They’ve got somewhere to go, whether it’s class or a quiet corner on campus where they know they won’t be surrounded by crowds of other students. They’re over the college fishbowl. They ‘can’t even’. This is the kind of Senior who’s mastered college and is ready to move into the working world, or their parent’s basement . . . basically anything that doesn’t involve homework, lectures, and endless students in line at the library Starbucks. It’s time to be original, not just another individual classified by major and year of study. These Seniors probably know the number of weeks, if not days, until graduation. Give them a cheer when they triumphantly toss their mortar board in May. . . they’ve earned it.

     2. The School-Addict

Study, study, study. Conversations with these Seniors probably revolve around applications to graduate school, dental school, law school . . . you get the picture: school and more school. These upperclassmen are ready to continue their classes, homework, and all-nighters for another few years. They really seem to go for this whole academic lifestyle. Though some may go more out of dedication to their dream career than out of a love for school itself, their determination is still impressive. During their Senior year, you might find them glued to their GRE review book. If you want to be a good friend to these Seniors, buy them some coffee and be their study buddy! Oh, and give them a pat on the back . . . they’ve worked hard.

    3. The Eager Career Person

They’re just what they sound like. These Seniors have probably sent in a few job applications as early as spring break. Whether they know just what they want to do, or plan to try anything interesting that comes their way, these Seniors are ready to work. Most of their advising appointments are probably with career services, so they know how to write a solid cover letter. You might notice their old wardrobe slowly being switched out with business casual pieces. Finally, their idea of procrastinating means searching for jobs when they should be doing homework. Otherwise, they may be quizzing themselves on intelligent answers to interview questions, or practicing their ‘humble-but-confident’ handshake.

    4. The One Who Still Hasn’t Grown Up

Just try picturing this Senior in an office setting. Does it work? If you find it excruciatingly difficult, or altogether hilarious, to see this person in a professional setting, then there’s a good chance they are a part of this last (but not least!) category of Senior. This is the student who may still forget assignments, show up late to class, or skip altogether. There’s a good chance that they are the ones talking too much at the back of their nearly-forgotten 200-level class.

[vcuwritingcenter]

I was a Hidden Figure: A Group Poem about the Black Women Who Changed Science

Mariah Williams, Rebekah Rifareal, Meredith Lewanowicz

*Three women responded in three unique ways to the movie, Hidden Figures. Together, their responses are merged in the following poem*

I am Katherine Johnson.

Katherine Johnson walks into her new office

She is the only woman in the room

Except for the female receptionist

The only black woman in the room and I can’t be seen

They want my mind and my numbers but they don’t want me

On a mission to get a man into space, when my Black life on earth is treated with disgrace

The thought that I as a woman can do what no man can do, crunch numbers vigorously and get a man to the moon

Multiple facets of womanhood

Defies standard gender conventions through her

Indispensable contribution to NASA

You see, they expect the least from me, my black skin reeks of defeat

Her co-workers are hostile and offensive, isolating her due to both her race and gender

But I come from kings and queens, scientists and chemists, engineers and alchemists

Concocting the most delicious of life’s recipes from the scraps off of the table

Scientific research itself proves that female brains may be better suited

I use my mind as my weapon, one that they can never take from me

Math is just the vessel to get me and my people free

Get my people free.

Viewing things from a different angle

You see, I am the dream and hope of the slave, so I rise above it all with no defeat on my face

Hidden Figures they say, that I was a hidden figure, written out the country’s story

Absent from all the lies my history books told me

“If I were a white man, I’d already be an engineer”

We have always been here, recognized or not

Filling our own cups because we all we got

Dedicated activists and learners, social advocates and strong parents

Leading women

Pioneers

What I did for NASA was no special task, I did what was required of me, I did what was asked

To the young women in the field of math, my advice is to go after what you want and forge your own path

Different perspectives matter

Never let your skin hold you back, don’t let hate get you off track.

Hidden Figures is a powerful reminder

Don’t be hidden.

Be loud and be bold

And as your story is being written, make sure it's told.