Un Sueno

Laura Elias // Blog Writer

Sitting at a red light was not how I had envisioned myself telling my grandmother, of all people, that I wanted to be a writer. Yet there I was, fifteen, on the cusp of sixteen, sitting in her gray RAV4, feet dangling off the seat, ready to share my little secret with her. My excitement didn’t last long. As soon as the words stumbled through my lips, my grandmother’s face morphed. Her eyes were downcast, her lips a slight disapproving pout. And sitting there at that intersection with its red eye unblinkingly watching us, she said, “Ah, Mija, solo es un sueno.” 

My face must’ve reflected my surprise because she quickly began to explain that it was nice to have dreams, but I needed to focus on a future, not a fantasy. I knew she meant well, but for nearly the next three years I rarely spoke of my writings or my passion for writing. It was only when my future was staring at me with its gaping mouth did I open my own. 

“It was only when my future was staring at me with its gaping mouth did I open my own.”

I would like to say that I grew up in a pretty Latino household, where every weekend bachata y cumbia would play as my mother cleaned. Where on a weekly occasion we’d visit family late into the night and where Spanish flew freely. Instead, hard work was valued. Grit and perseverance were the only options, with financial stability the end goal. Practicality was a survival technique refined by my immigrant grandparents and parents. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when my grandmother and aunt told me being a writer was only a pipe dream and that I needed a more practical approach to life. I don’t fault them for that. If anything, their disapproval made me even more sure that pursuing this occupation was what I wanted, and it made me even more determined. 

For the next three years, I pushed myself academically, crafting my schedule into one full of classes, extracurriculars, homework, and little time to write. My jottings lived only in the margins of my math homework, in the scraps of papers scattered between my class notes, and on my eyelids as I slept. 

“Their disapproval made me even more sure that pursuing this occupation was what I wanted, and it made me even more determined.”

Senior year was the one year I had allowed myself a reprieve from my academically strenuous schedule and decided to take my first creative writing class. I was shy with my writing at first. I wasn’t used to putting pen to paper with the intent of sharing it with others. For so long, writing had been my little untouched world, where pieces of myself could be found in anything I wrote, and now I had to share that. Granted it was a small class, but it was a change. 

I had to learn not to fear my pen strokes. I had to learn to let go, unfurl my petals, and allow others to critic my writing and help me blossom. I was such a fragile flower back then. I had to learn how to revise my own writing. I had to learn to trust the process and allow magic to be made. 

Slowly I learned, and soon I had new friends. Friends who love writing like I do. When I finally let go, I was praised for good work and helped just about all the time. I found that I was accepted there in that small classroom. I finally began to accept writing as my truth, my reality, and not just as a dream. I saw examples of success everywhere: my teacher, a published poet; or my classmate, a freelance writer, and so I allowed this reality to sink in. I allowed myself to want to go on this uncharted path, and take a leap of faith.