Elleza Kelley

I called it "Elleza's State of the Union." Is that too ambitious? Perhaps. But that's me, I guess—always trying to squeeze something epic out of something mundane. Here are facts: My flight is delayed, there is no president of Lebanon, I feel like my brain is on fire, and I have no college essay. I wrote at least six different drafts—each was successively too long, too unfocused, too experimental, too angry, too abstract. Each one I ripped up. The 'ripping' was more symbolic than anything, since all of those attempts at "making some sense of myself on paper" are still saved on my computer.

        With each aborted essay, I felt myself falling deeper into obscurity. With each new topic I felt that I made less sense. A few nights ago, I found myself surrounded by sketches for yearbook, half-complete portfolio pieces, Genet's, Our Lady of the Flowers and Dostoevsky's, The Brothers Karamazov, both lying open at moments far more interesting than my calculus homework. It was here, just hours away from the call of my alarm clock, basking in the bluish light emanating from a blank Microsoft word document that I decided I wouldn't write an essay at all; I was going to make a painting. There. That's something I love, something I'm truly passionate about, something I'm good at. The concept was brilliant when it occurred to me amidst the clouds of those dawn hours. What are those admissions officers going to do anyway? Send it back?

       The next morning I reconsidered this decision. My friends kept asking me what my college essays were about. I lied to them. They had all written essays about their native language or tap dance or the perils of being a middle child. I was terribly, hopelessly bored. I had nothing but torn pieces of paper.

      "Oh! I've got it!" My college counselor gave me a look of part desperation, part relief. I'd been whining over essayist's block for 10 minutes. "I'll write a poem about how I hate the bureaucratization of education!" She rolled her eyes, but I beamed proudly. "Elleza. You're a brilliant writer." I made a face. "You are. It will come to you. Write what you know."

      Write what I know. Here are facts: I plan to be responsible for the next meaningful movement. I WILL save the world with art. I have complete faith in the power of the written word.

I have written six introductions and six conclusions, attempting valiantly to capture myself, but it seems I'm not meant to be caught. Write what I know? There is so much I don't know and thank goodness, for there is a vast amount of un-chartered territory. I can write six hundred essays about the importance of art, the genius of William S. Burroughs, being black, being misunderstood—but see, what I already know doesn't matter. What matters is what I desire to know. What matters is how I will change, and the changes that I will make.