Just Another Girl

Fine Arts

I can't paint, can't draw, can't hold a pen right, I can't play the guitar, I can't blend watercolors, you don't want to see me get my hands on chalk or wax. I'll probably hurt myself molding clay.

But I am an artist, as far as I am concerned. 

Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

I do not paint in color, I paint in words. Which sounds quite cliche, but it's true. A piece of art is one that is appreciated for beauty or emotional power. We are all artists. One can find emotional power in an essay, a speech, a dance, and even a flower in your garden. 

Poetry is the same. It is an art; I do not care how many arguments you have against it. 

But what is any form of art if no one could see it? It would have made no difference if it was never there at all. Like putting a bowl over a lamp. It does no good and wastes a good amount of oil. 

I am an artist. If I can not show the world my heart then there is no point. When I can not sing or write, everything loses meaning. 

And that, my dear friends, would be a catastrophe. 

And so I put my work wherever I could. I wrote here on Wattpad. Several times, in fact. I started a writer's account on Instagram with my friend. I joined the art and literature club at my school and got my work published in their magazine. I joined a worship team for Sundays and Fridays. I joined a Christmas choir at my church - I am the only female tenor. I did everything I could possibly do. 

Besides coffeehouses. Those would be too cool for me. 

Know what else I did? It was one of the best decisions of my life. I submitted poetry for a competition. And not the kind like they have here on Wattpad, where you just click a button and hope you get an email within the next few weeks. No. This is a whole competition, with a trip out of town and everything. 

The competition was called Fine Arts. It was a Christian competition for kids who wanted to use all that Gad had gifted them. It wasn't just for poets either. I went with a bunch of friends, none of which wrote poetry. In fact, there were maybe ten entries. 

That was probably one of the best days of my life. I got to the church at seven, ready to go. We were all meeting at the church so we could be loaded into the great white of a church van. A few went who weren't participating in the competition at all, just some of my friends who wanted to cheer us on. 

Those kids are quite possibly the most amazing people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. They're like my little sisters. They have been since I was eight. 

I went to the competition as a poet. The one I call Battman gave a spoken word. The Tiny Dancer - you guessed it - danced. My baby sister sang. The one I jokingly call my mother submitted a painting. The rest of us just came for company and smiles. 

I remember being so excited that day. I had been waiting and preparing for weeks. My poem, I believed, was perfect. There was no way I wasn't going to make it to nationals. I was confident my poem was good. And in order not to falter my often overbearing confidence, I didn't read the other submissions. 

It was only when we were seated at the end of the day that I started to really get nervous. There was the chance that I wasn't good enough. I mean I'm only a teenager. And the rulebook said "evident ministry". My poem didn't say anything about God; it was only implied. I took one deep breath after another. 

I learned this exercise from a book where one imagines breathing in good things and exhaling the bad ones. I would close my eyes and physically see it. It usually works. And while my negativity did wash away, my nervousness did not. 

The room was dark and the nervousness of hundreds of teenagers was cramped up beside me, but my best friends were next to me and my stomach was full. I dunno man. There's just something about your stomach being full that makes you in an immediately better mood. 

But anyway, we had to sit through the reading of every name and title of every kid who made it through. By title, I mean the kid's church and the division they were competing in. They would say the division church, then church, and finally their name. 

My mind wandered for most of it, knowing the poetry sr. division was the very last in the rulebook. I did pay attention, however, when they got to my friend's divisions. Though the Tiny Dancer and Battman were sitting farther down the row, I let them know I was happy for them when their names were called by hollering as loud as I could. 

The other youth groups probably hate us. But that's completely fine. You can't be loudest youth group and not attract a few hate-filled glances every once in a while.

We have always been the loudest. Always. I suppose we're just buoyed my excitement and the fact that our friends are just as crazy as I am. It's a great feeling, really. To be completely comfortable screaming my head off or showing off my victory dance in a room full of strangers. It's a great relief from the world I live in on a daily, non-church basis. 

When they got to poetry senior, I was beyond nervousness. My eyes were trained on the man standing at his stage, computer in hand. He was just reading a list. He gave only a breath after each title for cheers to ring out. They were silenced almost immediately when he would continue to read. It was almost systematic. 

I didn't even get to hear my name that night. I think I would have liked to. All the guy got through was "In the poetry senior section, from Lighthouse Christian...." before the screams erupted. Which lasted longer than they had to. The screams I mean. Along with the annoyed glares. But those didn't matter. I was too busy crying. 

The second they said my name, I put my face in my hands exclaiming "Oh my God!". My friend next to meput her arms around me and took in my already-wet face. She asked me over and over again why I was crying. I just shook my head. My friend to the other side of me hugged me as well and the excited squealing didn't end for at least a good few minutes. 

I am so glad I decided not to wear makeup that day.

But it's not exactly over. Yes, I got through district. But all I won was the clearance to compete on a national level. And after that?

Well I frankly have no idea. We'll see when I get there. 

But competition isn't free, either. Just to compete, I had to pay 105 dollars. But I still have to fly myself and my family from New Jersey to Orlando. Not to mention hotel, a rental car and food. But I've been pretty good with raising and saving money. So far I have enough for both the competition and my plane ticket. 

I've been making and selling bookmarks to do so. I'm not very good at making bookmarks. It's mostly to have something to sell so that I'm not just walking around asking for money. 

I've also been selling my things at flea markets. You know how much ridicule I get for selling at these things? It doesn't end. My friends have made memes about it. There was this one time when my youth pastor made a reference to selling books on ebay and about a dozen heads turned to laugh at me.

But one day it'll all be worth it. 

Just ya'll wait. I've revised my poem. It is now beyond it's former glory. I plan on winning that competition. 

I say that now. Watch. In a few weeks, when the deadline looms ever closer, I'll think differently. But for now I will exercise the gift God has given me - a talent for simply not caring. 

And I'm going to enjoy it for as long as I can.