I
remember standing in the shade
of an olive tree in Panathinaiko
Stadium
Square,
sweat
dripping down my face, trying to hail
a cab. Classes had just gotten out for
the day, and I was making my way
to my cousin Zoe’s apartment. I was
studying abroad at The Athens Centre
in Athens, Greece, the summer after
my freshman year at the University
of Michigan. At this time, I felt left at
odds about what I wanted to do, not
only with my undergraduate career,
but also in the years to come — the
classic clueless freshman story.
I was going through a turbulent
period,
a
dark
hour
caused
by
numerous things including the loss of
people and things dear to my identity,
partnered with other stress factors
and a stress fracture (which helped
to put an end to my running career).
All these were magnified by my
immersion in a familiarly unfamiliar
city. I sought comfort in doing safe
and routine things.
Every day after class was the same:
walk to the stadium and try my hand
at hailing a cab. However, what
happened next was far from ordinary,
and, oddly enough, helped push me to
the next phase of my life.
Every day I’d encounter a different
cab driver, and more often than not
they’d tell me their story. I soon
discovered that the economic crisis
in Greece had cost many people their
careers, and everyone from academics
to lawyers had turned to jobs like cab
driving to earn a living.
My curiosity in politics grew with
each conversation, and I watched the
news with great disappointment: The
journalists had nothing on the cab
drivers. These cab drivers gave me
an insight of the city I couldn’t get
anywhere else. I found their stories
to be so fascinating that I’d relay
them to anyone. One day, over Indian
takeout, Zoe, who would often listen
to me ramble, mentioned in passing
that I really should write these down.
I shrugged.
L
ater that night, I took out my
journal that had remained
relatively
untouched
since
being gifted to me a year earlier. I
always had an affinity for writing
and my love for it started back in
high school. For me, writing can
bring forward the weakest and most
sensitive parts of the soul, and in doing
so one has to face unpleasant truths.
That’s the power of words. They can fit
together like perfect puzzle pieces to
form streams of thought that have the
potential to be insanely beautiful or
break your heart. That past year there
were too many changes, too many
things on my mind that I was afraid to
face, and I had been avoiding the one
thing that I knew was going to help me.
These threads came together when
I forced myself to sit down and write.
However, nothing came out. I thought
that writing about the cab driver
wearing an all-white tux that proposed
to me that day was whimsical and
harmless, but I couldn’t find the first
word to put down. “Writer’s block.” My
frustration grew, but I finally found a
good place to start.
“Maybe if I just start writing I’ll end
up where I’m supposed to be.”
I scribbled this line underneath
the date. That line led to an overflow
of everything — pages of writing that
seemed to go on endlessly.
Once I started I couldn’t stop — I still
can’t. That wasn’t my first journal, but
that time, it felt different. It became
therapeutic. Prior to that, running had
been my main source of meditation,
but at that point, I was injured. That
summer I found that I’ll always have
my journal and my pen which is enough
to make all the difference, even when
I’m at my lowest.
I started to play with different
styles, different ways of telling stories,
and found poetry to be my favorite way
to express intense emotions and prose
to accompany dilemmas and streams of
consciousness.
As a young writer, I am extremely
subject to the influence of authors
I read and the editors I have. I was
truly fortunate to have a language and
literature teacher back in high school
that really seemed to believe in me. I
was introduced to George Orwell and
his works, specifically “Politics and
the English Language” (basically his
guide to writing), and others, which I
fell in love with (read: my title).
S
omething that I have always
taken very seriously is honesty
— honesty in interpersonal
relationships, and honesty in writing.
The latter is the only way to get down
to the root of an issue and confront it
head-on. It’s also the best way for the
truth to be expressed.
My sophomore year I joined The
Michigan Daily’s news and sports
staffs.
I
was
compelled
by
my
reawakened passion for writing and my
love of honest storytelling. It was still
helping me heal, and felt productive. I
am a very private person, and for me,
writing pieces that are about anyone
but me felt good. Reporting stories
and including any relevant fact in
an objective way took time and is a
constantly developing skill. These
experiences transcend the newspaper
and carry over into my personal craft,
helping me write and edit myself better
every time I pull out my journal.
I view my writing — whether it’s
personal or professional — as marking
monuments in my life. I feel things
more completely when I write them
down. My mind clears up and my logic
surfaces. These landmarks show me
when I was able to look myself in the
mirror and identify the stranger and
the enemy that we can often turn into.
It keeps me sane.
This was about three years ago.
Since then my pen has seen it all —
anxiety, loss, anger — just as much as
happiness, success and my dreams.
Now, facing graduation in about a
month, I am again at a crossroad in my
life, this time there are no cab drivers
to help me get to where I need to be,
but my instinct and experiences to
follow.
Wednesday, March21, 2018 // The Statement
6B
Why I write
BY ANNA HARITOS, MANAGING SOCIAL EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY