For a couple of days she couldn’t feel the trouble.

She couldn’t sense the issue.

She just knew that he was quieter.

And that he was more neutral; more resigned.

At first the front of her mind felt that everything must be alright; that perhaps there wouldn’t be a fight after all.

That maybe he wanted to meet her father and move forward, even if ever so slowly.

But her monkey belly was contorting…feeling that it was much worse…that it would much prefer some anger or frustration from him.

She heard the knock, but of course by then she was already at the door, the Chihuahuas having been going much earlier than the knock.

Not more than 10 minutes later he was gone again.

She looked out the window at the sun through teary eyes.

It takes 8 minutes for the sun’s rays to hit our eyes on earth.

If it dies one day and decides to stop burning, we’ll be sun-tanning, golfing, farming away like fools for another 8 minutes.

“I’ll be there soon” he sent 8 minutes before he showed up at her door, without his usual gym bag for overnight stay, without a bottle of wine, without a smile.

We were in the car driving past the hubby buildings of Athens, Georgia and I was scared shitless.

They were classic American structures no more than five stories high made entirely out of brick. Refurbished factories converted into retail hotspots and trendy bars. Athens was a complex in the middle of a vast expanse, like a sturdy tree shooting high above a flooded valley that said yes sir, how’re y’all, and we’ll pray for you. Out in the distance the rolling, rolled-over fields allowed the last of the February chill to carry through town. Bryan Wish was in the front seat with his mom talking about what he was going to say when everyone arrived at the event. The Wish Dish One Year Anniversary.

I was sitting in the back holding some banners that covered my face silently venting what the hell are you doing. I was terrified. Didn’t look it but I wanted to jump out the car at the next red light and rush into Pauley’s Crepe Bar. Have a drink at the end of the bar and forget it all, that’s what I wanted. Don’t bother with these people, Matt, just go back inside yourself. But then I had to remind myself of how some wise ass kid from Reston, Virginia touched over 200 peoples’ lives in ways he couldn’t imagine.

Let me start off by telling you how me, a guy with a nasally drone and bad attitude got to know UGA’s own Bryan Wish.

We were living in Virginia, both in 6^th grade, and we played youth football together. Never really took to each other but that was mostly my fault. I never spoke–to anyone. I was a shy kid who liked to knock his big head around. After that, we happened to play on the same house league basketball team. Don’t remember much except losing in the semi-finals.

After that we didn’t talk for over a decade. We both had amassed different lives over the years. He went into sports and marketing while I tried to be a poet, still trying. One night I remember sitting in the living room of my apartment at Providence College, after an evening of trying to forget that college was coming to an end, I get a Facebook message; it’s Bryan. His mom had caught up with my mom at a Christmas party. That night there was this distinct March chill, like it belonged among the hills of Athens but laid to rest in small, grey Providence. Bryan found out I was a creative writing major (I wanted a lucrative career…) and asked me to write a piece. He said there were no boundaries, no limits, just something true and authentic. Right away, I said ‘sure.’

Damn Matt. What are you going to write about, you’re a fiction writer, you tell lies and call them stories. You’ve never written anything true in your life. After a couple of days thinking on what I should put down, I decided to write about something I had never talked about before. Bryan’s point to make it authentic and providing a place for it to live gave me the balls to go all out. Nothing held back. It was called “The Invaluable Luxury of a Second Chance.” I’ll admit it was tough getting it on paper. But after the tears and anguish and memories washing over me, it was over. It was actually over.

My body felt underweight. Like a tumor I’d grown attached to had been extracted and what filled up was understanding, relief.

The response to my piece was incredible. Thousands of people read it. I received messages telling me how raw and powerful it was. Truth has a way of settling in people’s hearts. To this day, I hope I will never feel as proud of a piece of writing.

Bryan slowly began acclimating me to this culture of self-expression in its infancy.

He asked over the next few months leading up to and after my graduation if I’d be willing to help him edit a few pieces here and there. I thought ‘sure, why not.’ I was the unofficial associate editor to the Wish Dish. People wrote me back and forth asking me: a guy who didn’t have anything figured out beyond what he was going to do in the next three hours, to lay out their deepest thoughts in the best way possible. I was more than happy to help.

Nurturing a story, a narrative of a life coming from someone where he or she expresses themselves most through language, is one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve ever had. Fast forward a couple months after graduation, Bryan asked me to be the manager of all content. I said, ‘sure.’ Yup, I was on my way. But not everything was so smooth in my life.

For the better part of a year after taking on the role, I went through a rough time. A combination of a bad breakup, entrenched anxiety, depression, and post-graduation uncertainty sent me down a twister of drinking, erratic behavior, and self-destructive tendencies. Longstanding issues I chose to ignore for several years came back to the forefront, like a bad chemical reaction. I reverted into a version of myself who acted savage and selfish. Kept thinking you’re nothing you piece of trash and who do you think you are Mr. Writer? Those voices plagued every portion of my mind and drinking was one of the only things that made it quiet. Drink until it went black, that was the prescription.

But there was one activity that gave me a center, a grounding. Working for The Wish Dish.

The time was approaching for the Wish Dish One Year Anniversary. It had already been one year…my God. I began to accept that there was no escape from what I was about to witness. Bryan was about to finally integrate this eclectic community of writers and artists that all had one thing in common, the essence of truth. I was going all-in, a commitment. There’d be no bars or dark corners to hide in.

We’d pulled up to Nuci’s Space, this venue dedicated to the club owner’s son. Nuci was a talented guitarist on his way to becoming a real staple in the Athens music scene. But he took his own life at the age of 22. On the back wall right next to a stage riddled with guitars like a shrine there was this eight foot tall picture of Nuci standing in the middle of a field looking up to the sky. It looked like he was thinking why can’t I be up there, maybe if I jump high enough…and a jab of realization got me right in the mouth. That could have been me. It was a real possibility that if I let shit get bad enough then I probably wouldn’t be able to dig myself out. If the drinking got that bad, and kept on feeling bad for myself–Right now I could be sailing the clouds up there with Nuci looking for a place to land on the sun. After a full year of looking through hundreds of stories from hundreds of people, I realized that apart from having the love and support of a wonderful family, these stories had formed me and kept my legs planted on the ground.

I’m not saying I’m a better person or that I’m cured but I will say these stories I am a conduit for, saved me.

During the long nights of barhopping, sometimes alone, finding a shadowed corner to paint with my self-pity, waking up early trying to remember how I got back, I’d check the site and make sure everything was running smoothly. Bryan counted on me to get these stories together, these people were depending on me. I thought I had been through some shit in my time but, I had no idea how much shit life throws at you until I read these stories, your stories. They, these men and women, had allowed me to gain a perspective that my life was nothing in the grand scheme if I didn’t want it to be anything. There was this center and that was the Wish Dish.

Instead of making meaning out of every day (my old motto), I wanted people to remember that I at least tried and that was all the meaning I’d need. I was ready to leave that jerkish asshole behind and start a new chapter of my life dedicated to a higher purpose greater than my own gain—But then, another wave hit me. I was in a riptide of revelation. Shit, all those people who’ve entrusted their words to you are going to be here tonight and you’re going to see them face to face. I was finally going to see each of them, talk to them, shake their hands. Oh for the love of shit, Matt, you’re just figuring this out now?! Anxiety was kicking in two-fold.

There was no distance, no invisible fourth wall to separate me from these people. Before, they were more ideas to me who had created beautiful language, like angels. Looking these people in the eye would be like a flashback from an acid trip and that freaked me out.

Standing still in the middle of the Nuci’s giving myself a 360 degree view, I was petrified again. I needed to see if I could slug a few beers to calm the nerves. The amount of relief is almost indescribable when I found out this event had an open bar. Never said I stopped drinking and, hey, I’m not perfect. After a few Tropicalias, I got to meet the rest of the incredible core of the Wish Dish staff.

Shelby Novak, our social media director, saw me. My face was a bit flushed from the beers, Irish red, and she straight-up hugged me. I could just feel that there was a kindness and good will emanating from her, I’d like to think I picked up a little bit of that. She had the Athens vibe, happy to help someone, to give someone a blanket on a cold spring night even when she might need it more.

Not too long after we had all the chairs set up, hung all the posters, and the microphone sound tested I saw the head of content strategy, Sam Dickinson. Dressed to the nines in a blazer, khakis, and a tie he made my blue button down with Polo sneakers a bit underdressed. He shook my hand with an earnestness I don’t see in many people. Along with being as tall as a redwood he’s a great guy, he’s genuine. We three had invested so much into giving people a voice in a world where words have increasingly diminished in their significance. People use them as throwaway symbols, like inconveniences suffered through for the sake of communication. This site and these people and most importantly these stories from young, old, sad, happy, empowered, victimized—they had come into this melting pot where each was celebrated and welcome.

And dammit I was going meet them, needed a few more beers as they all started trickling in.

The event went off without a hitch. I’ll let Bryan explain it from his perspective but just let me say that he is the core of this whole thing, a molder of culture. Believe it.

Nearly 200 people showed. That’s 200 stories I’ve read. How would they see me? Would I get criticized for my methods? Do they even know who I am? Did they think their stories were just magically put up on the site?

The amount of welcome and thanks I received shocked me to the foundation.

I talked with Tom Bestul, who had written a story about his experience at Camp Kesem, a camp for children whose families had been affected by cancer. His story inspired me to volunteer more. Another one was Megan Swanson, a former Miss Nebraska who gave her perspective on the highly criticized beauty pageant process. She helped to broaden my horizons. And Denna Babul’s story of love for her dying mother-in-law demonstrated how strong a bond one can share with another. If only I could have talked to every single one of these people I would have relived every moment perusing their words. With each passing recollection and introduction the moments grew more surreal. It might have been the beer but the whole event seemed to gather this arid, temperate hue like the words exchanged between all these storytellers was adding substance to the air, filling a void. I don’t know, maybe I was sloshed. But it was beautiful nonetheless.

The event was coming to an end and I felt the need to say something.

First I want to thank Bryan for allowing me to make the closing remarks. Standing up there, the crowd stared, all focus magnified on me like was under a hot beam on an ant hill. Matt what the hell are you going to say you have nothing prepared you never prepare for anything but can you ever be prepared for the truth, truth, yes, the truth just tell the truth—And this is a rough cut of what I said, it is a thanks to all you contributors, past and present.

Hey everyone, I’m Matt Gillick and I’m the chief editor. I’ve read all your stories and for that—well let me first that I’m sorry for any mistakes I made for any of your pieces—I’m not perfect but I try. I just thought that it would be decent of me to say a few words and to thank you all. Thank you guys for taking such a risk, not necessarily a physical risk but an emotional risk in entrusting me to nurture your words and publish them for everyone to see. Someone whom you’ve never met before and haven’t seen until right now got to see the inner you and what really makes you tick. Through language you showed me a corner of your soul. I wanted to let you all know that you are all incredible people. I have been shaped by your stories, every one of them. Let me finish by saying hopefully one day I can be a fraction of the person you all are now—when I’m older and greyer.  

Later on I walked outside, into the evening. There wasn’t a chill rolling from the hills anymore. Downtown was lit up and beckoning. Bryan patted me on the back as we looked out into the night, about eight Tropicalias deep, and I was happy.

For the first time in a while, I was happy.

I’ve heard the saying before that your earliest childhood memories are often the ones that will dart through your head at the end of your life. Just like Charles Foster Kane gasping out “Rosebud” on his deathbed, these are the things you take with you, the things you hold onto when nothing else is left. Though for me, it wouldn’t be the name of my juvenile snow sled.

I can remember a clear blue pool nestled in a shady hollow and me, screaming in half-terrified exhilaration as I sprinted off the diving board with stinging feet, my floaty-clad arms flailing jubilantly. I can remember bubble gum ice cream on a summer night, sitting at a red picnic table, crying from the brain freeze. I can remember going to the zoo with my grandfather and riding the carousel, sitting on a chipped-painted cheetah, spinning in endless circles as he held my tiny hand. I can remember my old hound dog Mason, his droopy eyes, his sloppy kisses. I can remember one time for curiosity’s sake pulling one of his long, black whiskers right out of his snout, and him just wincing and whimpering, and I feeling so guilty that I had caused him pain that I swore to never do it again.

I can remember so many dinners spent around our four seater dining table, just my mom, my dad, and me, the perfect little family.

I can remember complaining every time we had fish, I can remember spilling spaghetti sauce on myself every time I wore a white shirt. I can remember losing my first tooth and my night-shift working mother, instead of having me put it under my pillow for a dollar, tiredly taking my tooth and handing me a single bill, and me realizing that there was no tooth fairy. A piece of magic instantly gone forever.

And then things get murky, details lost in the gloom of those middle school years we all try so hard to forget. Well we finally did it and now there’s three years, four if you were still awkward as a high school freshman, that we can just shrug our shoulders at and say “eh, doesn’t matter.” And on the other side of that era, everything looks vastly different.

I’m at the pool, and it’s so hot I can feel myself sweating the moment I sit down but I recline gracefully on a lawn chair, oiling my skin to hasten the effects of future skin cancer. There is no swimming, there is no laughing and running around, there is only flirting with the lifeguard and cutting eyes maliciously at the other young teenage girls nearby. Ice cream is a thing of the past. I haven’t had refined sugar since I had baby teeth. Now I run three miles a day, staying in shape for when my cheerleading season starts back up.

I don’t even know directions to the zoo anymore. I haven’t thought about that merry-go-round in years. My mother has to beg me to call my grandparents to check in, which I rarely do because I’ve forgotten the pleasure of easily conversing with elderly relatives. What would I even say?

My old dog Mason died before I started 7th grade. I was at summer camp when it happened so I never even got to say goodbye. My dad buried him in the backyard, but when we moved to a new house, we left him behind. When we moved, the family dinners lost their frequency, just like my parents stopped pretending they liked each other so much. I can’t remember the last time I saw them kiss, or hold hands.

I’ve become an expert at making frozen dinners. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and everyone else has made it to the does-not-exist list, along with unicorns, soulmates, and my letter from Hogwarts. I stopped liking Christmas when my first boyfriend broke up with me the day before winter break in the cafeteria with all our friends watching. The only holiday that still brings me joy is Thanksgiving, and that’s mainly because it’s the one day of the year when I allow myself to eat without counting every calorie I consume, forcing myself to stop at 1200.

I am a scholar athlete, a straight “A” student, active participant in a dozen organizations.

I take myself very, very seriously. I date cool boys, I get into trouble with my friends and I never get caught. And I try to think back to when I was last happy and all I know is that it was in the days of overalls and pigtails. Back then I slept easy, woke up early on Saturdays just to watch cartoons, spent all my time outside, rode my bike barefoot, looked for pictures in the clouds, and dreamt big dreams.

I don’t know when the innocence died but there is such a disconnect between who I was and who I am now that I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize the person staring back. These are not my eyes, these are not my hands. I feel trapped in a life that can never embody who I really am.

The reason Orson Welles transcribed onto paper that famous last word of his figment Citizen Kane is because it isn’t really about a bobsled at all. It is a memory of the last moment before everything in his life changed, forever.

Its been four more years and time has begun to make new life grow inside me. I can accept now that sometimes to seize the day, your hair is going to have to get wet. I’ve put on a pound or two or fifteen from some unhealthy eating but that’s okay, because I feel stronger, more firmly planted. I’ve gone to the zoo again to gawk at the gorillas, I’ve spent time playing with my new puppy. My parent’s sometimes fragile relationship is still a twisted knife for me, but I can see now the way they look at each other, the mutual respect, my father’s strong and gentle quietness uniquely complementing my mother’s boisterous spunk. I had the best Christmas in ages last year, a day spent with a sweet, caring guy who loves me better than I deserve and makes me believe in magic a little more every day.

I’m so far from where I want to be. I still care too much about outward appearances. I am still a perfectionist who beats myself down with ruthless words like “stupid” and “failure” every time I do something wrong. I still break down and I still feel all alone sometimes but I know that my best days aren’t behind me, and that my fondest memories are still before me. I have books to read, people to meet, and opportunities to take.

I don’t know where I’m going or how I’m going to get there, but I want it to be fully, unapologetically me running down that path, pure and free.

Dusk is my least favorite part of the day. As a morning person who loves to see the world come alive with the sun painting pinks, blues, yellows, and sometimes even green across the morning sky, seeing the day end is always slightly sad. Not that a sunset isn’t gorgeous in its own right, mind you. They have their own special beauty, but that time after the sun has gone down and before the stars come out is always a bit depressing.

There was a time when I loved dusk. I was little, and the whole world was my playground. I spent whole days running through the pastures of my grandparents’ farm, terrorizing the barn cats, swinging on a splinter-filled wood swing, and (quite dangerously) exploring sink holes at the back of the property.

Despite all those wonderfully long, gorgeous summer days, the moments I remember fondly aren’t the sunrises when I woke to the smell of my Grandma cooking bacon and making biscuits from scratch or the searing, comforting heat of the Kentucky summer sun as I got sunburnt yet again while playing hide and seek with my cousins.

Instead, it was dusk: that now hated time.

Then, dusk was not the end of another day filled with midterms and stress about my future after graduation; it was the hour of lightning bugs.

Their lights would start slowly: first one, then another. They appeared like magic every few minutes just as the sun sank below the horizon. And then, they’d all light up at once. The pastures were full of them, and my Granddaddy, the man who always reminded me to value life more than anyone, would hand all of the grandchildren a mason jar and set us loose on the fields.

We’d gather our little balls of light into jars, using them to light our way back to the porch where we excitedly told whatever fairy tales we had concocted on the walk, and my Granddaddy would take us on his lap and listen to every single one.

I don’t get much time to enjoy dusk anymore.

On a typical night, I’m rushing from meeting to meeting or longing for my Mom’s cooking as I prepare yet another BLT for dinner. Amongst all the stress, I forget to stop and observe the quiet peacefulness of dusk and remember my Granddaddy’s comforting voice as I told one childish tale after another. But sometimes, I’ll catch a firefly lighting up the night sky out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, I’m seven years old again.

The world is a magical land filled with happy dusks and adventures through a country field, and all is well, if for only just a moment, amongst the craziness of my college kid life.

The worlds will never know about it.

The cries I cry go unheard no doubt about it.

The feeling is normal for me now.

The sting of the razor sharp edge piercing my skin.

I’ve become aware of my surroundings.

The dark room swallows me whole.

I stare into the nothingness of the wall.

This feeling is foreign to me.

Wanting to not exist, to be gone.

The thing that keeps me alive feels warm as it cascades down my forearm slowly as

water would in a tranquil stream.

Undoubtedly my wrist goes numb.

I feel nothing.

I am nothing.

I slowly fade away into the darkness becoming another case filed into this unjust world.

By: Dasia Jackson

“It’s the size of a grapefruit.”

I imagined the bitter, fleshy pink fruit. In my mind’s eye the fruit sat, covered in layer of white, granular sugar, untouched with a silver spoon gleaming beside it. My trance dissipated like a curling cloud of smoke as I listened to my mother’s voice through the phone.

“It doesn’t look good,” she murmured.

I knew it was too late. It was too big. It wasn’t caught soon enough. It was a tumor, and it was draining my last surviving grandparent of her life.

The air was hot and humid, with the smell of food simmering on the stove. It was the kind of air that makes you feel like just one breath could give you a mouthful of whatever was cooking. I walked further into my oma’s kitchen and peered into the bubbling pot on the stove. With her giant spin in her hand, she wagged it towards me as she asked, “Hungry?” with her mouth pulled back into a sly grin.

She already knew the answer; no one could resist her spaetzle dumplings, dripping with browned butter. I gave her a long hug, pressed against the cool silk of the draping mumu that provided her a sort of sanctuary in the hot kitchen. Then I took the heaping plate.

“Wait, so how far along is she? Like, how advanced is it,” I questioned, still in shock, still hoping.

“Honey, she’s very sick.”

“Should I come home? Is it bad?”

“If you can, I think you should come…” To say goodbye?

It wasn’t said, but then again it didn’t have to be. The short exchange, now seared into my memory, was enough to tell me everything I needed to know. Tears began to well in my eyes, salty and stinging as they ran down my face. The cold night air rested on my tear-stained cheeks like a cold kiss, the dark silhouettes of buildings forming a voyeuristic audience to my grief. Almost shocked by the sound of my sobs, I went back to my apartment and feel into my bed.

“Hoopah-radah-ridah-da-felda-in-da-craada. Oops, there goes the baby in-da-craada.”

Memories of lullabies from a foreign land, dripping with harsh German enunciations, dance through my mind as I look at photos of my grandmother, cradling me as a baby. She was there, gazing down at my thick, black hair, my closed eyes, my rosebud lips, cherishing the simplicity of my total innocence. But now I’m here, cradling this photo of her, observing her in her youth. I take notice of her dark hair that’s so much like my own, and her air of seriousness that seems to radiate from the glossy image.

I can’t help but to pause and think of the authority of time.

It never stops—an infallible machine that never needs greasing or turning, wrenching or polishing. Who takes care of time? It certainly doesn’t take care of us. I wondered how long it took for the cancer to metastasize to form the massive tumor, situated atop my oma’s liver. How many seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, it took for the malignant mass to form, and for the cancer to stake its claim.

It took three hours to drive back to Rome, straight to the hospital, when my last class ended on Friday. My mother came to the lobby, to bring me to the sterile hospital room, where my grandmother lay surrounded by family. My mother whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t have long. I didn’t realize she would go this quickly…”

I nodded, and then neared the hospital bed, the ambient lighting casting a glow on my oma’s pale skin. I reached out to touch her hand, still as lovely as it had always been. I heard my aunt murmur, “She’s always had beautiful skin, hasn’t she?” I gazed down at her fingers, interlaced with mine. Over fifty years my senior and little differed between ours, besides my slightly darker complexion.

I gripped her hand a little firmer, feeling the warmth it radiated, wondering if I could feel the blood pulsing through her veins if I was still enough.

Of course, she didn’t stir from her sedated state, propped on her side as to avoid pressing on the painful tumor. All I could do was stare at her, sleeping so peacefully, only the slightest signs of her regular breaths. Inhaling and exhaling, her chest mimicked the ocean tides, and I felt soothed for a little while.

The hardest part wasn’t the funeral. It wasn’t the process of cleaning out her home, full of memories from my youth. It wasn’t that seeing my oma’s twin sister when she came to town was like seeing a ghost. It was saying goodbye to her, in that dimly lit hospital room, knowing that it was the last time. It’s an eerie thing, saying your last goodbyes to someone who is still alive. So unnatural and shocking it seemed to me at the time that I couldn’t utter a simple goodbye out loud.

I turned to my family who watched me as I stood by the hospital bed, and sobbed, “I can’t do it. I can’t say goodbye…” But what I could do was hold her hand, and I did.

This is why I relay.

So that no one else has to feel the pain of saying goodbye, for the last time, to loved one dying of cancer. I relay because cancer has gone too far. It’s taken one too many wonderful beings from this world. For all those who are battling cancer, know someone who is battling cancer, or hope that they will never have either of these connections: I’m implore you to direct your passion to this cause. Whatever your motives are, everyone who relays has the same goal—to beat cancer.

We can.

The man who went where none should go and saw what none should see,

Had his knowledge wrapped around an eternal mystery.

He witnessed many glorious things, and many heinous too,

Yet ev’n his stores of knowledge failed to reveal something of the truth.

Then one day the man encountered a knocking at the door,

And he who swayed in spirit failed to do so anymore.

‘Find rest old man’, it whispered, defying all he knew.

‘Find rest and you shall find’, it said, ‘your soul has been renewed!’

The man was filled with joy as the shackles vanished from his mind;

He had unintentionally discovered the true eternal kind.

“Never again!” he proclaimed to all, in regards to past pursuits.

“Never again!” he called again, so that some would hear the news.

Yet none desired to listen to what the old man said.

“Fool!” they called him, unaware

Of their own inflicted heads.

First, the man was troubled, unsure of what to do.

But soon enough he found the Way, earning interest for the truth.

Rather than preach a message, he began to act the part.

Instead of looking for the end, he rested at the start.

The people marveled at him, not comprehending why.

“How can you live this way?” they asked the passerby.

“Now you see the truth,” he said, “what I had tried to tell.

But because you did not listen, you’ve found yourselves in hell.”

“What is this that you speak of?” the people asked, astounded,

Refusing to comprehend knowledge so unfounded.

“I will tell you once again,” he said, hoping for the best.

“Never again should you or I seek to leave His rest.”

Finally they understood from witnessing his ways,

This man had found a secret which brightened up his days.

But still he tried to tell them: “My secret’s free for all!

The light is all around you

Waiting for your call…”

Missy Taylor peered over my shoulder as I struggled to remember the combination to my locker from the past two years. “Lyla,” she paused, holding out the end of my name for much longer than was necessary.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what, Missy?” Missy loved discovering the latest gossip at Walburn High School. We were juniors, finally upperclassmen, but all Missy wanted to talk about was which football player hooked up with which cheerleader who was actually dating that soccer player. I had college visits and advanced placements tests to worry about.

“Let me help. What’s your combination,” Missy asked, pushing me out of the way.

“That’s the problem. I don’t remember.” Missy sighed, rolling her eyes at me.

“Why don’t I tell you my news as we walk to the office for you to get your new combo?”

“I guess so.” Missy interlocked our arms, and smiled widely at me, ignoring the distress in my face. “Okay, so I’m sure you’ll like this news.”

“What is it, Missy?” “So, I hear there is a new creative writing teacher this year,” she said, nudging my ribcage with her elbow.

“Wait. They fired Mrs. Cummings? Who could possibly be more qualified than she?”

“Oh, please, Lyla. Mrs. Cummings was like 107 years old.”

“It doesn’t mean she wasn’t qualified,” I stated, opening the door to the office.

Missy slammed it shut. “I haven’t finished.” Missy tossed her bottle blonde hair behind her right shoulder and checked herself in the reflection of the office door. “The new teacher is really cute and super young. I think he’s like only 27 years old. I heard that he graduated from Yale. Like as in the Ivy League,” she gushed, exhaling dramatically and smirking at me. “Rachel who was in biology class last year told me that apparently he was fired from his last job in a private school and that’s why he is working here now–but Rachel is not that reliable of a source.

“Why does this matter to me?” “C’mon, Lyla. I thought you would find this news interesting. All the girls in your writing class are talking about him.”

“Look, Missy. I have bigger things to think about than the new creative writing teacher.” “Like what,” she sneered.

“Um, like maybe getting my locker open before lunch.”

“Well, first period starts in five minutes, you better hurry.” I glanced at the clock, realizing Missy was right. I ran into the office, hoping they would be able to save me, not just from my locker woes, but also from Missy. Missy wasn’t wrong. The new creative writing teacher was cute. He actually tucked his buttoned down shirt into his khaki pants, and his hair was slicked back without any gel, unlike most of the boys in my grade. Even though I was late to first period, Mr. Davis did not really seem to mind. He had the desks arranged in a circle; he sat at the head of the circle, on top of a desk, rather than in the desk like the rest of us.

The class was retelling their favorite moments from summer. Aaron mentioned that he went on a fishing trip with his father, but they didn’t catch any fish because his father went into anaphylactic shock from a wasp sting on his finger. Sydney, swinging her ponytail from side-to-side, told a story about how she got to visit her new baby cousin in Maryland for a few days. She got to hold him, and he was the first baby she ever held. The baby spit up on her. Then, the circle stopped at me. I swallowed hard and glared at the clock, hoping the bell would ring before I had to utter my first word.

“You want to tell us your favorite moment from summer-,” Mr. Davis smiled, revealing his dimples.

“Lyla. Lyla Douglas.”

“Very well, Lyla. What did you do this summer?” “Uh, well…I wrote a few short stories.”

“Really,” he paused, “what about it?”

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. “Nothing really that interesting.”

“Well, I have a feeling that you’re not being all that honest,” he laughed. “But, that’s quite alright. A great writer never reveals his secrets,” he said, winking at me before moving on to the next student.

I learned that Mr. Davis was also a painter. Since teaching took up most of his time, he could only really paint on the weekends. He showed me his artwork once when I stayed after school to edit one of my stories with him. One of his paintings would be shown at a gallery in town. It was reminiscent of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles D’avignon, or at least that’s what he said. It was a painting of an ex-girlfriend. Her body was all distorted–only visibly displaying her face, which looked both fearful and relieved at the same time. Mr. Davis gained inspiration after his girlfriend threatened to leave him if he didn’t agree to marry her. According to him, she had issues–but she inspired his best work. I always wanted to share something interesting and elusive about myself, but the only snippet from my life that I could ever think about was how when I was ten my parents had left me at a carnival. It took my parents two hours to realize that I was missing. I was too embarrassed for the both of us to tell Mr. Davis that story.

These gatherings after school started to become a regular affair. I found myself wandering into his classroom around 3:15 to review a short story I had written.

Usually, we discussed the piece for a few minutes and then moved on to other conversations. Mr. Davis was a great storyteller; I longed to be able to tell stories like him. I had never met a person who seemed to take me so seriously. My mother was often consumed with her eating and exercise habits, refusing to allow anything other than raw food in the house, while my father stayed way too late at the office and smelled like brandy and cigars when he did finally make it home. Mr. Davis made me feel important.

It had been two months that we had been meeting after school to look over my writing. Mr. Davis had finished more paintings for another gallery show in town. He told me that he had just decided on a theme for this new show: heat. I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to explain what he was talking about. He just smiled at me and continued to mark up some poor student’s short story with his red pen.

“What do you mean,” I asked, trying to sound intelligent, while still being confused.

“Hmm” “Why ‘heat’? Oh, that,” he paused.

“Was it like really hot when you painted these?” He laughed to himself.

“No, that’s not the heat I’m referring to. I mean, heat as in the feeling a person gets when they feel passion.”

I glanced at the two misplaced commas in the student’s story. “How does that relate to your paintings?”

“Well, as you already know, my ex-girlfriend inspired most of these paintings. We had a pretty tough relationship–lots of fighting and making up, which led to more fighting and eventually our break up. We had a lot of passion for each other, despite the fact that we ultimately hated each other. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.” “Yeah,” he asked, refusing to let go of our gaze. I shifted in my seat. “Heat embodies the nature of that relationship, all the tension and the passion. I couldn’t imagine a better word myself.” “You know, Lyla,” Mr. Davis hesitated. “You are more than welcome to come to the art gallery showing on Friday. I mean, that is, if you’re free?”

I could feel my cheeks burning up and beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. “Uh…well…sure, I’m not doing anything.” “Really, you would like to come?” “Of course. I wouldn’t mind coming to see your paintings.” “Perfect,” He smiled, biting down on his red pen.

I was hardly able to see Mr. Davis until close to when the show was finishing. He spent the evening chatting with other local artists and art curators, who seemed genuinely interested in his work. Near the end of the gallery show, I made my way out to the patio. The bushes were decorated with white lights and matching candles were flickering on each table. Mr. Davis was sitting on a bench with a cocktail in his right hand. I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked that night–wearing a gray tailored suit with a thin black tie, his hair combed over, and he wore thick rectangular framed eyeglasses. As I got closer to him, I could smell his cologne, a mixture of pine and cinnamon, which seemed like an unlikely combination, but made my knees begin to quiver. He jumped when he noticed me standing in front of him.

“Lyla,” he exclaimed. “Thanks for coming. I wanted to say to something to you earlier, but I was busy with all the guests.”

“No, that’s okay. I understand. Do you mind if I take a seat,” I asked, pointing to the spot beside him. Mr. Davis patted the wood. Our knees touched slightly as I took a seat next to him. He shook the ice around in his glass. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as he exhaled heavily.

“Did you have fun tonight,” he asked. “I did. It was really nice to finally see your artwork. I could really feel the heat.”

Mr. Davis grinned. “Yeah? I’m glad you could understand what I was going for.” “Well, thank you for inviting me.” He shifted closer to me. “I appreciate you coming.” I shivered as a gust of wind flew past. I knew I should have listened to my mother when she told me to wear my winter coat, but a purple puffer jacket lacked the sophistication I needed to uphold at this party. Mr. Davis wrapped his suit jacket over my shoulders.

“Of course. We’ve been talking about this for months.” He moved in closer, resting his left hand a little above my knee. Startled, I scooted down the bench, but he pulled me in even closer to his body. “I’ve been really enjoying getting to know you these last couple of months. You’re a really special person, Lyla. You know that?”

Before I could answer his question, Mr. Davis placed his right hand on my cheek. His other hand moved up my leg, sending an impulse through my entire body. He lodged his tongue into my mouth. I didn’t know how to respond. I had never kissed a boy before, but I tried to mirror his movements to show some semblance that I knew what I was doing. His hand glided up my stomach and landed on my chest, grasping my breast with so much intensity that I gasped. This only seemed to make him more excited. I tried to maneuver my hands around his body like he did with mine, yet I was not as suave as he was.

After five minutes, Mr. Davis pushed me away. I didn’t really know what to say after a moment like this. I sat slumped on the bench trying to regain my breath. He began smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt and readjusting his tie. “I hope that you know that this is our little secret,” he stated, emphasizing the word secret. “I can trust you, right?” I shook my head in agreement. Mr. Davis smiled at me, kissing me lightly on the forehead before standing up.

“Thank you again for coming, Lyla,” he said, after swallowing the last of his whiskey. “I’ll see you on Monday.” I barely heard a word Mr. Davis said as he rushed back to his party. The only sound I could hear was my entire body throbbing as I wiped away my tears.

There’s  a story that has greatly inspired me over time. A boy, whose teacher asked the class to write down what they wanted to be when they grew up for homework. The boy then went home and wrote down that he wanted to be on TV.

He turned in his assignment the next day to his teacher, she looked down at him, and then proceeded to call his mother. She told his mom that he wasn’t taking his assignment seriously and that he needed to write down what he actually wanted to be when he grew up, something realistic. Knowing that he was probably going to get a ‘whoopin’ as he arrived home from school, he tried to sneak in, yet he was caught and his mom told his dad to deal with him.

So his dad takes him outside and reads the paper and instructs his son to write down whatever his teacher needs to hear, turn it in, and then keep this piece of paper within reach and never forget it.

So the boy turns the paper in to his teacher and continued to work towards his goal every day and hasn’t stopped yet. That same boy is now the host of Family Feud, the Steve Harvey Show, Little Big Shots, his own radio show, has hosted numerous events, and made a living off his childhood dream.

That same boy is Steve Harvey. It is that same drive, perseverance, and passion that I truly believe burn deep within me and push me to challenge myself each and every day. To risk it all for others, and to continue to fight the good fight. I come from a family of 9 children. A family of more than enough kicking and screaming, bunk beds, and forced sharing.

I am 3rd to youngest, only to my two little twin brothers. A family where each one of us is in our own zone, and had chosen our own paths early in life. But with this I learned what it is like to have your voice drowned out among the noise. When often no matter how hard you try sometimes your voice isn’t heard even though it may be unintentional. It’s no secret that I am a black male, but it’s lesser known that black males only make up 2.7 percent of UGA’s student population.

Out of Georgia’s 30% black population, UGA does not accurately represent the demographics of the state as the flagship institution.

In a school with 35,000 other students it’s very easy to get lost in the wind, and get pushed into the crevices of this great institution. Too often left behind in the march ahead, or silenced among the masses. Coming to UGA and having to adjust to the demographics implored me to find ways to make this campus more diverse in terms of race, truly because I thought many were missing out on what a great college it really is based on stigmas.

I joined organizations like the Black Male Leadership Society, where I later went on to become President, and the Student Government Association, where I’ve been Chief Justice the past two terms. I used the connections I then made to be able to advocate on behalf of minority students and find unique ways to change the campus culture. It is what I have spent a lot of my time doing at UGA and have truly enjoyed every moment of it.

But I wasn’t always the one on the front lines of this battle. I was once deemed as shy or quiet.

Blending in among the crowd like a grain of sand on a beach. It was in the 8th grade when I learned a valuable life lesson as I failed to make the cut for the basketball team. I only wanted to be talented in basketball because it was what seemed cool, and what others seemed to care about.

It had never occurred to me at the time that my eloquent voice could be used for advocacy and impacting the lives of many in a positive way simply because it wasn’t flashy. That is when the switch clicked.

I knew I needed to use my voice for others. But by the way, I did go on to play basketball in high school, in case you thought I sucked. The decision to run for Student Body President came from a place of purpose, a place of passion, a place of hope, and a place of calling. It is that fundamental belief that we are all created equal and no matter how small, or how different we may be, we all belong and not only deserve, but are guaranteed a voice.

If you have ever played in a band you know that although some instruments may be louder and seem to drown out others, each instrument is critical to creating the ultimate sound. I run so that I may speak for the forgotten. To give a voice to the voiceless, and to bring together each and every student on this campus, from all walks of life, to unite as one and speak as one.

From a young age in school and with friends I knew and still feel to this day what it is like to be left out.

And even if one student felt that way, it would break my heart. I will never make promises that I can’t keep in ensuring that each student will have each individual issue taken care of. But I can say that I will spend every ounce of drive in me to strive toward that goal. It isn’t always about jumping to a storybook ending; sometimes you just have to write the first word.

Saying that we are ALL IN  is a very intentional statement. In choosing to run, I have given up internships and organizational opportunities, taken off work, and sacrificed time with family and others. I say that not because I want you to feel sorry for me, because this has been an active choice everyday. I want everyone to understand that sometimes things are bigger than yourself.

It isn’t always about you.

We are all just pieces of a whole picture, stories and snapshots of memories that tell a greater story, and I am here to lift all voices up. I have been told over and over in my life that things couldn’t be done. That I wasn’t going to succeed in areas of my life, and that my dreams and aspirations were too lofty or unattainable. But over and over again, I have proved each and every one of them wrong. I hope to do so again. I want to be an inspiration to each and every other student just like me.

I want to light a fire in every person I come into contact with and to help ignite their passions for what they believe in. Because then and only then, can they be satisfied with the outcome knowing that they gave it their all. I implore anyone who reads this to never give up, write your own destiny, be yourself, find your talent and use it to positively impact someone else’s life, and always, go ALL IN.