WHY I WRITE: TROUBLE IS MY PEN NAME
I didn’t mean to cause a fuss. I really didn’t. I just wanted to write what I felt.
But oh boy, did I cause a fuss. I guess that’s what happens when you blast your high school administration in your high school newspaper.
The thing is, I’m not naturally a troublemaker. According to the straight check-pluses I got in the behavior column of my report cards from K through 12, I had all the makings of what my school liked to call an “outstanding citizen” (whatever that means). My parents taught me good values, and I stuck to them. I was polite. I helped other people. I didn’t speak out obnoxiously. I never did dumb things like deliberately staple somebody’s pinky to a poster or drop trou in the middle of a lecture like some of my classmates did.
So how the hell was it that, during my sophomore year at Lahser High School, I found myself at the top of my principal’s hit list? How was it a kid that had never put a toe out of line was suddenly the school super villain, a foe that had to be stopped at any cost?
Because I wrote what was on my mind, that’s why.
Writing had, for a few years, been something that I had an inkling I was good at. I had long been a voracious reader. From Kerouac to Hurston, I encountered through my formative years models of excellent, exciting, enthralling writing that inspired me to pursue my own work. And in middle school, I was lucky to have teachers who taught me to direct that inspiration, guiding me through everything from learning the basics of grammar and style to encouraging me to be daring and bold in my pieces. With their help, I began creating stories in my head, and I would take pen to paper to ensure that I didn’t let fall into the abyss of forgetfulness my favorite ideas. Every few days, it seemed, I was somewhere new; on Tuesday I was at Hogwarts, studying for my O.W.L. examinations, and then on Saturday in the Hunger Games, hiding away in a tree while avoiding the carnage below. The next week I was winning immunity on Survivor, and the one after that I was taking a pit stop at a hamburger stand, waited on by Mae and Al, while on my way to California with the Joads.
I found over time that I was better at placing myself in existing worlds than I was at creating new ones. At first this was a discouraging discovery; I dreamed of being an author, yet I couldn’t seem to figure out how to make something that was entirely my own. As I grew older and more experienced, however, I began to understand that it might not be such a bad thing that my creations and stories often existed in pre-established frameworks. I began experimenting with looking at others’ worlds critically, and developed an affinity for putting my own twist on the things that I read and saw, for looking at the stories that everyone knew in a way that was unique to me.
It was with that self-understanding in mind that I made my way to Knight Life, my high school’s newspaper, during sophomore year. What better world to make sense of than the real one? I was excited to give people a taste of my flavor, to show them that even a quiet, straight-laced kid like me had a distinct way of looking at the things around him. Though I fiddled with most sections of the newspaper during that first semester, writing everything from movie reviews to features on students creating solar panels to power the school, it was obvious that my place was in the opinions section. There I didn’t just report on happenings of the world—instead I turned those happenings into something that was my own. I could be sassy, somber, witty, or whatever else I wanted, and I had the chance to make people see the world through my eyes, in unconventional ways they may never have considered.
It didn’t take long for seeing my name and work in print to go to my head. I loved the style of the work I was doing in the opinions section, but I couldn’t help feeling that I was capable of tackling subjects more provocative than the drawbacks of the school’s anti-hat policy. So I set my sights on bigger things. I became increasingly thoughtful when choosing my article topics, and resolved not to shy away from ideas that were potentially messy or taboo. There were things at my school that bothered me. In particular, the newly implemented and haphazardly organized IB Program, which was being given incredible priority by the school’s administration, irked me. I knew that other people were similarly irritated and annoyed with the program’s ever shifting requirements and the principal’s overt preference for students enrolled in it, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it.
So I took matters into my own hands. I decided to make people see the program for what it really was rather than what the administration imagined it to be.
Contrary to what my youthful interest in kitchen knives might suggest, I was a well-behaved child
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Interested in seeing samples of my journalistic efforts?
I thought my piece was fair. Opinion articles are inherently editorialized, but mine was rooted in the views of students and the facts of the situation. The IB Program was new at our school. My class was the first to test it out, and was informed frequently that it was the only viable route for getting into college. But for all the shout about it, the program had problems. It was new and underdeveloped, and misinformation about requirements and polices was rampant. Students were confused and frustrated, not realizing when they enrolled in the program just how restrictive it was. Many felt that any chance they had at directing their own path through high school had slipped away, and so began a mass exodus from the program. My goal was to give voice to these students, to explain to the administration how their ambitions for the program had misaligned
with what was being experienced in the classroom. Sure, my piece was pointed, but it ultimately aimed to show that the IB Program could be improved in the future. It was as balanced as an opinion piece can be.
The administration did not see it that way. After the print version of the paper was released, I noticed that my article had been removed from our website. It was then that I learned, though he never confronted me directly about my article, the principal had told my teacher quite plainly that if we published anything else critiquing the school and the way it was run, Knight Life would be shut down.
I should have panicked. I was in serious trouble, as was the newspaper. But I didn’t panic—I felt proud. That’s not to say I was unconcerned about the consequences that might come of my article, especially because I had put the newspaper at large and my teacher in a precarious position. But ultimately, I felt that my article was a success. It had provoked a reaction. Regardless of what the administration felt about my views or me personally, it was forced to recognize that the student body did not unreservedly love the IB Program. Dissent existed. Moreover, I had a part in shattering the illusion of contentedness that the administration seemed to believe existed.
It was from then that the reason I write became clear. The world is far too complex to be reduced into absolutist terms or single perspectives; in my writing, I hope to offer readers a way of seeing things that they previously hadn’t considered. When I write, I try to go beyond what is conventional or commonplace. I try to put my own spice into topics that people might feel they’ve read to death or understand completely, if only to make them pause and think for a moment. I want readers to ask questions. I want them to see connections between people, like Hillary Clinton and female abolitionists of the nineteenth century, who they previously thought had nothing to do with one another. I want them to be uncomfortable, to be challenged and compelled to see things in new ways.
So when I was told that I would have to walk on eggshells for the rest of the year at the newspaper, I realized I was making a small sacrifice towards becoming a better writer. My opinion is not always correct. I’m not arrogant enough to believe that everything I write is a masterpiece, or that it expresses the definitively true idea about a topic. Nonetheless, each of my pieces conveys a view that is distinctly mine. They suggest to readers the plurality of perspectives that exist even on trite topics, and aim to stir up discussion and challenge conventional wisdom. I have a feeling that as I progress through the Minor in Writing and beyond, the better the writer I become, the bigger the troublemaker I will be. My high school principal won’t be the last reader to recoil from my writing, and that’s a good thing. If people are made to see something new and outside of their worldview when reading my work, I’ve done my job.