Midnight Reflections

The first ever story I published on a website was titled ‘Your Best American Girl.’ Though it was published on my school’s website and it was a feature story about other hispanics growing up in America, I figured it was only right to name my first blog post the same thing. This time, I found it reasonable to write about the girl behind the story.

My name is Aileen and I’m a writer. This is about me. I always found writing calming and grew into it my freshman year of High School when I realized it was in my nature. I was born for it. Ever since I was a little girl, I wrote about almost everything. I wanted to be a singer, it was my burning passion, my biggest dream. I would write songs, poems, and looking back, art. Unfortunately for me, I never felt like anybody took me seriously enough to believe in my empowering words, so every paper I poisoned with ink and lead was thrown into the trash. I never salvaged my writings because I thought it was silly.

I never stopped writing though. The minute my parents gave me a phone, my notes app was filled with ideas, dreams, songs, poems, and personal pieces that I would die if published. When you’re young, people don’t take you seriously and you begin to think they have every right not to.

When I was in 4th grade (almost every grade, really) my writing teacher told me I would never master the ability to be a good writer. Ouch. I felt my intelligence deteriorating hearing that from a grown woman who looked like my tia. This is a big fuck you to Dr. Heckman. I was only 8. I was growing. I was smarter than what she made me feel. I’ll admit, I wasn’t the strongest writer in the class, but she had no right to say that to an 8-year-old girl.

This isn’t trauma dumping, this is just my lore.

When I was in 5th grade, my reading teacher, Mrs. Hill, would give us questionnaire prompts based off a book that told real-life stories. I remember it was called ‘Chicken Noodle Soup.’ The questions would ask things like, “What would you do if your sibling told your crush you liked them?,” “How do you feel when you hear the words “we don’t have money for that?” “Do you think making friends is hard or easy?” I felt like I was finally able to talk about things I wanted to talk about. Things that resonated with me. I love writing about deep, dark shit. Mrs. Hill allowed me to share with her my writing expertise. Not only was she an amazing teacher, she had a warm heart and welcomed me to this venture of writing so generously. She was also a hispanic woman who helped me feel like I wasn’t different, I was just me.

With every response I gave her in this notebook, she gave me feedback and never failed to make me feel like I was so poetically talented. She wrote things like, “You are very sensitive & sweet,” “when you write, your sweet side shows. I love that about you! Don’t ever change that.” “That’s a gift.”

I never felt so fucking proud of myself. I still have this notebook and reflect on my 10-year-old self.

I never would’ve branched out if it weren’t for Mrs. Hill. So, when I moved onto middle school, I continued writing. I never had good english teachers like Mrs. Hill again, but that didn’t stop me. My essays weren’t top notch but my notes app looked like 5 books waiting to be published.

I never stopped but at some point I didn’t take myself seriously anymore. Unfortunately, I have to mention Covid. The pandemic ruined almost half my 8th grade year and for my 9th grade year, I did online school. Nobody saw me that whole year. I was trapped in my room and of course, my writing sky rocketed. I had just gotten out of an abusive relationship. That sounds so silly to say as an 18-year-old woman, but it’s true. This boy that broke my heart lit up my lightbulb. I really shouldn’t say him. The credits belong to me. Just stay with me on this.

When that lightbulb lit, I knew the only way to deal with my pain over this relationship was to put pen on paper. I wrote an entire book on how I felt. It was not typed, pre-written, or co-written. It was me, my heart, my hand, and a pen. All my feelings were spewed onto this book that I bought from Target. I won’t be dramatic. It wasn’t anything like 300 pages long, but it was enough to give me finger cramps. From that point on, I never stopped ever again, and I don’t intend to.

Writing is my passion. It’s me. It’s my future, my past, my life, my heart, and my soul. I will never stop and nobody can take it away from me. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. The only part of me no boy, friend, or human being can strip from me. I’ll keep going, even if I write about the same things over, and over, and over again.

This is why I write. This is one of my many stories to tell.

So, dear reader, I hope you find some way to resonate with me, I hope you enjoy these stories of mine, and I hope you feel safe in this space of capricoolgirl.blog. I welcome you to the life of Aileen and am so excited to share this important part of me with you!

– A