When I decided to attend Kenyon, I knew the curriculum would be writing-intensive. I knew, though perhaps not to the extent that I do now, that Kenyon was a place where you could find some sort of platform for your writing. Kenyon, to me, was always a place where voices got elevated and celebrated; more importantly, I thought Kenyon was a place where people recognized the power and responsibility that comes with having a platform. Growing up, I never had the opportunities that a lot of students here have had. I’d never known what it was like to speak and to be genuinely listened to.
So imagine my surprise to find that many people on this campus don’t take the things that they say and write seriously. Buckle down, everyone. This is going to be fairly meta.
I want to make two things clear. First, I am aiming this at all writers: writers for Her Campus, creative writers, students who write papers, people who write tweets and messages to their friends/family. Second, I’m not trying to diminish anyone’s craft. This isn’t an argument concerning my own taste. This is about specific moments where I have heard the students of this college dismissing the assignments they have—whether it’s for organizations like Her Campus, The Collegian, etc. or for their classes. I’ve been guilty of thinking the things that I hear from my peers: “[This writing assignment] isn’t really important, though, so I’m just going to wing it.” Or maybe, “I mean, this is a blog. It’s not that serious.” Forgive my rigidity, perhaps, but this feels appalling to me. As both a writer and a person from an underrepresented background, I could never genuinely think of any piece of work with my name attached to it as “not a big deal.”
Maybe it has to do with pride. Pride is not an uncommon thing in my childhood home—we only do our best, and we don’t accept pity or handouts. Writing has always been my way of being taken seriously. I’ve never been good at expressing myself aloud, but I can pack a mean punch with my words. To me, not writing with care means letting go of the prideful part of me that wants to be recognized for my ideas—and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do that. Perhaps my anger is simply unjustified. After all, part of the beauty of existing is learning about people from the things that they want to write about. Some rational part of me recognizes that that is also an important aspect to consider when approaching the writing of other people—what they’re saying matters to them.
Or maybe it has to do with privilege: I cannot attach my name to something and be fully sure that my ideas will not be dismissed on account of gender or ethnicity or class. I am hypervigilant of every word I write—its connotation, its denotations, the perspectives of the people I love, the perspectives of people who hate me. When I get especially political (something unavoidable for me), there’s always a nagging feeling in my head wondering if I will inspire some violent counterattack. When I get especially silly (another unavoidable path for me), I cannot ever escape the thought that I may have filled the world with a bit more unnecessary information—that I am contributing to the dismissal of social injustices. There’s something that feels so violent about taking up a platform and not doing something important with it.
I’ve spent so much time, though, trying to write this article, and I still haven’t fully reached an answer. I don’t want to think the worst of people who choose not to care about the things that they write into this world. I truly don’t. But existing in this time means taking some time to think about the fact that we are constantly absorbing information, constantly giving information. What information are we putting into the world? How often do we tell ourselves that what we say/write/do in this moment matters?
I don’t want to discourage us from having fun with what we do—language can be a beautiful tool for discovering the wonderful things in life. I want us to continue seeing those things. But only if we’re doing those things—and ourselves—justice when we do.
So… what world are we going to start making?