I grew up in a small town with a big fish complex. I had always known something in me stirred. In High School I had an English teacher who taught with his whole heart, he’d reenact Walt Whitman and jump into the air singing Langston Hughes. And he saw this thing in me I had suspected but never felt smart enough or brave enough to walk through. I was by no means a good student. I failed almost every course save for the ones in which I could use words and story telling. But that class and that teacher gave me a place to start believing that I wasn’t crazy for hoping.  

I (barely) graduated and attempted community college, soon though, drugs and alcohol became the center of my life and no matter how much I loved to write or read, I couldn’t stay sober. Or in school. I was formally withdrawn after my first quarter. When I finally did get sober I was 23 and a new mother, times 4. Eventually I was sober and beyond amazed at my ability to be a present mother. But still, I stirred for something else. In 2018 a friend suggested we join a poetry workshop. There I found myself, still unsure of my writing, still feeling like an imposter, wondering if that big fish was really just an ego trip. But I kept hearing people say, “you got something.” I couldn’t help but notice, my life started to sing. 

I started to put myself in spaces with people I believed were smarter and more talented and more deserving. I kept showing up to write, to see what else I could find. What happens to the world when we all believe our voice, our song, is worth singing? I started creating what I needed to know and hear and see. I threw my name into every submission hat. When they asked me to accept the Poet Laureate it was because I had already begun to believe I was!  

It’s been a long journey to find myself worthy of this honor and of this work.  

Art had felt like a gated community and I was the chimney sweep company. But there were more people like me. And we found each other. And when I couldn’t find it in myself I borrowed from others.  

Write the Wrongs helps answer a crucial question: What happens to the world when we all believe our voice, our song, is worth singing?  

For me, it’s the life I never imagined for myself. A working paid poet. A member of my community who knows the great privilege of living life alongside others, what else can I make? What don’t I know? Who are we missing at this table?  

Write the Wrongs exists to ensure that voices like mine—and so many others—are heard. It allows me to sit down with inmates, addicts, LGBTQ+ teens, unhoused women, and high school students facing barriers to creativity, and together, we create. We remind each other that our stories matter. That our voices belong. That art is not a gated community—it is ours to claim.