The Poem That Made Me a Poet

It started as an assignment. I was in my second year at Western Washington University, and was lucky enough to snag the last seat in Jane Wong’s class on food writing. The course focused on our connection to food. How it inspires us, challenges us, fills us with nutrients and love.

The assignment itself? To write about food memory.

I thought of my family instantly. Specifically, of my grandparents’ home in California; bottomless bowls of cioppino on Christmas Eve, fresh plums plucked from trees planted during my mother’s childhood, laughter and love shared across tables. My favorite memories involve family gatherings centered around meals. I thought of how, one day, it will be my responsibility to share that food, share the memories of those who have passed on, in order to preserve it all.

So I wrote the poem that changed me as a writer: “168.”

“168” was preceded by other work; short stories hastily typed in Microsoft Word, assignments from other writing classes, and poems self-published online that often fell short of my own expectations for myself. This is not to say, of course, that I thought every piece written before this poem was awful, or that I was never proud of the things I wrote. Quite the opposite, actually – I was proud of my writing, but I still had work to do.

What set “168” apart from previous work was how I felt after completing it. It was written with little effort, with my memories as a guide. I still have the first draft, Jane’s notes encouraging me to push my language and specificity further, and play around with line breaks and spacing. The final poem itself is not so different from that first draft – in fact, only minor changes were made.

“168” was also my first acceptance from a literary journal. I remember the moment well: February 3rd, 2o21, almost midnight, watching television without really watching it, when my phone lit up. An email with the subject line, “Congratulations!”

I read it three times, afraid to believe it.

I turned to my partner, tears already spilling from my eyes, and showed him the email. He was overjoyed for me; within the last 48 hours, I had received three rejections – all for packets containing this same poem. This, coupled with fragile mental health due to pandemic isolation, had me seriously questioning my decision to major in creative writing. In my final quarter before graduation, I was terrified that I had wasted three years of my life studying something I would never be great at.

It felt so fitting that a poem I wrote during my second year of undergrad, the poem I felt truly made me a writer – a poet – was accepted for publication in my college’s literary journal, Jeopardy Magazine.

Thinking about it now, I admit that my personal life still largely influences my work. I write so often of home, of food, of family – these are integral parts of who I am, and will likely always be reflected in my writing. I always come back to food.

However, “168” helped me find the confidence needed to be a writer, and – more importantly – feel like a writer. Allowing my authentic voice to come through (instead of writing how I thought a poet should write) while sharing these memories allowed me to honor my family with genuine tenderness.

When I start to doubt myself, I think of my parents’ sweet messages after my live reading during Jeopardy’s virtual launch party. I think of my cousins, praising this poem, bittersweet after their father’s passing. I think of my partner’s excitement at my acceptance; of my relief that I might actually make a good writer. I think about the satisfaction I felt holding my words in print for the first time.

I think of Jane’s notes on that first draft, calling this “a poem to be read out loud – brought to life.”

I hope this brings it to life for you.