Cheesecake

Much like an average American, I began writing as a child. As it being part of the curriculum, I never took pleasure in it. An assignment here and ‘name and date’ everywhere. I only wrote what was required to me. That’s what writing was, a requirement. I also suffer from dyslexia so writing for me often ended with me arguing with the teacher that my brain doesn’t see letters and words the way they were describing. Punctuation and spelling are still things I struggle with. As I grew older, assignments got tougher and the word count got larger. In my early teen years, I was instructed to do something else, see a counselor. This counselor had new directive for me when it pertained to writing, journaling or writing in a diary. They wanted me to document my feelings and emotions. To record my day to day. This made writing tedious. So, now I’m writing for school and for a counselor which made me despise writing even more. And I’m talking writing, pen or pencil to paper. Not typing on a piece of technology. Hand hurting, a thump on my middle finger forming and the stain of ink on my hand where it rested on the paper. Having to start over if a mistake was made when writing with pen or how terrible the paper would look after all the eraser marks were added. The hard work of the first written draft being dismissed due to all of the mistakes and the second draft causing anxiety because if a mistake was made, we would have to start all over. All of it… annoying!

Near the end of high school, I took a creative writing course to fill an empty spot on my schedule. The instructor of this class only wanted us to write what we wanted to. She would give us a directive or a one-liner or read something and tell us to finish the story. She made things interesting and fun. Allowed me to be creative. Something outside of what was required for a grade or needed for a case study. One day my teacher walked in and was eating a piece of cheesecake. I hadn’t had cheesecake in a long time because cheesecake was an extra expense that we couldn’t afford. I told her it looked so good and she simply said, “Write about it!” I pulled a piece of lined paper out and began to scribble with my pink pen.

I wrote about how excited me and my sisters would get when we saw cheesecake in the fridge, “Dad got cheesecake!”, knowing that we were about to eat so much our stomachs would hurt. I wrote about how I would pierce the cheesecake slowly with the prongs of the fork and pull a piece away, leaving an imprint in the piece that still stood upon the plate. I wrote about how my senses would awake as I brought the cheesecake to my mouth, slowly, as to tease myself with anticipation. I wrote about how the creamy cheesecake coated my mouth and how I could feel it slide down my throat when I swallowed. I wrote about the smell of the strawberries that topped it and how the sweetness of the sugar-based sauce excited my senses. I wrote about how each bite was cherished as a delicacy that was only experienced once, perhaps twice, a year.

Once my mouth was salivating and my stomach growling, I handed in one page of nostalgia and simple appreciation of what cheesecake tasted like. I handed in what cheesecake meant to me and my family. I handed in one page of an on-the-whim call out for cheesecake.

I went home in want of a piece of cheesecake knowing full well that we were not going to have any in the fridge when I got there. And as expected, the shelf was void of cheesecake. The next class I had with cheesecake teacher, she was gleaming at me when I walked in the door. The class was instructed to finish a sect of a play. As I wrote, I missed the bell due to my concentration. My teacher didn’t interrupt me. By the time I realized, the next class was mid-assignment. I looked up in confusion and felt a panic beginning to build up. She noticed and walked over to me and told me she contacted the teacher I was supposed to be with and told them I was with her for the class and that I would come and pick up my missed work during lunch. Still confused, I asked her why she didn’t tell me the bell wrang. She simply winked at me and pointed to my paper, indicating she wanted me to keep going. I heard the next bell though. She asked me to wait a moment. Once the class cleared, she handed me my cheesecake paper. Anxiety filled me and I thought I had done something wrong. I apologized and she now looked confused. She closed the classroom door and opened her desk. She pulled out a piece of strawberry topped cheesecake and handed it to me. I delayed taking it from her because I thought I was being rewarded for doing something wrong.

“That is one of the best descriptive pieces I read in a very long time… and I’m in my sixties.” She smiled and my anxiety left me. It was replaced with a sense of accomplishment that I have never felt before.

“Really?” My insecure teenaged-self replied.

“Yes. I need your father’s permission to enter it in a contest.” She handed me a piece of paper, “Have him fill this out and you will see that this is a piece of art.”

Not knowing what to say, I reached out and gathered the permission slip with my cheesecake piece and said, “Okay.”

“Now go enjoy your cheesecake. You’ve earned it!” She tapped my arm.

I smiled and walked out. I hid in an empty classroom so no one would ask me for a bite and ate my cheesecake with even more appreciation. This piece of cheesecake tasted different than all of the others I had eaten in the past. This piece was made personally for me.

A month later, she handed me an award and a check for fifty dollars. I won first place in the contest she entered me in. I was officially a published author. With that, I began to write for fun. I turned my assignments and journaling into something I looked forward to. I won a few more contest in high school and when I entered college, I took as many English and writing courses I could.

That cheesecake piece changed the way I saw writing. It changed the way I felt about my writing and who I was as a person… as a writer. It gave me a confidence I didn’t know I needed; didn’t know I wanted. The cheesecake piece gave me the chance to express myself willingly as opposed to being forced to. The cheesecake piece invited me to open a new door of expression and art. Because I struggled with writing, I also struggled with reading. The more I wrote, the less I struggled with reading. I taught myself how to read and write the way my brain does and not the way I was taught to by the education system. I realized that they aren’t just words on a page but someone’s thoughts and feelings and perhaps someone’s life.

That cheesecake piece is why I am writing this today!