The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

English is not my first language. Yet, I believe that is why I must major in it. This is why.

Before becoming a Hugo, and Nebula Award winning novelist, Octavia E. Butler was discouraged by her aunt, who said, “Negroes can’t be writers.” As a dyslexic teenager, in the 1960’s Butler could have taken this claim to heart as an irrefutable fact.

Butler could have decided to put her pen down, but she didn’t.

Choosing to ignore her aunt’s advice, Butler became the literary stalwart of her generation. Years later, she published her book, “Kindred” – which remains popular until this day. Her Xenogenesis series continues to shape, and mold the conventions of an era previously dominated by white men.

Her essay, “Furor Scribendi,” (translated in latin as the “The Anger of Writing”)  exhorts all aspiring writers to bury themselves into the psychological limerence of deep work, writing constantly despite the contagion of complacency. It is an admonition to all who wish to write, and I have decided to heed that call through a self-driven education.

A decade after her death, I found a copy of Kindred. She was the first female African-American, science-fiction novelist I had ever read, and I regarded her as my literary mother.  

Thus, began my discovery of literature pertinent to Butler’s genre, and that of the whole world of literature.

In college, I started reading her work, after her death. In her work I found an identity. I began searching for her influences and steeped myself in literature.

In the Spring of 2017, my biological mother fell ill with cancer.

That event caused a shift in me that I was unable to process positively. As a result, my grades plummeted. During this time, my mother, with Stage IV ovarian cancer remained in her nursing program at UW – Madison – studying in between her chemotherapy sessions.

That event, and her determination have spurred me onward to this day. Her spirit for success has imparted me with the diligence, and humility necessary for re-admission to the institution.

There is no doubt that I will succeed, as that is my only option.

As far as college essay applications go, this is the most difficult to write because it is the most honest. Perhaps, I should spare the details of my life as a millennial immigrant for another work in the future. Yet, an even greater voice impels me to tell my story.

That is the obligation of a writer.

My family hails from the Ivory Coast. We flew here when I was one. My father came here with the illusory enchantments of his age: namely, a life outside Abidjan with a dream to one day own his own business. My mother, a nurse came from a family of teachers in Bouake, a rural town not far from Yamoussoukro.

I was born in Abidjan, Côte D’Ivoire. Though I have little memory of my initial years, I have heard our stories.

The stories that pass down from my homeland are alive. They must have mediums to contain them. The people through which the story imbues its essence are called griots.

In my tribe, the Baoule, the griots are the storytellers, who beat the drums, and teach the young men of the villages. There are not many left. By all my reckoning my father, and his father were unofficial griots. They could tell a story – a fantastical folklore – and imbue it with the life of its lesson.

In the summer of 1992 my father bought an international lottery ticket. The ticket, he said, was a random draw. He’d bought it at the booth of a souvenir dealer. The odds, he knew, were astronomically low. The probability of winning, he negated by prayer.

Whoever won it, he said, would come to America.

Three months later his prayers were answered. He had won the ticket.

*

When we moved to North Dakota, that story kept us warm. We shared those stories, as self-proclaimed griots.  As the world outside froze, our togetherness became our solace. We stoked our inner fires.

We learned that camaraderie, and hospitality were reverred qualities in either cultures. And we learned the topography of the world through the stories we told.

Of course, I enjoyed fantastical stories. Throughout this time, I began reading Uwem Akpan, and Amy Tan. I decided to meet Neil Gaiman, and Trevor Noah. Ursula K. Le Guin, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Harlan Ellison, and more of Octavia E. Butler. And then, I began the work of Gene Wolfe, who has grandfathered many through a prestigious tomes of spell-binding fantasy, and science fiction.

That all led me to Viktor Frankl’s work, “Man’s Search for Meaning,”

On reading Frankl’s work, “Man’s Search for Meaning,” I was struck with a quote. Frankl, a survivor of the Holocaust writes about his experience in the following way:

“The prisoner who had lost faith in the future—his future —was doomed. With his

loss of belief in the future…Usually this happened quite suddenly, in the form of a crisis, the symptoms of which were familiar to the experienced camp inmate” (Frankl, 82).

Furthermore, on the duror of his trials, Frankl writes, “The angels are lost in a perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.”

The way, I saw it I had two options:

I could decide to be like Octavia E. Butler, and my mother  and continue my studies despite the disparaging situation, or I could remain like the prisoner’s of Frankl’s mental incarceration.

I choose the latter, and seek to go back to school for what I love.

For me, literature has been and always will be a form of perpetual contemplation. It is a conversation from eras past with writers as heralds. To delve into the mind of an individual of whom one has never met, but identifies with is nothing short of a miracle. To me, reading and writing is a sanctuary.

In a certain way, we all exist between two worlds: that of our reality, and that of our reveries. In so doing, Campbell’s Hero’s Journey resonates with us all.

My mother, whose cancer is in remission abides by this subconsciously. Octavia lived by it.

It is true. My previous transcripts have reflected a significant academic decline

Yet, that was a time in which I felt that nothing good could come out of my current situation with a defeatist mentality. I lost the vision my family has.

The specific error of my academic past was dual-fold.

The first was a youthful, unrealistic expectation of myself, as it pertains to the invincibility principle. The environmental factors that led to my academic probation were many throughout the semesters I was in school at UW-Milwaukee, and UW – Green Bay. My mother’s cancer at the time, my disfellowshipping from the Jehovah’s Witness religion, and my grandmother’s immigration to America were undeniable stressors, but my grades were the symptoms of a greater ill. I denied the destitution I felt, and that was my downfall. Namely, I lacked a spiritual outlet, and regaining that literary spring has made all the difference.

To regain it, I read Milton, and Hume throughout this time. Their philosophies imparted me with a knowledge outside myself, namely that the suffering of religious ostracism from my family was temporary.

The second error of my past, was an unprecedented, atavistic response to the social change in my environment.

In order to grow, a plant must have suitable conditions (i.e. soil, water, sunlight) from which to propagate. If that environment changes, the shock is such that it can harm the plant.

Previously, in my past life as a Jehovah’s Witness I had only associated with people inside the religion. The Watchtower literature was highly regulated, and research outside was strongly discouraged. Fraternizing with anybody outside was forbidden. And so, moving to Milwaukee with a new job, and new circles made me feel like my roots were exposed. I felt the susceptibility of that plant, and the shock of the environment was something I truly was not prepared for.

After reassessing the events in my life, I thought it better to move back with family, and find a licensed therapist for my disfellowshipping from Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Though I am no longer a part of the religion, I believe moving back was what I needed to help me continue my degree. Thus, this is the prime trajectory for re-entrance into school, and the aim of my vector from cult exclusion to autonomy.

In effect, I took Education courses seeking to help others when I needed to help myself. I have shifted my focus to English with a track onto Literature and Cultural Theory. Once completed, I would like to go into teaching. However, I must learn of others like myself first familiarize myself with the ethnic voices of change.  

As an Ivorian-American, I wish to tell our stories to the world. Literary voices such as Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Chris Cleave have yet to reach the heartstrings of a millennial audience. I seek to hear that ever resounding timbre of story. I wish to see the fulfillment of these cultural stories, weaved in the social fabric for all.

The plight of the immigrant is not an easy one. But it can be made easier through the accounts we tell. We educate through stories.

That, is why I must continue to study literature. That is why I must write.