Jenna Roberts

Senior Writing Portfolio Fall 2005 / Jenna Roberts
Millikin University

Jenna Roberts

Writer bio: All my life I've had a desk scattered with papers and little notebooks with pens placed in the next available page. During the school year my floor is always littered with books on famous literary works, cross-cultural mythology, and essays discussing the adaptation of Shakespeare's plays to modern audiences. Among all of these are my own writings, diary entries and half-finished song lyrics.

I am perpetually self-editing.

When I walk into bookstores my friends automatically groan and settle in for the duration, or leave, yelling over their shoulders, "I'll be in American Eagle." There has always been something alluring about the written word because of the feelings and emotions that it can evoke. I love that a writer can take some tiny detail of a person or a place, one seemingly unimportant detail and elaborate for a page a half on this one remarkable characteristic. We do not do that enough in our everyday lives. Writing makes you look. Jon McGregor says this:

"...my daughter you must always look with both of your eyes and listen with both of your ears. ..this is a very big world and there are many many things you could miss If you are not careful. ...there are remarkable things all the time, right in front of us..."

Statement of Poetics:

We all search for meaning. Meaning in life, in works of art, in signs and omens, as friends and girlfriends, mothers and siblings—we, as a people, analyze and overcomplicate and continue upon our eternal quest to prove that we mean something; that our actions point us in the direction of truth.

Now, more so than ever, poetics have found their way into the everyday lives of people everywhere. Music plays over loudspeakers as Muse reminds us that "time is running out."

I believe that understanding is the pinnacle of writing. As a young writer, sharing my work was always an intimidating task and one that I would avoid at all costs. Writers often have many pieces of writing or journals that no one ever sees. I think the underlying reason for that fact is that writers fear being misunderstood. Someone who writes a dark piece or a horror story is not necessarily a depressed person. I consider myself a generally witty girl, but when it comes to writing, my humorous pieces feel as though they are lacking.

Poetics help people relate to each other in the world. The written word can be a powerful thing whether used to further an empire through speeches, evoke emotion through song, or draw connections between people of different cultures and backgrounds. This is how we convey meaning. If someone can read a piece of writing and think yes, I know exactly what she means , then I think my goal has been achieved. Poetics should strive to make connections and draw people together under a common thought, feeling, process, meaning. Otherwise there is no perspective in the world. Thought remains thought. Things that are not spoken remain unspoken with no outlet. There is no room for those I know exactly what she means feelings because writing allows people a medium in which to say things that cannot be spoken aloud. And, at times, seeing the words printed on the page may allow the writer to deal with situations that had gone unresolved for a long time.

Poetics search for meaning. Innately, we crave understanding. By searching for understanding through the meaning of our words, writers may achieve what we all search for through life.

I write because if I can make someone think differently about a situation than they had before, I have found a purpose. Writing makes people feel and understand. Van Gogh said that "it must be good to think and to feel like that and to overlook or ignore a multitude of things and to concentrate on what makes us sit up and think and what touches us as human beings." Perhaps then we can understand.

Introduction to I recognize obituary names, not pictures.

Ambulance drivers, EMTs, ER doctors... these people have some of the hardest jobs in the whole world. Every day someone's life is in their hands. Society is unforgiving because human mistakes are not allowed when life is on the line.

I have a special place in my heart for emergency personnel. They work all odd hours of the day and night with less pay than they deserve, only to see death, drunk drivers, hysterical mothers, and ungrateful family members.

The first dialogue exchanged on almost every call consists of, "What took you so long?" and the explanation, "We got here as fast as we could." What comes to mind is this: "Well, we turned on our lights and sirens, but most people decide that since the call is not for them, there is no real reason to get out of the way. See, a lot of drivers care more about getting the next green light than the life of the person whose call came through. Also, a lot of people have their music turned up too loud to hear the sirens. Which means that even if they turned the music down, they would probably be too deaf to hear anyway. But thanks for asking."

With the current problems of hurricane Katrina, I always listen to hear what stupid things people are up to lately that will cause rescue personnel to have to risk their own lives. If someone refuses to leave during a mandatory evacuation, it is the EMTs that save them from the impending flooding.

Understand that unlike the majority of Americans, EMTs have seen a dead body outside of the funeral home. They work to prevent that every day. But sometimes CPR, oxygen masks, and IV's don't work. There are things that EMTs see every day that couldn't be described by anyone but a war veteran. Cars split in half by telephone poles, mothers who can't recognize the face of their teenage sons, comatose drug users... the list continues. How do they go back to work every day?

No. I don't know either.

• • •

I recognize obituary names, not pictures.

We see a torn up Chevy pickup truck laying in the ditch of highway thirty-six, a few policeman still milling around, scribbling on their clipboards, tying up loose ends and he tells me that "if self preservation is man's highest achievement, he's sure thought of enough ways to kill himself."

I say "I've been within an inch of death more times than I care to say."

He says "Really?" He sounds interested.

"Yeah." And I look out the window. I don't tell him about the ER doctor who held a phone to my ear after telling my mother "this could be the last time you talk to her."

He says, almost wistfully, "I've never seen a dead body except at visitations."

And I'm quiet, remembering when I worked for the ambulance. Remembering the night I decided I wasn't strong enough for the job anymore, the ambulance screeching to a stop, hearing the familiar sights and sounds. People were milling around, waiting to witness the gore, see how many died; ready themselves for the next day so they can say "I was there, I saw," which somehow elevates them to celebrity status. Other people surrounding us with our medical bags, stepping in front of us asking "what took you so long?" because, as everyone knows, we took our dear sweet time and decided to stop at McDonald's on the way to avail ourselves to the dollar menu.

"That would be kind of gross. Or kind of cool." I look at him and say nothing.

A kelly green BMW was wrapped around a phone pole, in ways that looked less likely than a fat kid doing a human pretzel. In training they teach you how to anesthetize yourself. It took almost an hour to find her in the dark and rain. I was 17. She was 16. Sometimes training doesn't help.

Instead I say "when the eye of a hurricane comes, everyone breathes a sigh of relief, they begin to search for life, to check and see 'are we okay? have we survived?' and just when it seems as though everything has stopped for good, another tempest comes ripping through, destroying anything that remained intact, unharmed, unscarred."

He looks over at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nevermind." That night my little sister was sound asleep- safe and beautiful and warm. I kissed her on the cheek and crawled up next to her and cried myself to sleep on her blue fleece blanket under sticky yellow glow-in-the-dark stars.

He starts telling me about his grandfather's funeral and how funny funeral homes smell and I make "mm hm" noises every now and then to let him know I'm listening. But all I can think about is how I know the names on far too many tombstones and I wonder how many people saw my face in their last conscious moments in this world, and how many people die with the words "oh shit. oh shit ohshit" on their lips.

He's still talking. This time about the young doctor who told his family that his grandfather had passed away peacefully. "Dude, I would have made one of the nurses do it or something. Man, that's gotta suck. Can you imagine being the doctor—supposed to keep this guy alive—and having to tell the family the guy just died?"

"No. No, I can't imagine." Cause of death: sudden infant death syndrome. Pronounced dead upon arrival. Telling a girl who graduated from my high school that her 9 month old suffocated in his sleep. Cause of death: hemorrhagic stroke. Explaining that she died because of brain damage from leaking blood. Waiting around at the station hoping that the next call is something silly like a sprained ankle or a touch of the flu. Arriving to the scene to find a dazed drunken man with a scratch or two stumbling around a station wagon flipped on its top- no movement from the mother or any of the three children inside.

I think that what remains for me is to shut the window, collect the scattered papers blown about the room, and stay inside till the storm has completed its fury.

• • •