My name is Neola Husbands. I am a second-year student at UBC. I am writing in regard to the creative writing program and why I believe I am a good fit.
I thought about the many ways I could write this letter, but none seemed quite genuine.
I could tell you that writing is my dream, and that I have imagined myself to be a writer all my life. I could tell you that a lady approached me in my teens and told me I would become a writer — and that my books would influence the lives of many. I could also tell you that how she came to know that to be true was because it was a message delivered to her from God. I could tell you that at that particular point I did believe in God, but he and I have been beefing heavily for years. So even if at the time what she said was to be true, I can tell you that I believed her not one bit.
Besides, at the time, I only believed in Black Jesus — so I was a bit leery of the God that sent her.
I could tell you that I never saw myself as anything else, and that books are all I know. I could tell you these things, most of which would be lies. But the truth is, I now realize that writing is my calling — and I only realized it as recently as last July.
Here is the reason why.
In class I was asked: if you could describe your life in one image, what would it be? At first I didn't understand the severity of the question, but it soon stood right in front of me.
This image seems to be the most frightening to me because if I were to die today, I would not die happy.
Actually, I would be fucking pissed.
I would be pissed to know that the adventures God has taken me on reaped no reward, and drowned before saving the life of just one other. I would be pissed because my story would then be left to be told by the unknown voices of others.
But this vision isn't random.
One of my biggest struggles with writing is having confidence in my voice. The root of this problem comes from having walked many paths in this life.
Immigrating to Canada at the age of eight landed me right into the jaws of the ghetto. I later chose to leave my family home in favour of foster care — once again leaving behind a part of my family. My teenage years were filled with a boisterous bass as I exercised my right to free speech. But as adult years peaked, I found myself in unsavoury fields, silencing myself to not be discovered.
Now I have a two-year-old. And I know that for him I shall speak.
If anyone is to tell him about his mother — who better than me?I chose this version to address you all, because this is in my voice. A lot of my writing is me going back and forth between the life I have hidden and the freedom to live. Creative writing is important to me because it gives me back my power in this life.
The amount of times life has tried to silence my drive is the same amount of times I must fight back.
Thank you for considering me to be part of this journey. I hope that you enjoy my writing.