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Gwynne Youngs
I was born in Atlanta, Georgia, but raised in the Bronx, New York. My family came to New York when I was three years old. We always went back home every summer to visit with family—that was a tradi...view moreI was born in Atlanta, Georgia, but raised in the Bronx, New York. My family came to New York when I was three years old. We always went back home every summer to visit with family—that was a tradition. Most of my life was lived on one block, Washington Avenue, in the Bronx, New York. I went to elementary school and junior high school, all walking distances from our home. I never realized then how overprotective my mother had been. I just knew that we were a happy family. We played street games after school and board games at home or in the community center. We went to the movies on occasion, and every Sunday, we had to go to church with my grandmother. Life was very simple then.
My brothers kept busy in the house by playing games, like cops and robbers, and cowboys and Indians. All I know is that they made a lot of noise running around the apartment. When my mother tired of the noise, we had to sit in the living room to watch TV. While my brothers played their games, I played with my many dolls. I taught them well. Some of them had long lives, while some did not. My brothers always found a way to mutilate them when I wasn’t around. When I showed up to teach them, some would be missing their hair or their arms and legs. Of course, none of my brothers would confess to destroying them. I would get so angry that I would take out my book and make an entry into my journal.
Writing in my journal became a ritual because it seems I was always annoyed about something my brothers did. I learned early on that writing was a form of release for me. I started writing poems to express my feelings. I wrote my first real poem at thirteen, called “I Love My Mama.” When I showed it to my mother, she framed it and put it on the wall for everyone to read when they came to visit. I learned that poetry not only affected me but also those that read my poems.
I taught in the New York City public schools for many years. Poetry was one of my favorite subjects to teach because children always think they can’t write poems. It was a pleasure showing them how words are powerful in many forms. The students were responsible for writing in their journals each day. When they had the opportunity to reflect on earlier writings, they marveled at how their feelings changed during the course of a year. We learned to use the entries to write stories and poems. When I became an assistant principal, I used my poems with teachers to introduce writing to students.
As my life changed, so did my poems. I continue writing in my journal and plan to write more poems now that I have retired from the school system. Life has not been as simple as it was when I lived on Washington Avenue, but it has been interesting.view less