Denver Writes

When I first clanked my way down the stairs of Metropolis Coffee, my boot announcing my entrance louder than any doorbell could, I had no idea what to expect. I try to make it that way, holding back distracting anticipatory butterflies, furrowing fear, and unruly excuses until moments before landing myself in a situation. I figure by that point survival instincts kick in to sedate all elevated emotions, and I can deal with what I may have foolishly signed myself up for.

This week I landed myself in a creative writing camp for kids ages 8-11, run by the nonprofit Denver Writes in the basement of a downtown Broadway Street coffee shop. Past all the angsty, edgy vibes of the hipster coffee shop patrons, I discovered a colorful classroom and smiling instructor. As a volunteer, I took my stance at the doorway like a warrior positioning himself for battle.

To speak in baseball terms, I came close to striking out. Strike one: while discussing star wars with one boy, I mentioned the death of a character, leading a boy nearby to launch into a list of dead relatives and far away funerals. I call that a ‘fowl’ ball. Strike two: a talkative boy from Puerto Rico circled the room challenging the other kids to list difficult English words, determined to translate them all to Spanish. When he came over to me, I offered “Supercalifragelisticespialidocious” with what I thought was a gentle smile. It turns out he had never seen Mary Poppins. My swing entirely missed. 

But the first smile I received back changed everything. I found myself amongst creative, spunky, kindred spirits. I was part of a Charlie Brown cast of quirky characters. This included a boy whose red-headed afro was double the size of his freckled, toothless-grin face, a dedicated child-architect of table-filling “Tornado Towns”, and a drama queen Hollywood actress in the making, quite capable of squeezing affection out of anyone with high intensity hugs. Across five, eight-hour days I came to love these children, amazed at how quickly my warrior-like defense and wacky emotions had been conquered by that all-encompassing feeling of friendship.

As more volunteers filed in, each found the group of children with which they most “belonged.” It seems my heart always lies with the island of misfit toys, the different kids who miraculously find each other and remain lovingly loyal amidst the trauma and drama of every other group. We came to be known as the “Injured Table.”

There was Allison, gifted with natural puppy eyes and a sweet disposition, who had a nosebleed on day two. She was the first to walk alongside me as I limped behind the group, filling the summer air with stories of bunnies and kittens. There was Julian, with long golden locks ripe for jokes from boys with a narrow-minded conception of “girl.” He possessed all the brilliance and stubbornness of an artist, crafting intricate sculptures from Babybel cheese wax wrappers. On day three I accidentally stepped on his toe with the boot I wore on my fractured foot. His parents reported he was fine, but he made a point of elevating and icing his foot when I did, and limping beside me the rest of the week.

Lastly, there was Ellen, the quietest girl I have ever met. Other volunteers grew tired of holding an ear to catch her whispered words, but I was honored to be the mouthpiece of her mature, enlightened, and tragically overlooked commentary. But the children in the group stood up for each other, and just as they would slow to walk with me, they leaned in to hear the inner workings of the girl next to them.

Every day I made my way past the patrons with curled mustaches, puffy hair, and squinty eyes into the treasure of young, creative minds. After a week of characters, conflict, and magic, on and off the page, the camp came to a close with a play and presentation of stories. A surprise usually allotted for fairy tales rose out of Ellen’s mouth when, for the first time that week, her voice rang out confident and clear. As she read her story, the other children’s jaws dropped, and they mouthed their shock to each other. I cannot remember the last time I smiled so hard. Afterwards all of the kids crowded around her to congratulate her. All the scene needed was a Hollywood soundtrack and a teary eyed audience.

I entered the camp with a clunking foot and mentality. I left feeling gentle, fluttery, proud. I learned from an injured table with more of a sense of companionship and strength than most adults. I worked with a cast of novel-worthy personalities and eccentricities. And the ending turned out to be priceless.

The Garden of Gods and Crutches

Colorado’s summer has at last arrived, after weeks of stormy indecision. It arrived in a neatly packaged box, ready for assemblage like a beginner’s Lego kit, tied together with shiny ribbons of expectation and wrapping paper folded carefully around the edges. It is hard to delve into summer for this reason. When it first arrives I like to stare at it, to think of all that it could be, to ponder what gift the world has delivered this time.  At last it comes time to crack it open like a fortune cookie, to disturb the untouched beauty with the hope that even more beauty awaits within.

I began to construct my summer, building a structure of sun, pasting wallpaper of pages, inviting friends through the door I’d adorned with a welcome sign smile. I dreamed in the morning and danced through the night. The clouds transformed into anything I wanted them to be. But the fortune cookie crack was not the only one destined for me. In mid-leap, mid-dance, mid-smile, mid-summer, I tripped and fractured the arch of my foot.    

Soon I was given a gift all right—crutches, a boot, pain medication, the whole package. The best way to appreciate every step is to make that step a hop, limp, hobble, or artificial click of plastic. I started the summer as a classic Lego character, clicking my feet into every summer backdrop. But I soon became a Bionicle, an iron woman who first had to assemble herself before any hope of assembling a magical summer. My summer gift had one loose part.

Footsteps are highly symbolic—of where one is going, how fast one ultimately gets there, of which path one chooses to take. What did it mean that I only had one foot, that my clanking boot sent sidewalk ants scrambling, and pitying eyes staring? Did it mean that I temporarily would have no story, no symbolic strides towards adventure? That what is so crucial to so many lives, the intrinsic need to see and experience would not be realized for the doctor’s jail sentence of four to six weeks?

Determined, I went on one foot to see the world. I made each hop, limp, hobble, and click count. I accompanied my dad, step-mom, and brother to Garden of the Gods. Amidst valleys filled with perfectly draped sun, it seemed as though the world danced for me. I could not craft the clouds, yet the sky’s creamy concoction calmed my achy foot and antsy heart nonetheless. I had to be contented floating through the summer scenes, without pounding my foot down, announcing my conquest.

I clicked my way on crutches down the Garden of the Gods trail. A couple passing by remarked on my comical state, saying “Wow, brave girl!” and “You’re going to be strong after this!” I smiled and savored in the ingredients of a story coming together already. I cared less that the smoothness of my summer soup was interrupted by the splash of a chunky boot. So the flavor is a little sour—the other ingredients are still intact. My days settle around my boot, but I swallow my experiences all the same.

Perhaps “brave” wasn’t the best word. At the time, it was more stubbornness. But I am starting to think bravery is the mastery of smiling at each step instead of grimacing. It is trusting in one’s fortune cookie, and a summer that doesn’t come together like the picture on the Lego box. It is trusting life to come to me, even if that means slowing down. I tore into summer too fast. Now I carefully untie the ribbons and salvage the pieces.