My life has changed so much since my time as a Voices of Change fellow during the 2023 school year. As I wrote in my final essay of the fellowship, the beautiful, imperfect school I loved and helped build had closed. With the support of my fellowship editor, Cobretti Williams, I applied and was admitted to the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans, where I am taking graduate classes and teaching a freshman English composition course.
In deciding what to write as a reflection on my time since the fellowship, I started three different essays and hated all of them. I did a lot of cursing, went on a couple of brooding walks and wondered why I agreed to write this in the first place. During the similarly maddening process of designing the syllabus for the first college course I taught, I took a break to write my students a letter. Here is an excerpt:
Before we start this course together, it’s important for me to name something foundational to how I approach teaching it: Writing is hard for everyone. I love writing and I believe that, if I keep practicing, I can become great at it… and I still hate doing it a lot of the time. This is why writing is so important. Almost everything we want is on the other side of making ourselves do things we don’t want to do. When we sit down to write, whether we want to or not, and we keep writing when we hit that initial point where we want to stop, and continue when those moments arise again and again like waves, we are getting vital practice. This skill, ignoring the complacent you, the you that would rather do the thing tomorrow, or tomorrow’s tomorrow, and doing the thing now instead is an act of becoming the you that has the things you want. Like anything else, this becomes easier the more you do it.
This excerpt reminds me that writing is much more difficult than most of the things we do in a world that commodifies ease and comfort, upholds them as desirable and makes us feel we are entitled to them while simultaneously less and less able to tolerate their lack.
There is a common misconception that my students come to me with that manifests most often in the statement “I don’t know what to write.” They think this means they are not ready to begin, because they believe that writing is putting what you already know onto paper. I understand why this misconception exists. So often in life, we only see finished products. The published novel, the final cut, the social media post depicting the outcome and not the process and the struggle. It’s easy to think that everyone else has things figured out, that what you see is how something was from the beginning. This can trick us into believing that if something isn’t good right away, we should abandon it. Drafting insists that we try before we feel sure, finish something even if it is not yet “good.” Revision insists that what we have can be something different, something better, and teaches us to hold multiple things in our heads at the same time. Throughout this process, we gain clarity.
Each time we give or receive feedback and assess whether it moves us closer to or further from our vision, we get better at articulating what we want and closer to achieving it. When teachers and students do this work together and commit to improvement, even when we both have moments of uncertainty about what to do next, we are practicing true collaboration. We both grow. What a way to become more skillful at building the world we want.
It is a strange time to be devoting so much of my life to writing, to be telling students that they should care about writing too. Just this week, an article came out detailing pervasive, undisclosed AI use to grade and give feedback to student writing in some New Orleans schools. A study conducted in May of 2025 showed that 84 percent of high school students used generative AI to complete their school work. I understand intimately the overwhelm of educators and students, and the temporary relief that cognitive offloading with AI can provide.
However, what we lose in the long term by not engaging deeply in the writing process, the practice of giving and receiving feedback, of watching revision unfold, is so much greater than the gains we feel in accepting AI’s “help” in our moments of overwhelm. What world are we building when we delegate the human work of communication through writing to machines? We would do better to engage in a process of re-evaluating our priorities, taking on fewer assignments for longer and working collaboratively as educators and administrators to redesign curricula and systems so that teachers have the capacity to get to know their students through repeated contact with their written work.
Sometimes, it feels like we are already living in a completely different world from the one in which I grew up and was educated. Luckily, these times, despite how often folks like to say they are not, are precedented. In these times, I have been turning to Black women writers like Toni Morrison, Toni Cade Bambara, Audre Lorde and June Jordan for guidance, and they all insist writing only becomes more urgent the more dire the times. In facing what Toni Morrison described in 2004 as “a burgeoning ménage a trois of political interests, corporate interests and military interests” working to “literally annihilate an inhabitable, humane future,” I have been especially steeled by Audre Lorde’s words, “In this way alone we can survive, by taking part in a process of life that is creative and continuing, that is growth.”
In the face of a world that would automate us right out of existence, I intend for us to survive, and so I insist we write.
