By Braden Kelsey
I spent 18 of my 21 formative years in Prairie Creek, Indiana — perhaps the most desolate corner of rural Terre Haute. We lived so close to Farmersburg that our mail carried the neighboring town’s zip code, and so far from everything else that for six of those years the internet didn’t reach us. The distance between the city and I was emphasized when somebody was headed-out to the store or needed a tire changed. Whoever was leaving would announce to those at home that we were “going into town” in recognition of the fact that such a trip would surely take hours.
I attended South Vigo High School — a 25-minute drive from home — where I dedicated four years to being a weak student. I was lazy and most likely never once finished a homework assignment at home — instead opting to cram before class. I took my SATs once, having never studied, and scored significantly higher in mathematics than English.
When I was 18, we moved onto Wabash Avenue. I followed my parents’ educator DNA and started an English education degree at Indiana State University. I spent two years there preparing for my fallback occupation — teaching — in the confident belief that inevitably I, no luckier than the next sucker who wanted to make a living writing, would lose the energy to contend with the innumerable obstacles that littered the way. Heading into my fifth semester at the university, however, the English department saw a drastic alteration to what material the professors were allowed to teach. It was as if an elastic chord within me had snapped.
Like most moments written about in history, there was nothing innately significant about the change to the curriculum. Still, by some means, it lifted the sheet which had covered the educator’s cage, and I knew I’d scarcely inhabit it before I rocked it so viciously I’d see myself without a job anyway. Propelled by the sense that I had surrendered to the necessity of job security and income, I realized that I didn’t want to settle for what was given and safe. If I had to spend another blood-boiling moment pretending that I wanted to be anything other than a writer, I was going to evaporate altogether.
I left Indiana State for Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College within three days of learning about the curriculum change, and out of not wanting to inconvenience anyone further (seeing they’d managed to get me into a classroom in under 24 hours) stuck with the writing degree I had toured for earlier that year. I had visited Saint Mary-of-the-Woods well before the semester had started — just to see what they had, though the move proved too uncertain and frightening at the time. During my visit, I accidentally signed up to meet with the advisor for the professional writing major instead of the broader English major. I’d stumbled into the office of somebody who actually writes, and never had I been so intimidated by a person so cheerful. Sure my Indiana State professors maintained professionalism, but this guy was a real published writer and an editor for well-known magazines — he was doing the thing I didn’t think people actually got to do. It was intimidating just knowing he’d pushed through the slog preceding one’s obtained permission to write what they wanted to and still be paid for it, so I stuck with it. I wanted to be joyfully intimidating too.
About the author
Braden Kelsey is a senior at The Woods pursuing a degree in professional writing with a minor in education. He was born and raised locally by his parents in Terre Haute, Indiana, alongside his two older brothers. Braden transferred to The Woods as a sophomore English education student, before doubling down on his passion for writing and joining The Woods’ professional writing program. At The Woods, he is the editor-in-chief of Aurora — the college’s literary arts magazine — as well as one of the College’s embedded writing tutors.
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