Why I Write By Greg Dittman I awaken with a jolt. My head hits something hard and it rings with pain.

I curse. This is not my room. Where am I? I have no bearings in this pitch black environment. My eyes fight for any signs of familiarity. I realize this sense is useless and I turn to my hands as I feel along a cold, concrete floor. I am in a room. I feel four walls that entrap me. I struggle to find something to sit on. But there is nothing; only the floor and the walls and the darkness. I plop to the floor and gently rest my aching head on the firm wall. My clothes are damp with sweat but the air is frigid. I shiver. I dont shiver from the cold but I do so because I know where I am. I am in jail. I hear a voice. Who are you? I yell into the darkness. A friendly, female voice returns my plea. I am Terry Tempest Williams. I am glad I am not the only one here. I can feel the warmth in her voice and sense she smiled. I smile too. I thought I was alone. Why are we here? I say, shaking with fear, and thankful she cant see that. Terry informs me that we were both arrested yesterday, on March 8, International Womens Day. We both participated in an anti-war protest in Washington, D.C. coordinated by women-initiated organization Code Pink. We both had refused to leave the street after being instructed to do so by local police forces. She remembers seeing an older Asian woman being struck by a policeman and I shudder as I conclude that it was me. Despite this time of frustration by the brutality of the police and the Federal Government, we laugh at our misfortunes. I begin to feel as if I have known Terry all my life. We tell each other stories about our self and our families. With great excitement, I learn that she, too, is an author. I beam into the darkness as we discuss pieces that we have written. I tell her all about a Chinese legend, something that was so important to me I even wrote a book about it years ago. The Woman Warrior. I led my army northward, rarely having to sidetrack; the emperor himself sent the enemies I was hunting chasing after me. Sometimes they attacked us on two or three sides; sometimes they ambushed me when I rode ahead. We would always win, Kuan Kung, the god of war and literature riding before me. I would be told of in fairy tales myself. I overheard some soldiers--and now there were many who had not met mesay that whenever we had been in danger of losing, I made a throwing gesture and the opposing army would fall, hurled across the battlefield. Hailstones as big as heads would shoot out of the sky and the lightning would stab like swords, but never at those on my side. On his side, they said. I never told them the truth. Chinese executed women who disguised themselves as soldiers or students, no matter how bravely they fought or how high they scored on the examinations. Through the darkness, I smile as I sense Terry is impressed. I continue telling tales of the Woman Warrior and Terry is in awe. She bombards me with questions, questions only an author, herself, would ask. These questions lead me to my journey here. America. I tell her of the difficulties, the hardships, and the prejudice I had to overcome. I tell her my overwhelming desire to fit in. I had no identity. Identity formation, I would argue, is not simply a process by which one passes through a variety of stages on the way to achieving a stable identity. Rather it is a process that is fluid and contextually driven. If raised in Beijing and immigrating as an adult, one may discover that one is Asian for the first time at age thirty. Prior to immigrating, that same individual in Beijing may never have considered her racial or ethnic identity. As a child, I wished with all my heart to be American but I never could fit in and by wishing such a deed I never truly was Chinese. I am shocked to hear sniffling

from Terry and realize that she is crying. But I continue on. I wish I could stop and spare her from my life but I cant. My life story is an uncontrollable fire that is bellowing to get out of me. I cringe, realizing that what I was about to do would reveal my families darkest secret. But it needs to be told. I tell her about my aunt. Full of milk, the little ghost slept. When it awoke, she hardened her breasts against the milk that crying loosens. Toward morning she picked up the baby and walked to the well. Carrying the baby to the well shows loving. Otherwise abandon it. Turn its face into the mud. Mothers who love their children take them along. It was probably a girl; there is some hope of forgiveness for boys. I am surprised by the calmness of my voice as I talk, my heart has hardened. The more I talk, the more weight is lifted off my shoulders. I appreciate Terrys silence. All of a sudden, the door to our prison cell opens and a blinding light fills our room. We dont squint to see the door but rather we look at each other. Terry looks younger than me but her hair was grey from age. She was white, someone I always wanted to look like. No longer did the jealous feelings run through my veins. I am a different person now. And I am thankful for Terry. We are free but we do not leave the cell. I feel as if I have used all the words left in me but I manage to ask her, Terry, why do you write? She doesnt say anything but just looks into my eyes. Soon, she gets up, kisses my cheek and leaves. My eyes follow her as she disappears into the light of the world just outside the cell. I remain sitting on the floor with my head on the wall. I look around my new cell that was just transformed from complete darkness to illumination. This was the first time I was able to pour out my life to someone. I feel free. I slowly get up and leave the prison. I plan to never return to prison; the prison of my mind. I am excited for what lies ahead in this new life. I hear my friend wrote an essay about the question I asked before she left jail. Why I Write. I hope to read it someday. I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write in a solitude born out of community. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that make me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of my anger and into my passion.

I write from the stillness of night anticipating -- always anticipating. I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me. I write because I believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in sand. I write because it is the way I take long walks. I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness. I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees. I write as ritual. I write out of my inconsistencies. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as witness to what I imagine. I write by grace and grit. I write for the love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a sentence. I write with the belief of alchemists. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realize it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass. I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love. (Williams) Authors Note: After researching Terry Tempest Williams and Kingston I discovered they both stayed in a cell together after being arrested in Washington DC for demonstrating against the war. I knew, immediately, the types of discussions they must have had. In this story, Kingston is forced, by being in the cell, to share her story. Something she never had the courage to do. The prison symbolizes her mind as she is trapped by herself. When she finishes telling her story the door opens. Light fills the cell and it is no longer in darkness. She is free. Thanks for reading.