Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they

believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please

share your story.

250- 650 words

SECOND DRAFT

WORD COUNT: EXACTLY 650

Fifth shelf up, three books across, hidden in a sea of novels and old midterms on my

second-hand bookshelf is a portal to my subconscious: my leather-bound diary. Inside, you will

find a collection of stories that spare no grueling detail of my 18 years of life. From the pimples

and teen angst, to the mood swings and hormonal imbalances, this diary embarrassingly

documented it all.

On the front page is a preface from my thirteen-year-old self, "Saida Dahir: a Somali,

Muslim, woman, POET.” I was on to something when writing “poet” in all caps. Even though I

had never written a poem, I already knew writing was in my blood.

When I was young, my mother would tell me stories about her homeland, Somalia. When

my siblings and I felt a story coming, we'd flock to her side. We grasped at every memory, at

every glimpse of the home we never got to call our own. She told us Somalia was known for

poetry; it was called the land of poets.

When I was first introduced to rhyme and rhythm in junior high, poetry was inaccessible.

I was led to believe that writing was something only old white men did. I was required to read

famous epics and none of them resonated with me. It was always about a straight white man
saving the damsel in distress. All the names of the authors looked nothing like the names in my

culture that I heard growing up. I felt like they were whispering in a secret code, a code I wasn’t

meant to understand. The education system taught me that poetry wasn’t meant for me- that I

wasn’t the intended audience.

This contradicted everything about my culture that I was taught growing up. The ancient

stories of Somali soldiers writing love poems to their wives during the war were not mentioned

in class when we talked about poetry. Rather, the history of literature was whitewashed and men

like William Shakespeare dominated the field.

For my thirteenth birthday, my older brother gifted me a brown vintage-looking

notebook. He told me to write. To write about anything, nothing, and everything. To write until

my hand broke and I couldn’t write anymore. So I did.

I wrote for the children that didn’t have the luxury of holding a pen in their hand. I wrote

for my mother who left everything she loved behind to immigrate to this country. I wrote for the

Somali women whose husbands never returned home from war. I wrote to represent the kids that

didn’t have anyone to look up to.

Then I started performing. I vividly remember the first time I walked on to a stage and

laid my heart out for the audience to see. It was the summer before 8th grade and I was asked to

perform at an open-mic night. Although I had a very intense urge to puke onto the front row, I

managed to finish my poem without completely embarrassing myself:

‘til your arrogance turns to ash

‘til your pride turns to smoke
I’ll pull a Serena
and kill your cruelness with a backhand stroke
so next time you think of this
remember me
 and remember what i said
i am not defined by a piece of cloth i wear on my head
From there I began performing at coffee shops, conferences and community events.

Eventually, I started traveling to different states to deliver full keynote speeches. Each event

raised my self-confidence in my identity as a poet. I’m Black. I’m Muslim. I’m a woman. I’m a

refugee. I learned to cope with the difficulties I’ve endured because of my identities through

poetry. Adversity was met with alliteration. Poverty alleviated through pentameters. Racism

combatted through rhythm. Sexism eliminated through my stanzas. Poetry salvaged my psyche

and connected me to a home I never encountered but belonged to: the land of poets.
 ROUND ONE:

The year was 2000, in a refugee camp in Kenya; a small girl was born to a broken family

in a broken nation. As part of the postwar diaspora, she had no home; all that was left of her

nation was destroyed. After years of living in a refugee camp, she and her family fled their

motherland to follow the "American Dream,” however, they quickly realized their new home in

the states was not perfect; that the systems in place weren't meant for dark-skinned, nappy

headed, immigrants.

This is my story. The young girl mentioned prior isn't so young anymore. Many things

have changed in the course of my life. I went from being a foreigner, whose only English

stemmed from the ​Fresh Prince of Bel Air t​ heme song… to embracing the art of poetry.

When I was young, my mother would tell me stories about her homeland, Somalia.

Whenever my siblings and I felt a story coming, we'd flock to her side. We grasped for every

memory, every glimpse of the home we never got to call our own. She would tell us that Somalia

was known for poetry; it was called the land of poets.

Growing up I thought poetry was stuff old white men did when they were bored. I tried

reading famous epics but none of them resonated with me.​ It was always about a man saving the

day by rescuing the damsel in distress. English was already hard enough to comprehend at that

time, so when you put archaic English into the mix, I felt like they were whispering in secret

code, a code I wasn’t meant to understand.

Poetry ​was​ meant for me. I had been writing it for years and hadn’t even noticed. At the

age of seven, the unfortunate age when I thought I could sing, I wrote my first poem. It was a

cringe-worthy love song portraying my thrilling yet imaginary love life. Soon after, I realized I
had no musical ability and wasn't meant for pop stardom. I needed to repurpose my song. That's

when it dawned on me. I wasn't destined to be a singer-songwriter. ​Poetry was my calling; and to

give myself credit, I was pretty darn good at it.

Poetry gave me the courage to be who I wanted to be, and more importantly, who I was

meant to be. I vividly remember the first time I walked on to a stage and laid my heart out for the

audience to see. It was the summer going into 8th grade and I was asked to perform at an

open-mic night. Although I had a very intense urge to puke on the front row, I managed to finish

my poem without completely embarrassing myself:

‘til your arrogance turns to ash

‘til your pride turns to smoke
I’ll pull a Serena
and kill your cruelness with a backhand stroke
so next time you think of this
remember me
and remember what i said
i am not defined by a piece of cloth i wear on my head

Poetry is my medium for expression. I started performing at coffee shops, conferences,

and community events. Eventually, I started traveling to different states and doing full keynote

speeches. ​Each event raised my self-confidence. ​After every show, I could count on someone

telling me that my poems changed their views on life and made them more socially conscious.

With this new-found self-confidence I acquired from my performances, I reclaimed my

self-identity. I learned to cope with my pain through poetry. The 3 AM poems that were on the

verge of incoherency have made me who I am today. When things got hard and adversity was

knocking on my door, poetry salvaged my psyche and connected me to a home I never

encountered but belonged to. The land of poets.

 I began performing at coffee shops, conferences and community events. Eventually, I

started traveling to different states to deliver full keynote speeches. Each event raised my

self-confidence in my identity as a poet. I’m black. I’m Muslim. I’m a woman. I’m a refugee. I

learned to cope with the difficulties I’ve endured because of my identities through poetry.

Adversity was met with alliteration. Poverty alleviated through pentameters. Racism combatted

through rhythm. Sexism eliminated through my stanzas. Poetry salvaged my psyche and

connected me to a home I never encountered but belonged to. The land of poets.

Growing up I thought poetry was stuff old white men did when they were bored. I tried

reading some famous epics like the Iliad and the Odyssey and none of them resonated with me. It

was always about a straight man saving the day and then saving the Damsel in distress. All the

names of the authors looked nothing like the names in my culture or the names I grew up

hearing. English was already hard enough to comprehend at that time so when you put old

English into the mix, I felt like they were speaking in secret code. I quickly grew to learn that

maybe poetry wasn’t meant for me, maybe I wasn’t the intended audience.

Hughes was the first poet I had ever connected with. He made me feel as though I was

part of the narrative. That my perspective was important. Afterwards I introduced myself to other

black intellectuals like James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, Amiri Baraka, and more. It proved to me

that poetry wasn’t a white trait.