Rebecca Conrad

The following article is Becky's 2003 WV Artist Fellowship winner.

Moans echoed through the sixth grade reading class when the teacher assigned everyone to write a short story. No moan came from me, only a smile. I had a passion to write. Thrilled with the task, I rushed home to get started. Without much effort, a mystery about a bank robbery emerged from pencil to paper. Mom helped me cover two pieces of thin cardboard with smiley face wrapping paper. Placing my pages inside, we threaded yarn through the cover and pages to bind them neatly together. Walking into class, I proudly presented my novel to my teacher. I had “published” my first book and earned the grade of A.

Two years later, I was blessed with an eighth-grade English teacher who loved writing. Spending the whole year composing all kinds of poetry, short stories, essays and even a piece of personification, I eagerly looked forward to every assignment. My teacher often read my work to the class as an example of what the particular assignment should be. It embarrassed me to no end. But there was a part of me that felt proud and honored that she picked mine to read.

One day after she read my essay "The Board," she explained to the class that it was a perfect example of personification. To me, it was sort of silly, and I’d wished she hadn’t made an example of it. My dad was in the process of building our new house, and I’d gotten the idea watching him burn piles of scrap lumber. In my essay, I described a board’s misery and fear as it waited to be tossed onto a burning blaze. No matter what I thought of the story, she loved it and gave me an A.

One of the most challenging assignments was to keep a journal and write in it every day. The pages were filled with nonsense as well as precious memories. The journal soon became my closest confidant. The hit TV shows of the mid-seventies were discussed in my little book. Welcome Back Cotter was one of my favorites, John Travolta being my heart throb. Happy Days and the Fonz was so much fun. And Laverne and Shirley seemed to get into trouble in every episode. Of course, I couldn’t leave out my favorite, the alluring vampire Barnabus Collins and his spooky home Dark Shadows.

Page after page filled with bittersweet memories: whom I had a crush on, my worries about a particular history test, the unforgettable time when I went to the drive-in without my parents' permission. As I read this passage years later, the sweet giddy emotions of the young and inexperienced sweep over me once again. That night, I met a boy of seventeen. Sitting close beside him in the front seat of his friend’s car, I felt so grown-up. A blush still burns my cheeks as I remember my wildly churning emotions when his lips touched mine in a slow sweet kiss--my first.

Also heartbreaking memories were recorded, written in permanent blue ink. My best friend's mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer. My friend and I grew up close as sisters, and her mom was like my own. Nothing in my short life had prepared me for such tragedy. I hurt so bad for her but could do nothing. Then another friend developed diabetes. All I could do for either of them was be their friend. However, spring brought the most devastating news. My grandpa died suddenly under suspicious circumstances. At fourteen, I’d never experienced a death in my immediate family. Good and bad, it was an unforgettable year.

I’m forever grateful for the assignment that allowed me to have a record of these precious memories. Twenty-six years later the journal has become a family treasure. At the end of the school year, we had to turn our journals in for a final grade. I anxiously waited to see what my teacher would say about such a personal piece of work. When I turned to the last page where her remarks and my grade awaited, butterflies danced in my stomach. Tears filled my eyes, and a feeling of pride and accomplishment warmed me when I read what she wrote.

Becky, of all my English students, you have the writer’s eye in words. Your many stories of West Virginia are filled with your loving memories of what is really home and what is really important. You do an excellent job in your writing and you follow the rules that all writers instinctively obey. You write about what you know. You show that knowledge and love in many of your stories and poems. Please continue as much writing as possible. Criticize it, rewrite it and perfect it. You will never regret it, and maybe someday, you will be one of the few people who can make money by writing.

Good Luck,

Mrs. Hilker

Entering high school that fall, my mind was made up to become a professional writer. Thanks to Mrs. Hilker’s praise and encouragement, I knew I could do it. The future was so bright and promising.

Or was it? I’d known for five years that I would lose my sight some day. But instead of facing and dealing with it, I deliberately thrust it into the back of my mind. It was much easier to pretend this awful thing would happen to someone else, never me.

When I was nine years old, I was in the Cleveland Clinic for some kind of blood disorder. Having kidney problems from birth, I had been in this hospital for overnight visits numerous times. I hated it. Three decades ago, the Cleveland Clinic’s policy was that no parents stayed overnight with their child. The nurses said the kids were easier to handle without their parents. My dad worked evening shift and we lived a good distance from the hospital. Mom had no driver’s license, and therefore, I spent several days at a time alone. To this day, the smell of antiseptics and hospitals brings back such bad memories; I get sick to my stomach.

But this hospital stay would be different; there wouldn’t be the horrible kidney tests to endure. Although, I became confused when they began doing tests on my eyes and ears. Never had these tests been done before, and no one bothered to explain why they were being done now. Growing more afraid, I dreaded each time they came for me. Even though no one said anything, I knew something was wrong. When doing certain tests, the technicians' faces would crease with concern and then the test would be repeated.

The day the eye doctor sat down with my mom and I will forever be seared in my memory. I knew I’d failed many of the eye tests and he was going to tell my mom. No pressure was ever put on me to be perfect or to pass every test; I’d put it on myself to always do the best I could. When my doctor began to talk, I knew it was bad news. He spoke as if I were a mature grown-up who would understand his words.

 “Becky, you have a deteriorating eye disease called Retinitis Pigmentosa. You’ll eventually lose some and maybe all of your sight.” He patted my hand. “But it will be very gradual and won’t happen until you’re forty or fifty.” His nice blue eyes smiled at me. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a smart girl and can do anything with your life you want to.”

At such a young age, I didn’t comprehend the reality of blindness. And besides, my forties were forever away.

Throughout high school, I was an avid reader who devoured all kinds of literature: Shakespeare, Poe, Dickens and, of course, Stephen King. I wrote every chance I got and thrived in all my English classes. I loved all aspects of English from diagramming to punctuation. Becoming a professional writer was constantly on my mind.

By the middle of my senior year, things drastically changed. My life turned into a living nightmare. But I had no chance of waking from this one. Totally unexpected, my vision began to rapidly deteriorate. It seemed like overnight, I couldn’t see. Words floated around on a page, and I struggled to read. I had to drop out of doing the speed exercises in typing because of swimming letters. When I looked at the chalkboard, the yellow chalk seemed to blend into the green board, so I had to sit beside a friend from whom I could copy notes. Walking in certain areas grew extremely difficult. I had trouble judging my distance, and in dim, shadowy places, I was completely lost.

Bumping into and falling over everyone and everything in my path caused me deep embarrassment. Knowing it wasn’t my fault didn’t help matters. Blindness came on so quickly, I felt overwhelmed. There wasn’t time to prepare. After all, I was just seventeen. Wasn’t I supposed to have years before losing my vision? I had no choice but to do the best I could.

While the others in my class planned on starting new jobs, getting married or beginning college, I was going blind. The future that looked so promising just a few months before held only hopeless darkness. I didn’t have any training, and at that age, the last thing I wanted was to spend a couple years in a school for the blind. I was graduating from high school and wanted to live a normal life just like everyone else.