the mitchell scholarship: personal statement

From an early age, I understood that writing had special powers. My dad was a silver-tongued
frequent flier in the US prison system, so our relationship was largely bound by letters. Words
on a flat page that seemed to contain all those ingredients we have in common in this life – love,
grief, truth, desire. Two things, or people, that seem so far apart could be strung together in
space using a few symbolic shapes. Writing has the capacity to connect, I understood, but it
wasn’t until I was 15 years old, my dad had just died from an overdose, that I was sent to
Ireland as part of a National Geographic Writing Expedition and I experienced its capacity to
heal.
 
At first it felt almost selfish. Here I was in this beautiful place, taking the time to process my
feelings through art. Though my family is composed of many masterful Irish wordsmiths, talking
earnestly about our deep grief isn’t exactly a tradition, especially when it has to do with
something as “private” as addiction.

 
Yet, I was compelled by Ireland, this place my grandparents had always pointed to on the globe
and called “home.” I was inspired by the wind in my hair along the wild Atlantic coast, the
beautiful lace patterns created by oak leaves against the sky, and those colorful doors that
seemed to invite me in and say, go on. I knew what my writing was doing for me, but I didn’t
know what it was doing for others until the last night of the program, when we read our pieces to
an invited audience at an art gallery in Dublin. As I lifted my thumping head from the page, I was
surprised to find faces looking back not with disgust, but with relief. I realized storytelling not
only as a way toward my own personal healing, but toward collective healing, as well.
 
My personal mission statement isn’t so different from Mitchell’s. My passion for language is
intrinsically linked to a commitment to service. Maybe my early childhood experiences with the
opioid epidemic and mass incarceration combined with an academic interest in linguistic
decolonization has made me a sort of bleeding heart for the oppressed – the colonized and the
disenfranchised. In college, I participated in a writing workshop that involved partnering with an
inmate at Lafayette Parish Prison. In 2018, I created a workshop for girls whose families had
been impacted by incarceration, like mine. 
While studying abroad in Senegal, I worked at an informal community school, École de la Rue,
that was working to preserve the Wolof language. I related this to Ireland’s Irish language revival
and became enchanted by Manchán Magan’s 32 Words for Field, which documents a language
so deeply rooted in its environment that each word reminds us of our connection to all things. I
thought maybe my instinct to call out injustice goes even further back than childhood and
intellectual curiosity, maybe it stems from the long line of Irish immigrants that came before me:
refugees of famine, and blue-collar workers who fought for a life in this country. Moreover,
maybe my hunch that language has the capacity to connect us with the profound also comes
from this deep ancestral tie.
 
My passion for storytelling, commitment to service, and fascination with my Irish lineage came
together last summer, when I brought my play, Sunny Makes a Scene, to the Festival Fringe in
Edinburgh. The dark comedy follows a teenage girl as she wreaks havoc at her dad’s Irish
Catholic wake. To address its theme of addiction, I collaborated with Crew 2000, a local harm
reduction organization that attended each performance and handed out overdose prevention
resources to patrons as they left. Each night, I was humbled by the Irish audiences who stopped
to tell me about the uncanny resemblance between our families. With a connection to my roots
in mind, my career goal became clear: whether it be a book or a movie or a play or even a
creative workshop that allows people to find their own voice, I intend to create cathartic healing
experiences for others through storytelling.
 
Completing the MA in Creative Writing at Queen’s University in Belfast is an incredible chance
to realize this goal. I recently got in touch with the program director, Sam Thompson, who
shared an enlightening webinar about the course. I was impressed by its emphasis on
community and interdisciplinary approach. Having spent the last 3 years working in the
entertainment industry in various writing, producing, and directing roles, I’m looking for a
program that celebrates range. While most writing courses focus on one genre or discipline,
Queen’s offers both prose and dramatic writing workshops that are taught by experienced
authors, playwrights, and screenwriters. Moreover, the Seamus Heaney Centre functions as an
ideal space for students to share work and collaborate on projects for film and stage. With an
endless array of write nights ranging from songwriting to poetry to prose and scene work, I know
I would feel right at home as a multi-hyphenate. Finally, Queen’s University provides the
opportunity to volunteer with their partner organization, Fighting Words NI, which offers creative
writing workshops to children.
 
In January, I stayed at my great grandmother’s house in Castlegregory. The forecast wasn’t
changing, so my partner and I decided to brave the rain and walk through Glenteenassig Forest
Park. We found a clearing near a lake and watched as the drops turned to drizzle and the
muddy waters found clarity in stillness. And as the sun peeked through the Hickory trees, I
experienced what could be described in Irish as “sclimpini…the effect of lights dancing before
one’s eyes…those glimpses one gets through the veil of what lays beyond,” (Magan). I like to
think of The Mitchell Scholarship as sclimpini, a glimmering chance to reach further toward my
purpose. By devoting myself completely to my craft, I know will come out better equipped to
share.