When I first started making a lot of noise, I echoed through Alaska. Months later, I groaned in the back of a Jeep Cherokee all the way to Enid, Oklahoma where I would scream as I picked up toads in the rain, sing on my neighbor’s trampoline, and antagonize all my friends’ brothers into light-saber battles. Years later, I brooded in the back of a Honda Civic all the way to Newnan, Georgia where I would eventually charge air through a tuba, noisily spit out grits, and laugh with friends at Waffle House. Somehow, years later, I beamed in the driver’s seat all the way to Agnes Scott College where I have giggled over Netflix crime shows with my roommate, read poetry in the seclusion of an eno, and of course, thundered my dancing feet all over Atlanta. Regardless of all this noise, I have much more to make. While I am still clueless about a prospective career path, I would love to defend the natural environment from a courtroom or lab, argue over the course of global fiscal policy, or blather over an artist’s intention in a piece. Regardless, I intend to neither be static nor silent.
