Any student enrolled in English 101P, 101, 102, or 112 during Spring 2024 through Spring 2025 may submit an essay of any kind on any topic. There are no length limits for this category. Kai Lou Pullicar wrote the 2nd place submission in the First-Year Writing category for the 2025 President’s Writing Awards.
About Kai
Kai Lou Pullicar is a returning student whose first love was reading. His whims have brought him to BSU to study Linguistics and Chinese. Outside BSU, he can be found lost in his own thoughts and immersed in music. Kai also enjoys spending late nights with his dog and partner watching mysteries.
Winning Manuscript – The Words in My Blood
Words are in my blood–a constant companion flowing alongside platelets and lymphocytes. My Ma infused my blood with stories. Endless hours of reading made her voice dry and hoarse. She taught me to read then, tired of my needling. Don’t forget me. I need you. Please love me. We would take turns reading to one another before bed. Glass of water by the bed and heavy blankets anchoring us to this side of the pages. We read everything– Austen, Orwell, Tolkien, Bronte, King. We read of a time of war bonds and radio dramas. We found worlds of monsters and dragons. We saw injustice and triumph. We solved mysteries and horrors, safe and snuggled in bed with hot chocolate. In those secluded moments, indulging in other worlds, life was good.
Those beloved moments with my mother were a much needed escape from life’s heavier realities. 2008 left many people with the short end of a short stick and my family was no different. Dad’s business declared bankruptcy while Ma worked three part-time jobs to keep us housed and fed. Fresh milk was a luxury and clothes were always new-to-you. But the mother who taught me to read had also taught me to be resourceful, so I set myself on a quest for misguided independence. I can’t be a burden. I don’t need anything. I am not important. I got myself home to and from school and made cupcakes for school bake sales. I hid bad grades and signed parent permission slips. I cut myself off from any help or guidance. But a child can only do so much. My head and heart were gaping wounds inflicted in childhood. I couldn’t staunch the flow and spent years hiding in the dark, full of shame.
I was trapped in my thoughts, caged by self-exile. The words that once filled me with wonder turned sour in my blood and screamed to escape. I can’t tell anyone. I am worthless. No one will believe me. So I wrote. Every thought and notion was put to paper. I filled shoeboxes with endless letters never sent, tear-filled journal entries, and pleading notes. Speaking aloud became rare and leaving the house rarer still. My wounds grew festered and sick. Everyday an arduous battle with the words of poison in my blood. I remembered reading Old Yeller with Ma. You can’t help terminal disease. The words in my blood wanted out. So I let them.
Triage was simple. I went to school for two hours every morning and spent the remaining day at work with Ma. Her part-time job had become full-time. A means of survival became her passion. She kept a close eye on me in the beginning, and I on her. I’m scared to be alone. I can’t go on. Please don’t let me drown. I sat with her at the circulation desk while she chittered with patrons and answered the phone. I sat with her while she designed colorful calendars and lively after-school programs. I sat with her at check-out, enjoying the thump thump thump of the demagnetizer. The library was full of life and I reveled in it. I played with Legos and robots. I learned about curation and accessibility. I read books. I read books faster than I could check them out. I breathed the pages and words. The stacks cradled my thoughts and quieted the words in my blood. The pages held stories of people who felt like me.
Eventually, life went on around me. I went back to school full-time, but ultimately dropped out and got a GED. I passed the time with nothing in particular, following the belief that someone like me couldn’t possibly find achievement. I can only hope for average. Ambition is not my place. I want a normal life. No reason to live, but no reason to stop. Who am I? Why am I so unhappy being me? I scoured my blood looking for the right words and remembered a book I read secretly in a secluded corner of the library, embarrassed by the implications of my reading it. My life shifted. A haircut here. A t-shirt there. Words pumped through my body from the very core of my heart. They felt like a remedy. The last step of my treament. Again the words wanted out. After a night of snot and tear soaked blankets, I finally spoke them. I don’t think I’m a woman.
My partner’s support was unwavering and his courage enough for the both of us. This is it. This is who I am. Life makes sense. I met K in those days. I spent time with him and got to know him. I found the beautiful bits and the ugly bits. He was prickly, but kind-hearted. Thoughtful and goofy. Every moment felt like a gift and soon I found my own courage. Everyday, I took a step to introduce K to the world. I discovered who I was and with it, the joy in just being. Joy in hope. Joy in work. Joy in play.
Words are still in my blood. But they’re quiet now. I feel them in who I am, connecting me to my past. They whisper to me in still moments. I feel them at dusk, breathing with me and thrumming in my chest. I share them now. I love you. I’m scared. I’m so happy to be with you. Late nights in a frosty car. Holding hands on a sagging couch. Blue-tinted glow of a phone screen. In these moments, life is good.