My Story

This story is fiction.

"Everyone has a story to tell. What will you say?"
Recently I was purposed with this question. At the time a plethora of things went rolling through my head. Questions. Statements. Some made valid points others I decided to rebuke. (They were a long the lines of "Who would are?" and "Why does it matter?") All entirely unhelpful to actually answering the question.
My professor challenged all of us to sit down and write about a page of what our story would say. He gave us an hour in class to complete the assignment. The clock ticked and tocked the whole way through, and somehow I still couldn't find the words to say.
My story? What did that even mean? I was baffeled, at a loss for MY words to MY story. What did he want me to say?
As Iooked up from my thoughts and realized that there was only 15 minutes left, I decided not to write a mere summary of my life and its events. Instead I wrote this:
"MY STORY" by Penelope Morgan

"Of all the things I could write this topic should be the simplest. Who knows me better than me? I could entertain you with my witicisms and ponderings of a simpleton, challenge you with the truth or comfort you with the details of my personal pain. Of all the things I could say, this is the easiest. No matter what words leave my mouth or are formed by my pen, nothing shouts louder than the words my actions write.
I could spend an hour simply informing you of what I believe, who I am and what led me to these conclusions, but my story isn't written in ink. It can't be contained by the confides of paper. It isn't simply made of great events and special occasions.
My story is seen everyday with the every breathe, every glance, smile, tear, touch or gesture. The smallest parts ofme scream of the deepest parts of myself.
So again, I could spend an hour giving you useless facts about my life, but that's not my story. My life is, and you have a front row seat to my one woman show."

As I finished up my little essay I thought, "UGH! Why couldn't you simply answer the question?"
I turned in my paper with what I'm sure was a look of worry written on my face (pun intended). I could almost feel the "F" coming my way. I quietly slinked out of the classroom disappointed with myself.
I debated the next day about asking the professor to redo the assignment, but I decided that I should take what was given to me. I walked into class not very hopeful. I could see the stack of papers neatly positioned at the corner of the professor's desk taunting me.
I sat down in my usual seat and slid as far down as I possibly could prepared for the worst. The professor started as usual, right on time.
As I waited for him to pass out the papers something strange happened. Instead of handing out the first paper, he began to read it. As the words swirled to through the air, I realized he was reading MY paper. Didn't see that one coming.
After he finished he looked up at me from behind his reading glasses and said,
"This young woman chose not, like many of you did, to simply rattle off, as she puts it, "useless facts" about herself.
Although it was wonderful to learn about your many colorful personal lives and beliefs, she alone understood my original question. 'What will you say?' She took it one step further. She realized that no mere description could contain the depth of the impact her everyday actions have in the novel of her life. Like many good authors, she knows that she may be the author of her story, but it is her audience that will determine its meaning. Superb job Ms. Morgan".