introduction

​

I went to a pretty shitty high school. I know I shouldn't say that, because it's a place filled with hardworking people and (somewhat, sometimes) motivated students, but in all actuality it was pretty awful. I start with this statement to simply say that nobody ever expected much from the students of Kent City High School; we were not seen as achievers or academics or anything remotely impressive. Nobody ever thought that we would become something more than a group of farm kids from a tiny village in the middle of a corn field. We were the kids that drove our lawnmowers to school, drank cheap beer in our grandparents' barns, and would complain endlessly about the scent of manure wafting from the pig farm down the road as we sat in the world's dullest English 12 class; we were nothings.

​

Standards were low, as were the grades of almost everyone in the class, but I (promising I'm not bragging...why would I brag about my English 12 grade?) had an A. From reading responses to vocabulary quizzes, I was enthralled by the expression of language in any and every form. I think at this point, I was a closet writer. I was in the closet about my love for words, language, and the obscure analyses of Lord of the Flies. I was in the closet about my obsession with the beautiful lines that covered Fitzgerald's pages with such effortless grace. I was infatuated with the mere expression of words being written and shared, sometimes in ways that just can't be explained with my ever sputtering lips. While my love for writing grew and my self-esteem shriveled from being continually told I was a zero, one person stood strong in their belief in me.

​

My dad was a constant reminder that I could reach the stars. He didn't care a bit about what high school I attended or how awful I was at soccer, he reminded me daily that I wasn't just a stupid hillbilly, but that I was Kate Fucking Toporski. My dad's constant encouragement and enthusiasm was the beginning of the domino effect of my life falling into place. While dad lived for my advancement, what fueled and inspired the writer within to emerge? As cheesy as it may be, my journey as a writer truly began when I was accepted to the University of Michigan. Coming from a small, craptacular high school, nobody expected me to go Big Ten. Hell, nobody expected me to leave. Even if I was smart or well-rounded, I went to Kent City. In the eyes of outsiders, I was a nobody.

​

Once I decided that I would break the bondages that my conservative hometown had placed upon me, my attitude changed. I realized that I was more than mediocre, more than a farm kid. My goals were big and scary, but who was anyone to say I couldn't reach them? I was Kate fucking Toporski (that's right dad). Being accepted to such a great school made me realize that I was more than anyone thought I ever could be. My life, passions, and experiences were (and continue to be) valuable. And that is why I began to write.

​

I wrote because I wasn't expected to. I wrote to object, maybe to rebel. I wrote to have one place on earth where I didn't have to censor myself in fear that my mother would take away my car keys and force me to ride the janky, KC school bus. I began writing because I realized that I was important. I write today, because I’m still just a kid from a tiny village in the middle of a corn field, but I’m off to do great things. I write because others need to know that transitioning to a big school is scary, but there are ways to swim rather than sink (and that it’s okay to sink sometimes when you’re a little tired of treading water). I write because words create community, even in times and places that we feel lost and alone.

​

The good news is this—going from a class of 75 to 7,000 was scary, but I made it just fine.