By Rami Salame---

The story I am about to relate to you took place on October the first; the day all the new students were walking around the campus, overflowing with hope, pride, and fancy clothes. I have been around for more than three years, and so I have lost that hope and pride, yet I still indulge in fancy clothes every now and then. Today, October the first, I received a letter through the mail. It was a letter from an international poetry contest I had participated in. I had no intention, much less hope, of winning. Somehow, they were notifying me that I had become a semi-finalist. I Òcould be the lucky winner of 1,000 dollars,Ó or Òthe lucky winnerÓ of the 10, 000 dollar grand prize. Moreover, my poem will be published in a Òcollected poemsÓ book, and will be read by millions. Naturally, I felt lucky. My friends saluted me, and we almost went off campus for a celebratory drink. Today, I was filled with more hope than any freshman at AUB. I have taken my first step towards public acclaim and a writing career. But, as there is always a but, having been a member of the AUB community for so long, I have learned not to swallow hook, line and sinker. So I took this letter to an English teacher- a teacher of English, not a teacher from England. I wanted his advice. This teacher, whose support for my writing has always been immeasurable, advised me against falling into their trap. This means: do not sign the paper work. He explained their brilliant scheme. You sign the paper, you pay a small fee and you get a copy of their esteemed book. They make money off you, and you go into a book with approximately 3000 other self-acclaimed writers. ItÕs a moneymaker. They inflate your ego; you spend your money on your pride. To see your poem in print, and your name in a book, would cost you 125 dollars. A ÒsmallÓ price to pay for the ensuing fame. They make 375,000 dollars off Òpoets per month.Ó The worst part is realizing what a fool I had been for falling for their scheme; for allowing myself to think that the start of a writing career is as easy as that. I should have realized that it was all too pink and mellifluous to be real. The significance of this story: The hope I had today lasted me only for about 7 minutes: the time it takes me to walk from the post office to the English Department. Nonetheless, I felt alive, refreshed. Today, for about 7 minutes, I was a freshman again. Just when I was ready to accept this hope, it was taken away from me, not by my teacher, but by the reality of what people are willing to do for money; by the fact that someone somewhere is willing to make money by manipulating my passion for poetry. I will not stop writing poems because I know that I am vulnerable. We all are. I might swallow hook and line. But I will never swallow the sinker.