An MFA and the Art of Belonging

It was an exceptionally balmy September when my grandmother lay dying in front of me.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. And I never ever expected to be here.

Not really.

But my life has always been about placing myself in uncomfortable situations and figuring them out.

© G. K. Allum

I falsely believed studying for a master’s, according to the rules of institutions, the gatekeepers of credentials, or the structured pathways that lead to an MFA, was not for me.

And yet, here I was—gleefully applying to the MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) at Pacific University.

Thoughts circulated.

Was I always supposed to be here —or had my anarchist streak held me back? Was my natural disdain for authority a blessing, or a curse? How have the years changed my perception of what it means to be an artist?

I never studied for an undergraduate degree—the prerequisite for being accepted into an MFA program.

My youth was spent being a below-average musician with above-average fantasies. I was a quasi-successful fine art photographer, following my heart to the ends of the world where I would routinely break it — and then have a pen and a journal to document grief.

I didn’t take the perceived traditional route, neatly ticking the boxes that make an application to study for a Master’s straightforward. So when I discovered the MFA in Writing at the Pacific University in Oregon at the age of 47, I had a dilemma.

How would I be accepted? Why would they accept me? Was I putting too much weight into Grouch Marx’s famous quote about belonging?

I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member

The long and short of it was to be accepted, I had to petition the academic board. I had to write my way in, not with qualifications but with words, with heart, with an undeniable, irrational belief that poetry belongs to those who live it, not just those who studied it.

My foundational argument was that my 15 years of marketing and leadership experience are equivalent to an undergraduate degree and that my 47 years of lived experience account for something academic.

It started with a personal essay.

One that I want to share with you today.

My first drafts read like job applications, precise and competent, as if I were applying for an executive role rather than a place among poets. My wife read them and said, "This isn’t you." And she was right. It wasn’t. It was the version of myself that had learned to maneuver through systems, to shape-shift into acceptability, and to be accepted in the corporate world.

But poetry, real poetry, demands something else—something messier, more vulnerable, more true.

So, I let my heart pour out. I wrote about the moment that changed everything for me. And that is where this story must end—where it really began:

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Personal Essay - An Extract

It was an exceptionally balmy September when my grandmother lay dying in front of me. Over time, I have become uncertain if I was present as she drifted out of her body and into the ether. Time and those moments that followed became abstract. The panic. The phone call. The pushing down on her 85-year-old chest in a failed attempt to resuscitate her. The crack of her ribs. The sirens. The phone call to her daughter, my mother. The funeral. The manuscript of poetry I placed on top of her casket as it lowered into the cold London ground.

And then there was silence. And there were no tears. And months passed. And I looked for my coveted book of poetry that accompanied me throughout the months before she died. Nowhere to be found. I was in despair. One night, in a dream, she came to me. We hugged. We said we loved each other. The next morning, a weight was lifted, and the grief would never return. And there on my desk, my lost poetry book lay beckoning. It was a sign instructing me to write. Telling me I must write, it was my gift, and it must be shared with the world. So I did. And I’ve never stopped. Since that day, I have dedicated my life to writing, putting myself in uncomfortable situations, transforming who I am, and figuring out how to be authentic and successful on my own terms. Or as Rilke would say,

‘...the purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things’

Re-reading this this now, in the moments before the imposter syndrome fully sets in. Before the self-doubt, before the whispers of "you don’t belong here."

I remind myself, I do. I always did. I always will. You do. You always did. You always will.

Because poetry isn’t about belonging to an institution; it’s about belonging to the words, to the rhythm, to authentic stories. Because paper accomplishments should never define art.

Art must coarse through your veins with dignified confidence and with vulnerable truths.

Art is for those who scream from the top of their lungs to the radio in their car, windows down, with reckless abandon.

Art is for those huddled nightly under porcelain sheets hoping to be found.

And then it happened… I was accepted to the MFA in Writing, and I start in June 2025.

Long live the imposter! I hail another uncomfortable situation fast approaching that will lead to a newer version of myself.