In the Waiting Room

Waizo Chen

Instructor’s Introduction

In WR 320 Community Writing, students write creative nonfiction and poetry that honors and reflects on their experiences through the details of their everyday lives. The course builds community both on campus and at Fenway Community Center where students facilitate writing prompts that ask participants to write, reflect, and share stories. Our sessions with Fenway Community Center are opportunities for connecting and teach us the power of community and storytelling. Students develop their semester’s life writing into a final collection linked by a central theme and introduced by an artist statement. Waizo Chen’s “In the Waiting Room” is an incredible series of linked poems inspired by his hospital volunteer work. Waizo pairs each poem with a reflective “essayette” inspired by Ross Gay’s writing in The Book of Delight; these partner pieces create conversations with and offer insights about the poems. His series deeply considers what it means to be human, examining both the physical and emotional landscape of fear, hope, and connection. Waizo even considers the impact posters and vending machines have on the people in a hospital waiting room as they nervously await news about a loved one, writing about the “candy bars that no one wanted / but bought anyway, / just to have something to hold.” No detail is too small, and through his care and attention Waizo arrives at a profound understanding that “this place— ordinary, sterile, / forgotten by those who pass by— / was a crucible of humanity.” Waizo’s “In the Waiting Room” ultimately reveals how tenuously a life is constructed in both the small and monumental moments that unite us in this terrifying and beautiful world.

Carrie Bennett

From the Writer

Working on this project was a personal journey into the unexpected depth of a space we normally take for granted. I was touched by the waiting room—a drab, ordinary space where people from all walks of life converge. There in that waiting room, you see a man clinging to his faith, a young woman lost in her music, a parent gently comforting a child—all of them sewing together their own stories of hope and uncertainty. I was moved by the waiting room’s ability to connect such disparate histories silently.

The most significant challenge was to be able to capture the raw emotion of this shared environment without being overly clinical. I wanted to pay homage to the real human moments behind every fleeting instant—the scratched-up floors, the tattered posters, the fleeting moments of smiles and eye contact. These little, inconspicuous details allowed me to convey a sense of coherence and strength that is both personal and universal. Ultimately, this project is one of finding beauty in the ordinary and celebrating the quiet strength that exists in simply waiting, hoping, and living.

In the Waiting Room

The Room

There was a particular kind of smile,
born not in joy, but in release—
a trembling bloom, unfurled
like frostbitten petals thawing under
the faint heat of early spring.
That day, I saw it again.
The waiting room was a patchwork of sensations:
chairs upholstered in a dull, navy blue,
the fabric rough, scratchy
against the backs of restless legs.
The marble floor gleamed too brightly,
its waxy surface speckled with faint scuffs,
each mark a story of shoes that paced,
paused, and shuffled forward again.
The walls, pale and dappled with stains
from years of hands pressing too hard,
offered no comfort.

The sterile waiting room, with its scratchy chairs and gleaming marble floors, carried an unsettling stillness, indifferent to the weight of the lives it held. The scuffed floors and smudged walls, overlooked by most, whispered silent stories of pacing footsteps and trembling hands—of people caught in the fragile act of holding their breath against the unknown. Its physical discomfort and cold mirrors transformed the room into a crucible where anxiety and hope collided, where moments of relief flickered like fragile flames. In its stark and unremarkable simplicity, the room became something extraordinary—a vessel for the unspoken, a space where the tension of waiting shaped the contours of human resilience and vulnerability.

Posters

Even the posters on them,
curling at the edges,
seemed to wilt under the weight of the room.
“Stay Strong.” “Eat Healthy.” “Keep Hoping.”
The words hovered in pastel colors,
so soft they almost dissolved
under the fluorescent glare.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic,
a sharp, clean sting that fought to mask
the undercurrent of stale coffee
and too many unspoken fears.

The curling edges of the posters mirrored the slow unraveling of hope in the waiting room. Their soft pastel hues, once meant to soothe, now felt hollow, as if the weight of the room’s collective uncertainty had eroded their vibrancy. “Stay Strong.” “Eat Healthy.” “Keep Hoping.”—the slogans hovered on the walls like faint echoes, aspirational yet disconnected from the reality of those sitting beneath. The fluorescent lights stripped these words and pastel walls, exposing their inadequacy in the face of real fear and pain. Even the antiseptic air, with its sharp attempt at cleanliness, could not fully erase the undercurrent of human vulnerability that lingered in the room. The posters became symbols of the tension between surface-level optimism and the raw, unspoken struggles beneath—a tension that defined the waiting room as a place where hope was fragile and survival felt both essential and tenuous.

Vending Machine

The vending machine,
its glossy black surface smudged with fingerprints,
whirred softly,
its coils gripping tightly
around candy bars that no one wanted
but bought anyway,
just to have something to hold.
A nurse passed by, the quick squeak
of her rubber soles slicing through the silence.
Her clipboard was clutched tight to her chest.
She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

The vending machine stood as a quiet testament to the need for control in a space defined by uncertainty. Its exterior, marked by the traces of countless hands, was a physical record of those reaching out—not for sustenance, but for something to grasp amidst the void of waiting. The candy bars were purchased not for hunger but for the comfort of their tangible weight, a fleeting sense of agency in an environment where so much felt out of reach. The nurse’s hurried steps, her gaze averted, reinforced the emotional distance necessary to navigate such a space. Her tight grip on the clipboard mirrored the room’s collective tension, as if everyone clutched onto whatever they could—be it a clipboard, a candy bar, or just a shred of hope. The vending machine became more than a dispenser of snacks, for it represented trivial actions that anchored us in moments of vulnerability.

The People

Man
The people waiting sat in their own small worlds:
a man in a denim jacket with frayed cuffs,
rubbing a smooth, wooden rosary
between his thumb and forefinger.

Teenager
A teenager bent over her phone,
her earbuds dangling loose,
the tiny sound of pop music leaked into the room like a whisper.
The clock above the reception desk ticked,
each second landing too loudly,
like the last few moments before a bomb.
Tick, Tock Tick, Tock—
time stretched thin,
its texture sticky and unforgiving.

Toddler
Across the room,
a toddler hugged a stuffed bunny,
its fur worn bare along one ear.
The child’s mother rocked him gently,
her lips pressed to his soft curls.
She closed her eyes as if she could will the waiting
away. Outside, the rain tapped against the glass,
its rhythm syncopated,
a counterpoint to the steady ticking clock.
The city beyond was indifferent,
its honking cars and distant sirens a reminder that the world had moved on, unaware of the small miracles
unfolding there.

The people in the waiting room, though gathered in a shared moment, were in their own solitary anticipation and quiet struggle. The man moved through his ritual, each bead a whispered prayer, a rhythm of hope threading through the unknown. The teenager sought refuge in distraction—a delicate shield against the silence that mirrored the rebellion of youth against the uncertain. The toddler was a portrait of innocence untouched by the room’s weight, while his mother’s gentle rocking and closed eyes echoed an unspoken plea for time to loosen its unyielding grip. Beyond the glass, the rain fell indifferent, the hum of the city’s distant life oblivious to the quiet battles within. There, time bent, stretched, and distorted, turning seconds into burdens. Each small, vivid moment—the fingers on a rosary, the shuffle of earbuds, the embrace of a stuffed toy—became a profound negotiation with hope and fear, reminding us that waiting was anything but passive; it was an act of quiet endurance and resilience.

Doctor

And then, the door swung open.
The doctor stepped in,
the sharp squeak of the hinges
turning every head.

Her white coat gleamed
a stark contrast to the beige walls.
Her shoes made soft thuds on the floor,
muted by the padded soles.
She smiled—
a quick, deliberate smile—
and spoke two words:
“She’s safe.”

The doctor’s entrance fractures the suffocating stillness of the waiting room, her presence a fragile thread of authority pulling taut the tension of hope and fear. The sharp creak of the door, heavy with unspoken prayers, turns every gaze toward her, as if her arrival alone could tip the balance between despair and relief. Her gleaming white coat, stark against the muted beige walls, becomes a beacon—not of certainty, but of possibility—in a space clouded by unanswered questions. Each measured step, each muted sound of her shoes on the floor, speaks of practiced composure, a calm cultivated through endless encounters with moments like this. Yet it is her smile—brief, deliberate, and purposeful—that carries the deepest weight. Not a smile of joy but one of intention; it bridges the gap between the unspeakable gravity of her role and the fragile hearts awaiting her words. And then, “She’s safe.” Those two simple words ripple outward, breaking the room’s suspended breath into a cascade of release. In her brief appearance, the doctor embodies both the burden of human connection and the transformative power of words—small and deliberate, yet profound enough to redefine a world.

The News

The family’s reaction were sounds followed with movement:
a gasp, followed by sobs,
the shuffle of feet as they stood and folded
onto one another.
Their voices spilled out, uneven,
their cries punctuated by choked laughter,
as if relief and disbelief were colliding.

The family’s reaction reminds us that waiting is never static—it’s a buildup of tension that, when released, erupts in raw, unfiltered emotion. Their joy is infectious, rippled across the room, touching even those not directly involved.Their uneven voices, woven with choked laughter, carry the fragile beauty of a moment where hope transforms into reality. It is a release that feels almost sacred, a reminder of the depth of human feeling—how it can ache and heal all at once, bursting forth in imperfect honesty. In that instant, the room becomes something more: a vessel for the profound and collective resonance of being alive, where pain and joy coexist in a fragile, fleeting harmony.

Strangers turned toward them:
a young woman nodded,
the man with the rosary whispered, “Thank God,”
and even the nurse paused,
her lips curling into a small, quiet smile.

The toddler giggled,
a sound so light and bright
it fluttered into the corners of the room,
softening its sharp edges.

In this shared space, even strangers find connection. Their sobs, laughter, and embrace are a physical release of the tension that had bound them during the waiting, an eruption of emotion that transforms the room. It is a moment so visceral and authentic that it transcends the boundaries of personal experience, touching everyone present. Strangers, who moments earlier were isolated in their own private worlds, become part of a collective response. The nod, the whispered “Thank God,” the nurse’s quiet smile—all are acts of shared humanity, small yet profound acknowledgments of the miracle unfolding before them. Even the toddler’s giggle, light and pure, weaves through the room, softening its edges and reminding everyone of life’s inherent fragility and resilience. This moment underscores the universality of waiting: its burden is solitary, but its release can bring people together, uniting them in a shared celebration of hope fulfilled.

Goodbye

When I finally left,
the rain had stopped,
leaving the pavement slick
and glistening under the streetlights.

I thought of the families still inside,
their lives suspended,
their hopes coiling like springs.
This place—ordinary, sterile,
forgotten by those who pass by—
was a crucible of humanity.

A room where smiles bloomed
in the hardest soil,
where tears fell freely,
and where we were reminded,
again and again,
what it means to wait,
to hope,
to be alive.

Stepping out of the waiting room feels like emerging from a cocoon of suspended time, where the weight of unspoken fears and fragile hopes lingers in the air. The rain has stopped, leaving the pavement slick and luminous under the streetlights, as if the world itself had been polished by the quiet storms endured within. Yet inside, lives remain tethered to that room, their hopes coiling tighter, waiting for release. The waiting room, so ordinary and sterile to the passerby, holds a paradoxical beauty—it is a vessel for humanity at its most vulnerable and resolute. Here, smiles bloom against impossible odds, tears carve paths through the silence, and strangers share fleeting, profound connections. It is a place where the raw essence of existence is laid bare, where we are reminded that to wait is not just to endure, but to hope fiercely, to feel deeply, and, above all, to live.

Waizo Chen is a senior at Boston University, majoring in Cell Molecular Biology and Genetics and minoring in Philosophy. Aspiring to be a surgeon, Waizo balances rigorous academic course work with artistic pursuits, including bouldering, drawing, and cooking. These diverse interests fuel a unique perspective that merges scientific precision with creativity. Waizo would particularly like to thank Professor Carrie Bennet for her unwavering support and guidance during this experience.