The Power of Rejection – BradQuan Copeland

by BradQuan Copeland.

As a neurodivergent being, I’ve often struggled to communicate and connect with those around me. The umbrella of normality casts an overbearing shadow, suffocating the liberation of the oddly unique. I’m an outsider in a world where raw, ugly truth bearing its own peculiar beauty lies calcified beneath layers of ignorance, molded to fit the hollow ruin of capitalist society. The idea of real freedom was rejected long before my inception. But the knowledge of that rejection paved the way for my trek into a boundless sanctum where my once-cowardly nature now wields the blade of a burgeoning literary titan. Slicing through the veil sheds light on those of us with a roaring voice who have been tamed to fit the mold. True beauty isn’t bred to walk. It’s made to stomp, commanding notice of the very blemishes we strive to forget that make us whole. Rejecting what’s typical doesn’t come without struggle, but it’s through that struggle that legacies are born from the loins of a single thought. 

In December of 2023, I released my first chapbook, “Unhinged”—a soul-burning scream from the bellows of oblivion to let those in searing pain know they are not alone, and that the power of enlightened consciousness comes from facing truths most people won’t even dare to think of. Though it was extremely cathartic and helped me take back power from the madness that owned me, that didn’t mean the public was ready for it. 

Through Submittable, I sent countless pieces to magazines and reviews, each met with silence. That was fine; the work was rooted in a raw, confessional tone beyond the standard. My issue came from the very community I was writing for. Upon emailing the manuscript to various local businesses to see if it was a suitable product worth carrying, I was met with awe and praise. I delivered several copies to multiple businesses, all of which sold out relatively quickly. Good reviews on Amazon and Goodreads gave me a strong sense of worth, but that worth quickly dwindled when I saw the in-person reactions of family members, acquaintances, and employees at the very locations where my book had sold out. 

Stares of harsh judgment followed by awkward silence stung my spirit as I felt I’d failed in my mission. The positivity came from those I didn’t see, while the negativity came from those I did. I began to question myself as I sank into pity. Am I a bad writer? Am I a bad person? Was I crazy to think it made sense to put myself out there like this in the first place? I withdrew. I didn’t write. I couldn’t. I was trapped within a perpetual cycle of doubting the merit of my existence. Dramatic? You could say that. But art—real art—is born from such a deeply personal and vulnerable space that it carries a major aspect of your identity, almost like a child. I felt as if people were viewing me as someone still battling those demons, rather than someone who had fought to move past them. 

Hell, I spent time crafting an intimate letter to readers before the material to set the stage, but it didn’t seem to matter. F*^k them. F*^k them all, I said, as I allowed my pierced ego to snatch the wheel, looking outward instead of inward—the very opposite of what led me here in the first place. I embarked on this path to speak to people like me because I believed, and still believe, that those who can change the world are the ones willing to say what most fear to face. I rejected the rejection that bound me, that binds so many, only to fall back into its deluding, wing-snapping hold. 

Real art exists to hold up a mirror to the public. Throughout my misadventures, I’ve found that we often reject those who harbor the very qualities we resent about ourselves—not because we’re above them, but because we haven’t yet found the strength to honor them. I know that sounds insane, but the flaws we carry, no matter how ugly, are part of who we are. They don’t define us, but they shape who we become. By honoring the despicable, we accept ourselves as humans with the understanding that no matter the strength of our message, or how grand we may become, we’ll never speak to everyone—and that’s just fine. 

The only thing that matters is that we continue to speak to ourselves, with the knowledge of the great James Baldwin: “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” Even when an extension of ourselves is rejected, it doesn’t diminish the magnitude of our message. It simply provides an alternate path to acceptance. Nothing that stings is meant to hinder those who can live outside the box. Through that knowledge, I not only write again, but I remind myself that, despite any shortcomings, when I leave this earth, I will be remembered as one of the greatest writers of my generation. That’s the power of rejection.