Between the Lines

In school my artwork was a struggle. They used to give us those little coloring pages that smelled funny like that weird 1970’s Xerox ink. It never really printed black. It was dark grey. A Santa Claus or Rudolph or something. When I wasn’t sniffing the finger paste or pulling a girl’s hair, I would try to color them in.

I used to look over at other people’s papers. Try to make mine look theirs. Girls always had the best. Best use of color. Neat and in the lines.

Boys would fill in the spaces with color, loosely. Big scratches of white always remained.

The better dressed a kid was, the better their drawing.

Mine were always hard pressed. Like I was forcing the crayon. The pages always had that shiny look. From too much wax. The crayon always wore down too fast. It was difficult to keep it sharp enough to make it that shiny. There were little patches of dullness. Along the edges I would press really hard. Make a sort of outline. Then try to fill it in.

I was the kid who’s tongue always stuck out to the right. It was a labor. A labor I didn’t like much. The entire picture would be almost complete, then I would slip and there would be crayon that leaped a little outside the dark border. It was maddening.

The teacher used to go around the room looking at our work.

A girl with a ponytail always had hers held high. Told she did a good job.

The kid with the peanut allergy who had to catch the special ed bus before 11AM would get a, “Nice job.” His pictures were never held up. The teacher would just mumble her nicety and continue strolling on.

The responses to my work were always a glance and a nod. I can feel the wind and smell of starch from a pleated skirt as it meandered past me.

When it passed, I knew I could relax.

They sensed the anxiety I felt as they came to look at my work. Knew how I conveniently tilted my paper in the other direction while staring off out the window. Like my left arm had to cover my tilted paper for me properly continue my work.

They didn’t get it. I didn’t have a runny nose. I wasn’t the left handed weird kid. Didn’t have tape on my glasses. Didn’t even have a f*****g peanut allergy. There was no explanation for it.

Later, the teacher would tell us to address them to someone special. Some kids chose their parents. Some a brother or sister. F**k, some of them made it out to their pets.

Me, I would sit there and wonder. No one was really special to me. Everyone was just a person.

I watched the ponytail girl.

I made it out to whatever she did. Changed it maybe from Dad to Mom.

I tucked it in my little artwork folder, threw it my backpack, and discarded it before I got home.

Later in the year, when the teacher realized that everyone is special in some sort of way, she would give me the effort award, which inevitably made me feel like I wasn’t good at anything.

Forced to get the award in front of the school wearing too short corduroys, I would imagine ways I could go home and somehow suffocate with my blankets peacefully in bed

Reviews

[Marie]

THis is kind of a sad story. I too had trouble with artwork in school. My drawings were never put up on the bulliten board. Nobody understood my work. Maybe no one understood yours.

[Ranger Kessel]

Thanks for the read. I was trying to make a reference with the Xerox machine. The copies the school makes don't always work, as in the struggles with the curriculum or art work. He says no one is important enough, but he is copying the work of the people he sees as fitting in. No one else is specifically mentioned. I appreciate the review!