Noise

When I was a kid, I remember sitting next to my mom and dad in the crowded gymnasium of my elementary school listening to adults argue how to spend PTO dollars. Lots of people wanted to replace the drab, and dusty stage curtains.  I will never forget this man standing up and saying, “If we spend the money on curtains, in ten years we will have curtains that look just like the drab and dirty ones, we have now.  If we bring an art program to our school, our kids will have that learning for the rest of their lives.”  People stood up and clapped and cheered, so we got visiting artists, instead of new curtains.  I got to go outside with my class, sketch book in hand and sit in the dirt on a bright spring day and try to bring something to life on the page.  I sketched a mailbox made of wood.  The visiting artist looked over my shoulder and said, “You are doing very well, I can see the texture and the shadows.”  I didn’t know that I could draw until that moment.  That man literally changed my life.  I was nine years old.

I let art slip from my life in my twenties.  I was working way too hard to survive.  And it’s super hard to paint or draw with a toddler crawling over the canvas, so I just gradually quit doing art.  I took a job as a English teacher because I’ve always liked to write and read and it seemed like a good, grown up job.  But I never really liked teaching English much.  When I’d pack 100 essays to read over the weekend, I felt like that’s exactly what hell might be like.   And I’d look at the writing kids did and I wouldn’t even know where to start.  They all thought they were e. e. cummings, with their punctuation all eschew.  And I’d seriously, think, “How do you not know this shit?”

My breaking point was after teaching The Diary of Anne Frank for the twenty-ninth time.  We read the play and watched the movie and I snapped off the video and started plopping the test down on the desks and I realized some of the kids were crying.  I’d gotten so desensitized to the power of the story that I forgotten that kids had just witnessed a girl their own age perish in a senseless slaughter.  I needed to do something else.

I went to my HR director and said, “Is there something else I can teach, because I can’t do this for one more day.”

He said, “Well, you have a lot of art credits.There will be art openings.”

I didn’t know if that would be any better,  but I thought I’d give it a try.  I took a college art class, just to refresh my skills.  Our teacher had us do a self portrait.  She took mine and pinned it up on the board.  It was hands down an exact replica of myself and I remembered suddenly that I could draw.  It was like an epiphany and I remembered that I’d actually wanted to be an artist once upon a time and move to New York and paint sets on Broadway.  Maybe being an art teacher wouldn’t be so bad.

Being an artist and being an art teacher are not the SAME thing at all.  Most kids aren’t natural artists, but they think they are and I think my job is to build them up, not break their spirits.  So my philosophy is that it’s about the process, not the product.  Although I provide lots of steps that make the product attainable for most kids.  And I am brave and crazy enough to bring it all out—glue, scissors, paint, clay, glaze, yarn, magazines, and even glitter.  My room is messy and chaotic and kids take risks.  The noise is deafening at times.  They pound their clay on the tables and exclaim over new colors they make with paint and just make noises because they’re kids and happy.  And the incessant questions– Miss Taylor, can you look at this?  Am I doing this right?  How do you make elephants have wrinkles?  Can you show me how to make things look far away?  How do I make things look close up?  Are zebras black with white stripes or white with black stripes.  Miss Taylor, are you married?  (What?  How does that have to do with anything?).   And I think the only way to retain my sanity is to run away a to silent retreat in the hills of Tibet.   But the kids see me in the hall and say–WE HAVE ART TODAY!  They hug me and high five me.  They write me letters and bring me drawings and drag their parents over to me in the grocery store.   They build me up.

On the best of days, I’m exhausted.  But this year has been harder than usual.  There was the immense fatigue of radiation, and some other health issues.  Truth be told, I’ve probably never properly grieved all the losses I’ve experienced in the last few years, and sometimes I think I might be mildly depressed.  Mostly, I try to employ an attitude that if I fake being happy enough, I will be, but it’s been harder this year.  And more and more I wonder why the kids can’t just shut up.  And I wonder if what I do even matters.  Is knowing primary colors important?  Is learning how to glaze a pot gonna change the world?  Why am I doing what I’m doing if it doesn’t ever matter in the big scheme of life?  So not only was the break for my health, but also to rekindle my passion for the work that I am doing.

When my substitute texted me about the incessant talking and that two boys made play doh penises, I just laughed.  Yep.  Kids do stuff like that.  Every damn day.  I thought about myself, sitting crossed legged in the dirt, my feet asleep underneath me, as I drew the mailbox with great detail. I’m not ready to go back to work yet, physically or mentally.  But I will be. There will always be days when I’m going to wish the kids would just sit down and color quietly.  But more often, there will be days when the kids are buzzing with the noise of wonder and excitement.  I know they won’t all grow up to be artists; but  with a little help, and a little guidance, I hope their discoveries and creativity will bring them joy for the rest of their lives.

Daily Prompt: Noise