Growing up, life was innocent and wonderful. In kindergarten I had my first crush. Austin Brown. My mom thought it was cute, and I thought he was cute. In second grade I had trouble sleeping the night before the back-to-back episodes of PBS’s “Arthur” played. I was disappointed because I thought back-to-back meant there was a split screen. In third grade, Barney wasn’t cool anymore. In fourth grade they tried to teach me the times tables… I still don’t know them.

In fifth grade life wasn’t as innocent or wonderful as it had been. I made this really awesome painting in art class. I painted trees and a monkey surrounded by a beautiful sunset, which melted into the faint green ground. The monkey was happy, and I was proud of my masterpiece. Beaming, I walked up with the wet portrait and showed Ms. Owens, the art teacher. She told me that monkeys don’t smile and there must be a distinct definition between land and sky. She said monkeys like bananas and trees have branches. So I took my picture and a sharpie. I drew a line halfway through, to show distinction between land and sky. Next I turned the smile into a frown; he was no longer a happy monkey. I got brown and yellow paints and gave him a banana. I drew lines through the leaves in the trees and made branches. I didn’t like this new picture as much as the first, but it’s what my teacher wanted and I wanted to make her happy. So I walked to her desk with the painting facing me so the other kids wouldn’t see it, because I wasn’t too proud of the edits I had made. I very carefully laid it on her desk, “That’s not what I meant for you to do,” she said. “You can’t just add a line through the middle… you can’t just draw a floating banana, and monkeys can’t frown either.” I cried. 

In seventh grade, I learned that not everyone liked me. Every day in the locker room, this girl teased me and made fun of my body. She was the first person I can ever remember that hated me. In ninth grade, I fell up the stairs after lunch, right in front of the boy I had a crush on; he just laughed. In tenth grade I moved from my home to a strange new place where my English teacher told me I couldn’t write the way I had been, because it wasn’t proper English. I learned to create, once again, for other people and not myself.

In twelfth grade, I learned I can do what I want, because this is my life and my art.  I still cry, and I still get sticky. I still have hopes, dreams, still believe in Santa, in magic, and I still believe Austin Brown and I will one day be married.