Day 95

Today one of my few work friends came into the class to do inventory. I wanted so much to be proud. All of my life I wanted to put a masterpiece on the wall of my life and say "I painted that!" Today I wanted to show off the intricate brush strokes of learning the brilliant splashes of color and the spatial awareness of a master. And yet...

My friend (I call him this, but in reality I don't even know the name of his children or where he lives) came into my classroom and did not see a masterpiece. He saw a violent scribbling, a rude splash of graffiti on a subway station wall. My students having been given freedom to create and to work at a pace that was generous, had their phones stuck to their foreheads. They were playing digital soccer. They were a monstrosity of spilled paint that had all pooled onto the studio floor and had not even created a rainbow swirl, but instead became a gray stain.

"This class has study hall energy" he said. Then he quietly turned. Who would want to be friends with the ham fisted, color blind Van Gogh that I am. I have no masterpiece. Only sketches torn out of a spiral notebook and thrown away. I will never be invited to the barbecue. I will never know the names of his children. I will never have a friend to hold me when my class shames me. I will always be alone.